kiss her gently on the side of the cheek—it’s like kissing a flourbag—and steer her outside. In the car park, it is as cold as an eskimo’s chuff and that is a real passion-killer. I can see Dawn coming round faster than if I had poured a bucket of cold water over her. This is obviously death to my plans so I push her into the car and turn the heater up to full before remarking casually that I think I may have a drop of whisky somewhere and would she care for a reviving sip. “Never touch the stuff,” she says primly, which shows how much she knows. I take a quick shot and making a low grunting noise, which is meant to indicate that I can’t resist the pull of her overpowering, female magnetism any longer, attempt to take her in my arms.
“Not here, you fool,” she says as if we had been sitting on the high altar in Westminster Abbey and, in fairness, I suppose that to someone like Dawn, a mixture of the Y.C.s and the Tennis Club is a bit overpowering.
“Sorry,” I say gazing moodily into her virtually invisible face, “but you’re looking marvellous.”
I am cheered by her “not here” because it obviously means that it will be alright somewhere else, and this is where I intend to take her as quickly as possible. Back along the coast road we spin with me humming “I’m in the mood for love” and her head dropping down against my shoulder in a gesture I first interpret as affection and then—when I hear the snores—realise means she is falling asleep. I adjust the heater to spark her up a bit and pull off the road on to a parking area affording a view of two large concrete litter bins and the North Sea—in that order.
I switch off the ignition and Dawn shakes herself awake.
“Ooh, I was just dropping off. Where are we?”
“Somewhere where I can kiss you,” I say. “You really are fantastic.”
With all the trouble and expense I have put into this evening I have really got to believe it and I sweep down on the mouth she thoughtfully offers like a hot avalanche. “Fantastic breasts,” I murmur, inserting my hand into her coat and running my fingers over them gently. Normally I might pursue this line a bit longer, but as I get older I get more impatient and my evil little fingers soon drop down to floor level and start climbing up again.
This is the moment when any great artist holds his breath. Will the thighs slam shut? Will steel-grip fingers close round my wrist? Will her body stiffen and her head jerk back?”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she says, opening her legs a little wider to make it easier for me, “you might have warmed your hands up first!” Once my fingers are strolling round that delicious, honeyed moisture, I feel like a flat battery that has been plugged into a generator. A charge of lust floods through my system and I have her knicks and tights in the glove compartment before you can say Mary Whitehouse. Dawn hangs on to my arms and makes a few moaning noises but she is not a great contributor—more the lie-back-and-enjoy-it-while-you-get-on-with-it type.
In my present mood of animal rapture I can put up with this and I drop between her legs and start trying to get to grips with it. My efforts are crowned with something less than success because the gear stick gets stuck up the back of my belt and the room I have to work in makes a changing cubicle in a London boutique seem like the stateroom of Queen Mary. Of course, we could go outside but this might lead to frostbite of the hampton and even the detour to the back seat could be dangerous.
I am now reckless with desire and drag the protesting Dawn over into the back seat and manoeuvre her into a position across my thighs. By this time the whole adventure has no chance of becoming a follow-up to “The Sound of Music” and sweat is pouring down the inside of the windows. Nevertheless, I am not a man who is put off by his surroundings and I bring the episode to a noisy and successful—for me at least—conclusion with a few dynamic thrusts which I could swear—when I step outside to rearrange my clothing—have moved the Morris a few feet nearer another trip to the beach. Just in case you should think me careless, I should add that she has breathed those words every man yearns to hear—“It’s alright, I’m on the pill.”
The journey home is inevitably an anticlimax with Dawn struggling into her tights and grumbling about feeling sick and me wishing I had punched Sharp on the nose when I had the chance. It’s sad how all the romance evaporates so quickly, isn’t it?
I drop Dawn off, telling her I will see her in the morning which doesn’t surprise her much, and nip back to Mrs. B’s. Maybe it is because I am tired or pissed, or both, but I am a bit careless and stagger in through the door with half Dawn’s make-up smeared across my face. Mrs. B has obviously been waiting up for me and when she sees me, an expression close to pain flashes across her face. I start to say something but her nostrils flare like a fish’s gills and I am left with the swish of her nightgown as she turns and sweeps upstairs. Bang! goes the bedroom door and I have a nasty suspicion that relations are going to be a bit strained from now on.
Breakfast the next morning has as much snap, crackle and pop as a damp cornflake and I am relieved when I can escape from the brooding Mrs. B. and head for the E.C.D.S. At least my reception there won’t be silent. If Mrs. B. goes on like this, I will have to change my lodgings, though probably after my latest episode, that will be taken care of for me.
I am working out my best approach to Cronk when I notice a primrose Rolls Royce pull up alongside me at the traffic lights. It is cleaner than a choirboy’s foreskin and has a venetian blind at the back and a few magenta cushions scattered along the width of the rear window. The driver is about fifty, with close-cropped hair, a small waxed moustache and a pillar box red complexion. He is wearing a camel hair overcoat and backless driving gloves and tapping the wheel impatiently whilst peering fixedly at the red light. Even before I see Sharp sitting by his side I feel positive it must be Major Minto. Neither of them takes any notice of me and as the amber comes up, the car leaps forward and roars out of sight. Nobody at M.S.M. seems to like driving slowly.
I get to the E.C.D.S. before nine o’clock but it is not early enough to beat Garth, Crippsy, Lester and Petal who are all hovering like expectant vultures and waving their morning papers.
“Ooh, but you’ve had it this time, ducky,” squeals Petal, “front page news on half the nationals. Cronky is going to go out of his tiny mind.”
Sure enough “The Sun” carries one of Gruntscomb’s poxy photographs with “How Miss Frankcom was driven to the drink” plastered above it and the “Express” combines that with a picture of the duckpond incident under the headlines “How to make a splash as a driving instructor”. Very funny. Gruntscomb has obviously done a world-class job.
I have no more time to sample the wit of the British press because Cronk sweeps through with an expression on his face like a man who has had his “Special K” laced with cement. He says nothing but merely jerks his thumb at me to follow him into his office.
“Is it going to be like this every day?” says Petal. “I can’t wait to see tomorrow’s papers.”
I tell him to get his roots tinted and pad after Cronk.
“Now—” he starts, but then the telephone rings. He lets it ring for a few moments and then snatches it up. “Where the hell is that girl? She’s never on—. Hello, East Coast Driving School. Oh, I was just beginning to wonder where you were. Yes, I’m sorry to hear that. O.K. Well get in when you can. Goodbye.” He slams down the ’phone. “She’s got ’flu and won’t be in today. Now—” His ’phone rings again. “Good morning, East Coast Driving School, Cronk speaking. Oh
