I suppose as metaphors for tantrums go, an exploding car isn’t a bad one. I first became aware of the short, sharp bang emanating from a hatchback in the middle of the road while standing outside Blackhorse Road station last week. I say standing, but I was really hunkered on my ankles attempting to commiserate with my son as he screamed in my face.
He’d been crying for about 40 minutes, in an unbroken tirade. It began as we were leaving the park. His friend Eusebio (whose name has been changed, in the manner of a much more serious article, to emphasise how stressful this was) was showing off his shiny new toy car, one we knew very well since we have the exact same one at home. It’s a small blue sports car that kind of turns into a Triceratops. You might even say it transforms into one, had its manufacturers not gone to great lengths to avoid any such language.
My son became convinced that this was not merely the same make of car as his own, but the very vehicle, which Eusebio had stolen, and presumably cleaned considerably. My attempts to dissuade him of this fell short, and soon he was crying profusely and I was escorting him from the park while apologising to Eusebio and his mother for the screamed accusations of minor theft auto.
His crying lasted all the way to Seven Sisters tube and for the entirety of our two-stop jaunt. In transit, I felt that cold, penetrating gaze you only get when every single person in a train carriage is trying their best to look anywhere but in the direction of a screaming, red-faced child and his sweaty, grinning dad.
Any attempt at being myself goes out the window. Having 80 fellow passengers watching me through the bottom 2% of their eyes makes me stiff and performative. I say beige, neutral things like, ‘It’s OK,’ and ‘Calm down, darling,’ not for my son’s benefit, but so that our audience will write me a favourable report in the parenting survey I presume they’re all drafting in their heads. As the doors close behind me at Blackhorse Road, I trundle my portable noise machine down the platform, feeling a dart of horrid envy for the newly quiet carriage and the visibly relieved inhabitants now pulling away.
On the pavement outside, a small crowd is taking no notice of my screaming son, since they’ve noticed smoke billowing from the bonnet of an approaching car. I am oblivious to that vehicle and focused on another. My wife is video-calling from my son’s bedroom, holding his triceratops-mobile up to her phone, so he can see he’s been crying in error.
The man on the road has run out of his car, which is now fully on fire. My son doesn’t even look as four fire engines rush toward the scene. ‘You bought that in a shop!’ he says to his deceitful mother, ‘It’s not the same car.’ The car on the road gives off a large bang, which finally catches his attention. It’s as blue as a Triceratops, and wreathed in eager flames. He’ll resume crying soon enough, but for a few glorious minutes he is silent, entranced perhaps by something more combustible than he is.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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