your common. Miss Frankcom must have poured thousands into this place through the years. There’d be no future in the business if everybody passed their test after three lessons. You need the right balance between people who whip through fast and act as a good advertisement, and all those poor sods that Crippsy and Lester take who pay the bills.”
“Crippsy and Lester and me,” I say bitterly as I see Dawn giving me her ‘You’re on’ nod.
“Just at the beginning,” says Garth cheerfully. “It’s all good practice.”
I say something unprintable to him and am introduced to Miss Frankcom, who feels certain she has seen me before but can’t place me. She has a deep booming voice and a body like a dust sheet over a grand piano, and she is eager to go.
“Now we’ve number thirteen out of the way, I’m certain I’m going to pass. I never felt happy coming up to thirteen. Fourteen seems a much happier number, don’t you think?”
She nearly proves herself wrong by driving into the back of a bus with that number plastered across it, but I just get my foot down in time.
One thing I have to give Miss Frankcom—she does not let little things like that put her out of her stride.
“Whoops! That’s how I failed number ten,” she says cheerfully. “Can we practise emergency stops today?”
I can see little chance of us doing anything else, but I concentrate on getting her out of town and along the coast road. It is amazing that a woman who has had so many lessons can still mistake her clutch for her brake pedal and our progress is one of fits and starts—most of the fits being thrown by me.
“I think having a new instructor is making me nervous,” she confides as I nearly go through the windscreen for the tenth time. “I’m trying so hard to impress you I’m becoming tense.”
I know the feeling and eventually come across an entrance to a disused airfield where we can practise reversing with comparative safety, though even then she nearly has the car over me when I step out to arrange a few bricks.
“Dangerous to bend down,” she sings out cheerfully. “I nearly didn’t see you.”
In no time at all she has reduced the bricks to rubble and I wouldn’t lay odds on her being able to reverse through the doors of an aircraft hangar.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it now,” she chortles. “I’m feeling much more relaxed. My trouble has always been that I concentrate too hard.”
So saying, she knocks down the only sign on thirty thousand square yards of tarmac. There is no doubt about it—preparing her to be unleashed on the public highway is like raising ferrets in a chicken run.
“Clumsy me,” she squeals. “But you don’t expect anything to be here, do you?”
I agree with her and suggest that we make our way back to town. This we achieve without mishap but it is where I make my fatal mistake. Coming towards us along the pavement is a blonde bird wearing black woollen hot pants with a red butterfly motif patched on one thigh. By local standards she is a knock-out and I watch her, wishing I had my drool cup within reach.
“What’s the time?” I hear Miss Frankcom saying, but I am watching the girl’s swelling crutch quivering above white lace-up boots.
This is how I had imagined Miss Frankcom and the sight of this tasty dolly grips my attention like a 32A cup on a 40-inch bust. But not for long! Suddenly the scenery changes through 180 degrees as Miss F. wrenches the wheel over and we skid across the road, narrowly missing a Guinness tanker. My foot plunges down—but nothing happens. The dual control has chosen this moment to pack it in or die of heart failure.
“Brake, brake!” I scream desperately and Miss F. stamps hard on the accelerator. Not that she need have bothered because we are poised at the head of a steep slipway and the car starts to plunge down towards the beach like a pair of lead knickers. Over the cobble stones we go with old men in waders and blue jerseys scrambling out of the way and shouts of fear and warning fading away behind us. Miss F. is hunched over the wheel like a plaster cast and I lunge for the wheel as we head straight for an upturned fishing boat. Lobster pots scatter like a flock of sparrows as we take a layer of paint off the boat and career on downwards. I haul on the handbrake which comes away in my hand and stamp desperately between Miss F’s feet in the hope of locating some means of stopping us. Miss F. obviously shares my belief that we are going to die because she emits a high pitched “wheeeeeh!” noise from between her clenched gums and her eyes are tight shut. The next thing I know is that the ground begins to level out, my head makes a dent in the roof and we are bowling across the beach, narrowly missing an ancient salt with a paint brush in his hand, whose eyes open wider than serving hatches as we speed by. Fortunately, the tide is just on the turn and the wet sand slows our progress until the car slides to a halt in a flurry of small wavelets. Gazing out across the grey ocean I compose a few prayers whilst Miss Frankcom remains hunched over the wheel muttering, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” under her breath until I could belt her.
“Tell me, Miss Frankcom,” I say eventually, marvelling at how calm I can make my voice sound, “why did you do that?”
“I was trying to tell the time, dear.”
‘Trying to tell the time,” I repeat wearily. “You mean you suddenly remembered where there was a clock and turned right to find it?”
“No, dear. I was trying to look at the one on the dashboard and one of the spokes of the driving wheel was in the way.”
“So you moved it?”
“That’s right, dear. I suppose it was rather silly of me, wasn’t it?”
I watch the water slurping against the hub caps and nod my head slowly.
“Yeah. I think it probably was.”
I get out slamming the door rather harder than is necessary to shut it and look back along the tyre tracks to where a posse of lucky-to-be-alive bystanders and side-leapers is beginning to close in on us. The tracks directly behind the vehicle have now disappeared and the Morris is settling comfortably into the sand like an old lady into a bath-chair.
Thinking of old ladies reminds me of Miss Frankcom and I wade round to the driver’s seat and suggest that she gets out.
“But it’s wet,” she exclaims in horror. “I’m not stepping into that. You’ll have to carry me.”
Either that or wait for a boat to take her off. The sea doesn’t mess about round here when it decides to do something and already the occasional wave is smacking against the side of the door. So, adding insult to injury, I have to stagger up the beach with this monstrous old rat bag threatening to ruin my marriage prospects with every stride. I dump her beside the first aid post—closed of course—and look around desperately for a telephone. If I don’t find a garage soon, I will need an underwater salvage team.
Luckily this isn’t necessary because the fishermen have a contraption which winches their boats up the slipway and moving at a speed not normally associated with East Anglians they have secured a wire to the back axle and are dragging the Morris up the beach.
But not quite fast enough. Across the beach wings Gruntscomb of the Echo, waving his arms and pausing every few strides to unleash another volley of camera shots at this newshound’s
