He was only ten when his father bought the red 15hp International truck. It had solid rubber tyres that magnified the clattering battle of road surface and chassis, shuddering him with vibration. Each pothole became huge and corrugations rumbled the contents of his stomach. But then everything at ten is enormous and maybe the tyres were not as villainous as he imagined.
At ten proportion was always a problem. He remembered once throwing open the screen door and tearing into the kitchen breathless, “Mum! Mum! There’s thousands of cats up the back yard!”
His mother turned from the fuel stove with its clutter of simmering pots and glowered at him through her small, severe, shell rimmed glasses. “Don’t tell lies! I’ve warned you before about exaggeration. How many are there?”
“Dozens Mum, honest!” his eyes wide in awe and his face alight with excitement. “How many?” his mother queried, unmoved as she always was with any emotion beyond her own compressed response to all things.
He lowered his gaze as the excitement drained from him. “Well, there’s our cat and another.”
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