‘What the...’ I heard my dad exclaim. We were walking to the little white church behind the bakery the next morning to hear Captain Williamson, the new chaplain, give his first sermon.
Dad, Patricia and me, and Mum pushing Bette in her pram had just reached the church fence when we heard Mr Carter’s truck appear at the end of the street. I thought that was strange because Mr and Mrs Carter, as well as their whole cricket team of little Carters, stood at the church door right in front of us. The truck turned into the street and rolled down the hill toward us, quickly gathering speed.
‘It’s Dafty,’ I yelled. ‘Look!’
‘It can’t be. He’s too little to reach the pedals,’ said Mum.
‘Out of the way, quick!’ yelled Dad. ‘Get behind the fence.’
Mr Carter ran up the hill, waving his arms about like a fullback. The truck careered wildly down the road, weaving back and forward across the street. With a loud bang it collided with a wall on one side, scattering bits of brick and render. Dafty gripped the steering wheel, his face filled with terror. The truck bounced in a large pothole and several pans catapulted off the back. They hit the road with a clatter, splattering their evil stinking loads against the nearest white house. The truck rolled nearer, heading straight for Mr Carter. He jumped aside at the very last moment.
‘Oh God!’ Mrs Carter cried out. ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ She was standing at the wrong angle and thought Mr Carter had been run down.
The smelly old truck thundered past us and knocked a fence post flying. It raced past the bakery and down the slope towards the jetty. Behind me, over the roar of the engine, someone screamed.
The truck slammed into some curbing and the rear wheels jolted into the air. More pans flew up and crashed back down again, splashing muck everywhere. Then the truck bounced off the curb and hit a low brick wall. With a screech of tearing metal it jerked to a halt, the engine still roaring and the wheels spinning in the sand. After a few minutes it stalled into silence. The stink! Foul-smelling rivers poured from the pans, ran down the street and formed into huge revolting puddles.
‘That boy. That poor boy,’ said Captain Williamson, the first to speak.
But Banjo was the first to move. I’d never seen him run so fast. He jumped over a puddle, leapt onto the running board and peered into the truck. Dafty’s head popped up like a jack-in-the-box. He wasn’t dead, and in fact he looked quite cheerful. A small trickle of blood ran from a cut over his eye.
‘Dafty! You half scared me to death.’ Banjo reached to help Dafty out of the cabin. ‘What are you doing?’
‘See, Banjo. I can drive.’
‘Drive, Dafty? You were nearly killed,’ Banjo shouted. And you nearly killed all of us.’
‘Where’s Bess? Did she see?’ Dafty asked, ignoring Banjo’s shouting. ‘Did she see me drive? Where is she? Did she?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her this morning. I don’t think she’s here.’ Dafty looked crushed and a look of sympathy came over Banjo’s face. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.
Banjo put a hand on Dafty’s shoulder, lifted up his own head and walked tall and straight right at the gawking people. The crowd parted as he led Dafty back up the street. No-one said a word. Maybe they were all too shocked. Or maybe it was the look of defiance on Banjo’s face, daring anyone to stop them.