‘He just wanted to fart into our car’: How my dad has continued to surprise me

This’ll sound weird, but I usually don’t know what my books are about until I finish them. I know what happens and who it happens to. But I couldn’t tell you what the story means until I send the manuscript to my publisher. Themes tend to bubble up naturally on their own. I see patterns and recurring motifs: a snapshot of my subconscious.

Christian White with his father Ivan White.

My latest book is no different. It’s about a weird teenager and the 40-something thriller writer he becomes. I was a weird teenager and am now a 40-something thriller writer, so there are no surprises there. But what began as a love letter to all the books and movies that shaped me as a kid – Lord of the Flies, It, Stand by Me, The Goonies – grew into something deeply personal.

I thought I was writing about boys. It wasn’t until I looked back that I realised I had written about boys without dads.

I suspect this idea crept in because I’ve recently become a father myself. All the fears and insecurities that come with parenthood must have been percolating in those dark bits of my mind and spilled onto the page by accident.

Ever since joining the dad club, I’ve thought a lot about my own. Unlike the kids in my book, my dad was always there. He was – and continues to be – a wonderful human being. Having a male role model like that formed so much of the man I am – something I didn’t realise until I had a kid of my own. But what if Dad hadn’t been around? I think that’s what my book is about. It’s the answer to that question – that terrifying what if.

What if he wasn’t around? He nearly wasn’t. Before I was born, Dad was coming off a 16-hour shift and fell asleep at the wheel. His car slid under a truck. He woke up with four broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a piece of his ear hanging loose.

He showed me that true joy and happiness have nothing to do with your job. Those things come from family.

I called him to ask about this. He said it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. But he said the same thing when he accidentally cut off the tip of his finger and found it hours later covered with ants. Ivan White is not a complainer.

From what I can tell, my dad never bothered showing up at school. He’d sneak off and skim stones with his mates instead. Yet somehow, he became one of the smartest people I know. If you want to know who performed the first open-heart surgery, who was the first person to climb Mount Everest, or who won what grand final when, don’t Google it – ask my dad.

I’m not sure how he got so smart, but I do remember going in to say goodnight to my parents once when I was a kid, and Dad was sitting up in bed reading an encyclopedia.

“He hovers in bookshops to sell my books to unsuspecting customers. He’s watched my Netflix show six times.”

Dad went on to work an insane number of jobs. He was a postie, a butcher, a sewing machine mechanic, a security guard. At one point, he delivered frozen vegetables to Pentridge jail. He owned a fish and chip shop for a while, operated a crane, and worked in the statistics department of a steel manufacturer.

Before I became a writer, I worked an equally eclectic list of jobs: apple picker, T-shirt printer, golf-cart sandwich seller, adult film editor… I’m glad I get to tell stories for a living now, but I would have been happy working different jobs for the rest of my life. I think I got that from my dad. He showed me that true joy and happiness have nothing to do with your job. Those things come from family.

Sadly, that kind of thinking is unusual. Then again, my dad is an unusual guy. He lacks all that closed-off, macho, stoic stuff you’d expect from an Australian man in his 80s. He’s emotionally open and wildly supportive. He tells me and my siblings he’s proud of us every chance he gets, especially after one or two scotches. He hovers in bookshops to sell my books to unsuspecting customers. He’s watched my Netflix show six times.

Only once did I think he’d had trouble conveying something important. It was the end of a family weekend about 10 years ago. We’d all flown to Queensland to celebrate my eldest brother’s birthday. On the last day, we all went our separate ways again.

My brother Jamie and I were sitting in a hire car, waiting to head to the airport. We’d all said goodbye, but Dad lingered, shifting from one foot to the other like he had something important to tell us and didn’t know how.

Jamie and I exchanged anxious glances. We were getting nervous. Was there bad news, or was he sad the weekend was over, sad that there weren’t enough weekends like this any more, sad that the best days were fading and would soon be gone forever? It turned out he just wanted to fart into our car. Jamie and I drove away with the windows down, howling with laughter.

My dad is my hero, and if I give my kid half of what he gave me, she’ll have everything she needs. In other words, one day, I too hope to fart into my daughter’s car. And who knows? Maybe she’ll fart into her own kid’s car, and that kid will fart into their kid’s hovercar, and I will have passed on a little piece of my dad.

The Ledge (Affirm Press) by Christian White is out September 24.

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