Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There (27 page)
I’m straddling his chest and, with a combination of knotted-together ties, wrapping his head up as fast as humanly possible, knotting the top in a half-hitch as hard as I can, all the while talking to Dad as beads of nervous sweat leave my bald head and land on his, and my sister walks in with a cup of tea, that she drops.
‘Paul,’ she says, and closes the door behind her then gives me the hushed bollocking at quarter volume. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
My head spins around; her hands are covering her mouth, ‘I’m taking him out for breakfast, what the fuck do you think I’m doing?’ I say and hop off.
We stand there looking at our father and she grabs the scotch out of my hand and takes a drink.
‘He’s smiling,’ she says.
‘Yes, I know,’ I reply. Our father lay there with four neckties wrapped around his head, grinning up at us.
‘Cheers, Dad, nice one,’ France says and leaves us.
The funeral is hard. I am amazed at how many people turn up, as well as the flood of messages, emails and telegrams that come in over the next few days from all over the world. The church is packed. Elisabeth has done an amazing job, organising everything and giving my father a very civilised and memorable send-off. My mother is effortlessly supportive and that makes her such a wonderful mum. Afterwards I stand in the corner at the wake and one by one meet people who knew Dad, people in uniform, in kilts. I’m hit with more than one Masonic handshake and lodge banter, reams of characters, some of them quite teary, and young people who tell me that they wouldn’t be where they were in business today without Dad’s support. They all talk about a man who they would miss, especially his sense of humour.
Dad went out smiling in the end. He managed to stay on this good earth long enough to hold his grandchildren and tell them how much he loved them. And I got to throttle him with a necktie.
Honi soit qui mal y pense—
I found these words on the back of my father’s commendation, so small I could barely make them out. They say, ‘Evil to him who evil thinks.’
After repeated snivelling, I was backed by several companies. Had they not, I would still be sitting on my arse in Perth wondering how fast that bike could have gone, and for that I am truly grateful.
So thanks to Linc Energy, Vallourec & Mannesmann Tubes, SGS Australia, Jet-Lube, Besmindo, Pentagon Freight, Frank’s International, Xtex, Test Trak, Prospero Productions, Roadbend Jaguar.
Jason Theo, Peter Bond, Shaun Southwell, Erwin Herczeg, Donald Millar, Mark and Elaine Murray, Neil Boath, Ross Luck, Christiaan Durrant, Jethro Nelson, Matt Bromley (still alive after riding into God’s blind spot), Howard Fletcher, Simon Hann, Maximum Dave, Clayton Jacobson, Diego Berazategui, Janelle van de Velde, Jim Thompson, Les Ellis, Drew Gardenier, Craig Walding, Gregg and Sherri Cooper, Ashley Taylor, Tony Pecival, Hartley Taylor, the remarkable Elisabeth Sandison, Associate Professor Colin Kestell, Rob Dempster, Ed Styles, Steve Smith, Russell Vines, Eliot Buchan, Ed Punchard, Julia Redwood, Nicole Tetrault, Duncan Milne, Sally and Simon Dominguez, Julian Carraher, Dare Jennings, Jeff Lemon, Boston and Sid for turning my helmet into a toilet.
