The Fj Holden Holiday

Mum insisted on a comfortable bed in the great Aussie wild, so an innerspring mattress was slung onto the top of the car. Dad dragged out his heavy canvas hold-all, an old army World War 2 relic from Burma. We rebelled, 'Oh yuk - what is that smell?' An alien tropical humidity seeped out of its moldy stained pores. Dad filled the canvas pockets with old blankets smelling of mothballs. He rolled it tight as a big fat sausage, and fastened it with sturdy leather belts. The boys helped to hoist it on top of the mattress.

We six kids packed myriads of things as necessary camping gear. The FJ looked like an oversized camel loaded up just before it is commanded to rise.

I clambered into a window spot, but was forced to the middle edge of the back seat, with wriggling bodies over-lapping each other. Waggles, our dog squirmed between our feet. The side window was visually divided with a rope, tied from the outside door handle, snaking over everything on top, and then down past the other back window. Dad tied it twangingly tight to the other door handle.

Complaining began, 'Move your bum.' 'Shut-up. Sit still. Be quiet for once.' 'Why can't I sit in the front?' 'Just shut your flamin' mouths up,' snapped our eldest brother.

Dad was stronger than anyone I knew, but his boxer's muscles bulged as he carried a huge pot of Mum's beef curry. He hefted it into the boot and forced the rounded boot door shut. The aroma of fried onion and garlic mixed with spicy beef pervaded the car. It was getting close to lunchtime, but no way would I say anything.

Then the FJ slumped lower.

We piled on top of each other to see through one window, as Dad got down on his hands and knees to examine the nether regions of the brave Holden. He stood up, red-faced and growled, 'Get out - all of you - NOW!'It was impossible to escape through the back doors. Waggles bounded over the front seat. We followed. We had taken so long to get into the car, now it took just moments to get out.

Dismay settled over us; our built-up excitement dissipated into the cooling Melbourne air.

'The curry pot did it,' some fool dared to announce.

'Yeah, it was okay till then,' I agreed too quickly.

'Rubbish,' retorted Dad, 'you kids talk such rubbish! Come on - everything off and out of the car.' The sky was a mass of dirty grey rain clouds. We dashed back and forth past Dad who was lumbering with the curry pot. His scowl looked as fierce as the weather.

Later we laughed about the broken axle, said we were sure Mum's pot of beef curry had broken the camel's back.