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.
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.”
