by Timothy Lea
“Ooh, what talent,” she squeals. “You won’t mind if I ask you to fix a few things at home, will you?”
“Pleasure,” I say. “Now, which way do we go?”
We tootle inland for about six miles and this gives me time to get acquainted with the perfume she is wearing. It’s the kind that comes at you like the North Korea Army and I think she laces it with chloroform because I am quite drowsy by the time we get to a small country pub with some water glittering in the background. I nip out smartish so I have the satisfaction of opening her door and watching her skirt ride up as she climbs out. Long as I live, I’ll never tire of watching birds get in and out of cars. It’s the little casual things that turn me on more than five hours of strip-tease.
“It’s lovely here in the summer time,” she says. “All kinds of boats. Have you ever been on the Broads?”
I’m a bit slow to answer because most of the time she doesn’t expect you to. Besides, I don’t know what she is on about. I always thought that a ‘broad’ was the American word for a woman and I don’t think she means that.
“The Broads, dear,” she explains. “They’re lakes connected by rivers. You can sail for hundreds of miles, or take a cabin cruiser, or fish. Surely you’ve heard of them?
Now that she mentions it, I do remember Dad going on about how he came up here once with a party of his mates when he was a lad. I didn’t take any notice because I reckoned anything he did must be pretty square and wasn’t worth touching with a barge pole.
“Oh, yes,” I say, “my family came up here once. My father was very impressed. Now, which bar do you recommend?”
Inside there is a big log fire burning and a few old codgers playing dominoes in the corner. They look at us like they’ve never seen another human being before, but after examining every thread of clothing eventually go back to their game as we settle by the fire.
“You’d better not offer to do this too often, otherwise you’ll have no money left,” says Mrs. B., raising her glass of whisky gratefully. I agree with her but I don’t say so.
“It’s my pleasure. The very least I could do after that wonderful meal.”
Smarmy creep, aren’t I? But it’s only common sense to keep on the best side of your landlady. But how far should I go? If it was anyone else I’d be trying to get my hand up her skirt already; but I have to live with her. If she takes it the wrong way or we get too involved, it could be disastrous. I’d better bide my time till I see how the land lies—or the landlady lies.
“You’re looking very preoccupied,” she says. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I wasn’t thinking about anything really—apart from how lucky I am to be staying with you, of course. No, I think I must be a bit tired. I’m feeling quite drowsy.”
“Not surprising after your journey. It’s probably the air, too. Very bracing, Norfolk air, but it takes it out of you. I’ll buy you one and then we’d best be getting back. There’s not a lot of time before they close, anyway.”
I protest but she is very persistent and in the end she slips me 50p and we have another one.
“Have you got any children?” I ask in one of our quiet moments—these occur when she stops talking to get her breath back.
“Yes. One. She’s at Teacher Training College at the moment. She’ll be home at Christmas. She’s a lovely girl, though I say so myself. You’ve got her bedroom.”
“I hope that’s not going to inconvenience you when she comes home?”
“No, she can move in with me. It won’t hurt her for a couple of weeks.”
“Is that all the holiday she gets?”
“No, but she has lots of friends and she is always going to stay with them. They come here in the summer, though it’s a crush putting them all up.”
I look forward to seeing Miss Bendon and the thought preoccupies me on the way back.
To my surprise Mrs. B. does not get out before we approach the garage but sits there while I open up and edge forward into the tight little nest of darkness. I switch off the engine and the silence is deafening.
“Well,” she says wistfully, “that was very nice.” I can feel her turning her face towards me and I don’t need a handbook to tell me what I am supposed to do next.
“Yes. Very snug little place, that,” I gulp. I’m tempted My God, I’m tempted, but I try to remember my resolution of earlier in the evening. Mrs. B. sighs and puts her hand on the door handle.
“Ah well, I suppose we’d better go home before someone wonders what we’re doing in here.”
“Yes.” I try a light laugh and hop out gratefully. Sitting beside Mrs. B.’s warm, perfume-doused body and listening to the noise her stockings make as they rub together is more than a young boy should be expected to stand.
We walk home in silence and Mrs. B. lets me in. and pauses at the foot of the stairs.
“Would you like Ovaltine or something?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll turn in. I’m feeling really sleepy now.”
Mrs. B. puts her hand on my arm.
“Breakfast will be about eight. I’ll give you a call. Thanks again for taking me out. I did enjoy it.”
“It was nothing. Really nothing.” I drop my head and give her a quick kiss on the cheek as if the idea had just flown into my mind and been too overpowering to resist. “I’m sorry. I just felt I had to do that. I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.”
I make this speech stumbling up the stairs and at their foot Mrs. B. is gazing at me with what seems like tears in her eyes—or maybe it is the light.
“You’re a funny boy,” she says, blowing me a kiss. “Sleep tight.”
“Good night.”
I scarper across the landing and gratefully close my bedroom door behind me. Not bad, really. Enough done to save my honour and keep Mrs. B. simmering gently, without risking upsetting the apple cart on my first trip to market.
I undress and get into bed and then have to get out again and wedge some paper into the window jambs to stop their persistent rattle performing a Norfolk version of the Chinese water torture. The wind threatens to lift the house off the ground and the sea sounds mean and angry and coming from the next room. Considering I am living in the middle of a town it is amazing how quiet it is otherwise. No cars, no drunks, no Ngoblas extending hospitality Ghanian-style to about 500 guests.
Thinking about home makes me sad again. I imagine Dad dropping off in front of the little white light in the middle of the T.V. screen, and Mum carefully marking up tomorrow’s viewing in the T.V. Times before feeding the goldfish and putting the cat out.
Cromingham seems a long way from all that.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning finds me outside the East Coast Driving School, which is situated in a small glass-fronted shop next to the Majestic Cinema and sllightly larger than it. The cinema is showing ‘The Big Sleep’ and the familiar faces of Bogart and Bacall, sneering at me from the faded stills, are comforting. “Yeah, he’s the kind of guy who would bat all your teeth out, then kick you in the stomach for mumbling.” “O.K., blue eyes, where’s Schultzy? Talk or I’ll give you a row of lead waistcoat buttons.” I turn up my coat collar, stuff my hands deep into the pockets and walk past the E.C.D.S. offices again. I have done this about six times now and the shapely blonde manicuring her nails behind a desk marked RECEPTION is beginning to notice me. She is wearing a silk blouse unbuttoned provocatively so the top of her bra cups show and she is either chewing gum or trying to ease out a stubborn piece of breakfast that doesn’t want to say goodbye to her teeth. She looks a greedy girl and I am prepared to bet that her appetite covers more than a taste for Black Magic chocolates. Besides her, the room contains half-a-dozen chairs and a test-your-eyesight wall chart. It looks like a doctor’s waiting-room.
It is five past nine so I square my enormous shoulders and stroll nonchalantly into the reception area, pausing only to remove the doormat which has hooked itself over one of my shoes.
“Yes?” says the
girl, looking at me as if I am something the cat has brought up. “Can I help you?” She manages to make it sound like it is the last thing in the world she wants to do.
“I hope so,” I say. “My name is Lea and I have an appointment with Mr. Cronk at nine o’clock.”
“And you’re five minutes late for it, aren’t you, lad?” The voice belongs to an enormous man with a moustache like one of those things used for cleaning toilets.
He has appeared through a door marked PRIVATE and his bloodshot eyes are going up and down my body like they’ve been caught up in the zip of my fly.
“One thing I can’t abide is unpunctuality,” he goes on. “I saw you slouching up and down outside. Having second thoughts, were you? Or was it the lure of the moving picture house? No joy there, because it’s bingo two-knee-ite.” His voice rises to a shrill screech at the end of the sentence and the word ‘night’ is pronounced as in ‘knee height to a grasshopper.’ His inflection is about as army as a set of mess tins and my steel trap mind springs to a conclusion.
“Mr. Cronk?”
“Key-rect, Lea. Step into my office.”
I go through the door marked PRIVATE and into a neat little rooms which contains a desk, empty except for a set of ‘in’, ‘out’ and ‘pending’ trays, all of which are also empty. On the wall is a picture of Montgomery and a few other geezers who have cleaned up, selling their memoirs to the Sunday Times. Slightly to the left of them is a photograph of Cronk amongst a group of regimental hard nuts posed under a palm tree as if they have just won something—probably World War II.
“Right, lad,” says Cronk, sitting down behind his desk, but making no gesture towards waving me into a seat. “Welcome to the East Coast Driving School. You will find us a happy band united behind the resolve to make this the most successful driving school in the whole of East Anglia. I think I can safely say that already our reputation has spread far and wide and we intend to build on success. That is why you are fortunate to be joining us at a moment when the future looms wide with opportunities. With your assistance, we will take them.”
“Thank you,” I say earnestly. “You can rely on me to do my best.”
“I hope so, lad. I know nothing about you apart from what your brother-in-law wrote to me.” I look questioningly into his face but it doesn’t tell me anything. “I expect you heard that we were involved in a little altercation?”
I nod. “You got him thrown out of the army.”
“Yes, indeed. Terrible business. Mistake. Awful.”
“You don’t want to worry about it,” I reassure him. “Sid was dead chuffed to be out.”
“Nevertheless,” Cronk winces at such blasphemy, “it was a bad business and I hold myself responsible. The least I can do is to extend a helping hand to you as some kind of reparation. But, and let me make this most clear, this is not a charitable organisation. You will be expected to pull your weight and if you do not come up to our standards—high standards, I might add—we will be forced to dispense with your services. Understood?” I nod again. “Now, as I expect you know, one-fifth of all your instructing time must be spent with an A.D.I. until you pass your examination and I’ve asked our Mr. Cripps to accompany you on your first few lessons. He’ll take you out for a tour of the most used test circuits after our little chat.”
‘Chat’ is the wrong word, for Cronk doesn’t give me the chance to say anything. He rabbits on about the importance of not compromising myself and the penalty for ignoring his advice—instant dismissal. Though disturbed by his attitude, I’m cheered to find that there obviously is the chance of a bit of nooky if you keep your eyes open.
I keep nodding and wish I could get a bit of activity into my facial muscles to relieve the monotony, but I can feel my features setting like cement.
“… and so, now that you know a little about us …” I can tell that he is winding up for the big finale, “… and in the weeks to come you’re obviously going to know a great deal more. If there is anything you’re not happy about, anything you want to know, come and see me; that’s what I’m here for. Understood? Good. Any questions?”
“Yes,” I think to myself. “One. Why do you wear that bloody great moustache when you have a small, turned-up nose with a red blob on the end of it like Coco the clown? That moustache needs a great big hooter with a beard in the middle of it.”
“Not at the moment, thank you.” I shake my head and unravel my fingers.
“Right. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Cripps.”
He presses a button in the middle of his desk and nothing happens. He does this twice more and then stalks to the door and siezes the knob as if intent on tearing it from its mooring. Seconds later I realise that this was not his intention because he is looking at the knob in his hand with something akin to surprise. Cursing crudely he seeks the spindle, but this has dropped through to the other side. I find the whole situation a mild giggle but Cronk has turned scarlet and dropping to his knees begins to bellow instructions through the keyhole. These are speedily complied with—possibly too speedily because the returning spindle makes violent contact with Cronk’s eyeball causing him to cry out with pain and anger.
“Are you trying to blind me?” he howls, as the door is opened. “Do you realise there could have been a very serious accident? When is somebody going to do something about that bleeper? I’d be better off with a megaphone. Oh my God, this place is going to the dogs.”
“The man said he’d come yesterday,” says the receptionist who is totally unmoved by the outburst. “Do you want me to see if he can fix the door handle as well?”
“Yes, please,” says Cronk making an obvious effort to control himself. “I’d be very grateful if you would. Now, can you ask Mr. Cripps if he would be kind enough to step inside my office as I’d like to introduce him to Mr. Lea.”
Cronk sits down behind his desk and applies a spotless white handkerchief to his weeping eye. Everything about him is immaculate in a square sort of way. His shirt looks as if it is part of a new set of tennis kit and you feel that the creases in his trousers must score grooves in the underside of his desk. The contrast between him and the figure that stumbles through the door is remarkable.
Mr. Cripps, whom I assume it to be, looks as if he keeps a moulting polar bear as a suit press and the layer of dandruff on his shoulders would come up to a moth’s knees. He wears a grey nylon shirt, darkening to black at neck level and a frayed tie with so much dirt engrained round the knot that one supposes it is never untied but merely loosened to afford a passage over its owner’s head. The face is that of a life-battered fifty-year-old and everything sags, mouth, eyes and even a sparse moustache that looks as if a strong gust of wind would snatch it away across the North Sea. The total effect of flabby incompetence is cemented by the footwear—yellow plastic sandals worn over holed grey socks.
I was expecting a Nazi stormtrooper to bound through the door after Cronk’s pep talk and the reality is a bit of an anti-climax. Not that I am complaining, mind you. Seeing Mr. Cripps makes me feel much happier.
Cronk can obviously read my mind because his eyes travel over Cripps without looking as if they are enjoying the trip very much.
“Good morning, Arthur,” he says. “This is Timothy Lea who I told you about. He’s joining us under licence and I’d like you to take him round the town this morning. Show him the ropes.” He turns to me almost apologetically. “Mr. Cripps looks after our more mature learners. He’s a veritable font of patience to those who aren’t as quick as they might be.”
Mr. Cripps extends a damp hand and looks patient. “Pleased to meet you,” he says.
“Likewise,” I murmur. “When will I start instructing?”
“If everything goes alright today, it could be tomorrow,” says Cronk. “We’ll see.” We go out and I smile at the receptionist but she looks through me as if I am the most boring thing since rubber spaghetti and goes on inspecting her nails. I could shaft her on the spot.
“What’s she like
?” I ask Cripps as we climb into a scruffy Morris Minor with a large red and white sign across the top.
“Dawn? Oh, she’s not a bad girl. A little flighty and impertinent but it’s mostly high spirits I believe.”
“She does a turn, does she?” I ask eagerly.
Cripps blushes. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he says primly, “perhaps you would care to drive.” His voice sounds as if its coming from half way down his throat and when he speaks his lips don’t move. He would make a marvellous ventriloquist, only it would be impossible to hear him if you weren’t sitting in the front two rows and no self-respecting dummy would want to work with him. I reject the thought as being unkind and peer back through the window of the driving school where I catch one of Dawn’s heavily made-up eyes. I stick my tongue out at her but she merely directs her gaze towards the ceiling and my rapist fantasies become homicidal.
This is probably why I nearly clip a milk float as I pull out. There is a screech of brakes and a crate of milk shatters all over the road.
“Dammit, boy,” shouts the enraged driver, “how many lessons you had to come swinging out like that before giving any signals?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” I say.
A small crowd has gathered and Cronk and Dawn are watching through the window. Not one of my best starts.
“Didn’t see me!” snorts the yokel. “You better have your eyes tested, boy. You want to watch it, Arthur. You should have taken him up to the golf course before you let him have a go. He won’t pass his test if he can’t see proper.”
I could belt the bleeder, but after a few more insults we help him kick the broken glass into the gutter and can get on our way. Cronk’s face is a picture but he stays inside. For the first time since I have been there, Dawn is smiling. What really gets my goat is that Cripps does take the wheel and drive up to the golf course before he lets me have a go. I feel like accelerating to the cliff edge and slamming on the anchors inches from the brink but the poor sod can’t help being like he is so I don’t do anything and meekly drive towards the club house as instructed.