When the Kingswood was my king and I felt free

I always knew how to do it. I mean, I’d been doing it since I could still list my age in single digits. But now I was about to show my local constable, a fairly young-looking bloke in a slightly ill-fitting uniform, that I could do it legally.

It was, as it always was in January, a blisteringly hot summer’s day. My country town was melting. The bitumen smoking. Well, steaming with that unmistakable heat haze.

The river and the beaches not far from my dairy farm community were our summer playgrounds. It’s where we all went. My family, my school friends, my knitted-bikini-clad tribe and just about every tourist who made the trek up the highway from their city homes.

From this day on I would be able to take the wheel and feel the summer breeze swirl across my elbow.Credit: Michael Howard

The communal plunge into cool water was beyond words. More a sound. Like the high-pitched buzz of a cicada on cue, I would simply make a noise as the water snapped the sun’s rays and washed over my bare skin.

This summer I was not long 17, and it was going to be different. I knew it.

Liz Hayes aged 18 as a cadet journalist at the Manning River Times in Taree.Credit:

I was sitting in my dad’s Holden Kingswood, one of the bestselling Australian-made cars of all time. It was brand new. Three-on-the-tree gear stick. Tan upholstery an attractive contrast to its white exterior. The smell of vinyl was unmistakable, although the scent of coconut oil lingering on the bench seat in the front, from its last beach outing, made it seem even more alluring.

The familiarity of the family sedan was comforting because today was a biggie. It would be, as far as I was concerned, a day that could change my life.

Today I was about to take my driving test. This was independence day, or so I hoped.

From this day on I would be able to take the wheel, Dad permitting, and feel the summer breeze swirl across my elbow as it rested lazily on the open driver’s-side door window; dust kicking up behind me as I hit the gravel road to the beach.

I arrived early for my 10am appointment and angle-parked at the kerb outside the local police station. The young constable who was to put me through my paces appeared wearing his revolver and a slight smirk as he opened the passenger door and sat beside me. I don’t know what he thought. If I were to guess, he was probably wondering about my clutch work as he observed my high-heeled cork wedges.

Under Investigation host Liz Hayes.Credit: Nine Network

“Head to the main street,” he said. “Let’s see how you go.” Simple enough.

Left blinker on and down the hill we went, my wedges gently easing the mighty Kingswood from first into second. Nice and smooth.

I was to take the first right. I knew the route well. Approaching the intersection, I noted a car coming towards me. I figured I had enough time to turn. Actually, I didn’t. I slammed on the brakes. An inglorious moment. Maybe a minor screech as we came to a stop.

My constable took in a deep breath of air. I’d just avoided, he told me, a carload of detectives on their way back to the station.

I felt shattered. My big day was going badly.

“Drive on,” my stirred and slightly shaken constable directed. I did. For the next half hour, I negotiated the streets of town, now in a nasty but not so much summer sweat. As we returned to the cop shop my man in blue shot me a series of questions. Rules of the road. The quiz was intense.

Finally, he looked at me and said one word. “Passed”.

I have never forgotten the moment. That summer I drove with joy in my heart and a close eye on the road. The Kingswood was my king and I felt free.

Even now I dream of driving our beloved family car. The sounds, the smells, the rhythm of the clutch and the change of gear. There would be plenty more of that to come.

Liz Hayes is a journalist and television presenter for Nine.

Start the day with a summary of the day’s most important and interesting stories, analysis and insights. Sign up for our Morning Edition newsletter.