Like any other teenager I liked my sleep. One of my favourite places was the passenger seat of my Dad’s van as he drove to market in the early hours of the morning. It was a 2hr drive from the South Coast of England to the Fruit and Vegetable Market Dad preferred in the East End of London. Once there it was a frantic time before we had head back home to open the shop, normally before 7am!
So I would sleep, head pressed against the passenger door window as Dad drove the country roads that led to the big city. Dad liked this time of the morning he told me. There was far less traffic around and driving through the beautiful English countryside was probably the closest he ever got to peace. It was his time.
One morning I was asleep as usual when I was suddenly woken with a jolt. The van had gone over something and my Dad was muttering under his breath. When I asked what happened, Dad simply replied he’d hit a rabbit. The times when I was awake I’d often count dozens of rabbits, picked out by the van’s headlights, as we drove along in the early hours.
Oh? I responded. Then Dad was quiet. Unusually quiet. I would have gone back to sleep but hitting the rabbit clearly bothered him. It was only a rabbit I said. Doesn’t matter came the reply, I don’t like killing them. He was quiet again.
Thirty years later I am driving my wife through Stanley Park, keeping my speed down. The car behind be was too important for this and overtook me at speed. As he drew level a ground squirrel ran out into the road. It didn’t have a chance. In an instant I saw the squirrel trying to move, it’s back legs now flat and I remembered that rabbit.
Then I understood how my Dad felt.
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