Confessions of a Driving Instructor

by Timothy Lea

  It takes two men to pull him off and the struggle seems to have some effect, because he shakes his head a couple of times and wanders back on the field looking a bit more like his old unpleasant self.

  “Next time you go off, you stay off,” warns the referee. “I will not tolerate any more fooling about.”

  “Give us a kiss,” says Sharp, but the referee pretends not to hear him.

  In goes the ball and Sharp leaps like a performing seal to knock it high in the air. Garth sees his opportunity and comes in like a ton of bricks. He jumps, catches the ball, and his impetus takes him through the Shermer forwards before they know what has hit them. The scrum-half is trampled into the ground and the winger gets some free plastic surgery from Garth’s mighty mitt. Two men see the danger and race to cut him off, but, as they close, so Garth lobs the ball over their heads and Lanky folds it to his chest and just has the speed to make it to the line.

  The silence that greets this effort could only be bettered by a Liverpool supporter watching Everton score their fifth goal at Anfield Road and I have to look at the referee to be certain that he has awarded a try.

  Garth shapes up to take the kick and it is only then that I notice Sharp still lying on his back where the line-out broke up. He is peering down the inside of his shorts and singing “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts.” It may be true, but it is obviously causing a fair amount of embarrassment to those standing near him. It doesn’t help Garth much either because he misses his first kick of the afternoon and we are just three points ahead.

  Sharp makes another half-hearted attempt to invade the crowd but is thrown back on to the pitch by the worried Shermer supporters—a big mistake, as it turns out.

  From the kick-off the ball goes to big fat man, who promptly knocks it on. Scrum-down. Sharp tries to bind down with his other two forwards but is promptly pulled out by his captain, which is just as well because he is already trying to love-bite his prop’s neck. The problem is: where to put him? On the wing he might run amok amongst the crowd; in the scrum and his obvious desire for close physical contact is being given full rein. Eventually they send him off to the centre of the field and play continues. The ball goes in and whips back on the Shermer side whilst our forwards wilt visibly. Scrum-half, fly-half, and out to Sharp. It looks an easy try and the Shermer supporters are in full song when Sharp stops dead in his tracks and holds out the ball invitingly.

  “Give us a kiss and it’s yours,” he says. My short-sighted friend purses his lips, snatches the ball as Sharp closes his eyes and starts scampering down the field with the Shermer backs in total disorder behind him. They pull themselves together and charge off in pursuit, but by this time Garth has taken the ball and scored under the posts.

  The Shermer supporters are now in open mutiny and when Garth kicks the goal there are shouts of “Keep it away from Sharp, for God’s sake,” and “Get him orf!”

  Sharp is now sulking because our centre cheated by not kissing him and this is to his side’s advantage, because without him taking part in the action they have no difficulty scoring a converted try before half-time to make the score 8–5 to us.

  I watch Sharp carefully whilst we suck our lemons and pretend to listen to Garth’s ranting, because I still fear that he may suddenly drop dead. But he looks all right as he invites the rest of his team to peep down the front of his shorts and it occurs to me that Python’s Pesticides would do well to solve the problem of gender discrimination before they put their wonder drug on the market.

  “… and really get amongst them,” winds up Garth. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that daft sod Sharp, but he’s worth playing on.”

  He is indeed. But only if he can get the ball. The rest of his team have now wised up and keep it away from him at any cost. In the first minute of the second half their scrum-half breaks from a line-out and scores under the posts. The try is converted and we are 10–8 down. If this was not bad enough, straight from our kick-off their wing catches the ball and races the length of the field with Garth just failing to stop him getting over in the corner. The kick fails but we are now 13–8 down.

  As we trudge back to the centre line, morale is at truss height and even Garth is silent. The Shermer supporters are on top of the world and I feel mentally and physically knackered. I really believed we had a chance and now my dream is punctured like a french letter with ‘Made in Hong Kong’ stamped on it.

  But I reckon without the crafty Celtic cunning of Garth. Seeing the opposition bunched protectively around Sharp, he taps the ball over the ten-yard line, sprints after it, sweeps it up and is striding away for the line with the nearest Shermer man ten yards away. He scores untouched and the score is 13–11. We kick the goal and it is 13-all.

  Our mood is now transformed and straight from their kick-off big fat man catches the ball and charges forward as if nothing on God’s earth is going to stop him. In fact, three Shermer players stop him very comprehensively in the first four yards, and he goes down twitching and groaning. The referee blows up and the crowd surges forward to inspect the damage.

  Luckily for us, Sharp is equal to the situation.

  “Give him the kiss of life,” he shouts and promptly starts to pull down the victim’s shorts.

  “Not there, you fool,” cries one of his team-mates, aghast. “On the mouth.”

  He must have wished he had not said it because Sharp needs no further encouragement before subjecting Fatso to the kind of kiss that would clear all the blocked-up sinks in a toffee factory. A cry of horror goes up from the crowd and strong men turn away in disgust. Willing arms haul Sharp from his prey and the referee’s finger points rigidly towards the touchline.

  “I’m sending you off for ungentlemanly conduct,” he says sternly, his lower lip trembling. You feel that the total horror of the situation is almost unhinging him. Sharp’s hand immediately shoots out and dives down the front of the official’s shorts.

  “Give us a gobble,” he says.

  Shermer try to rally after Sharp’s departure, but it is obvious that their hearts are no longer in the game. Not many teams can have lost a player for attempted buggery with a member of the opposition, and for a side showing all the symptoms of being gentlemen the load is too much to bear. Seconds before the desperately relieved referee blows his whistle for full-time Garth takes advantage of a moment of indecision in their defence and snatches up a loose ball to plunge over and score.

  WE HAVE WON!!!

  We hug each other and try to carry Garth back to the clubhouse, but we are too fagged out and he slides down into the mud with us giggling weakly. What a performance, we tell each other. By God, but we were magnificent! Mrs. Minto turns up from watching the Sunday afternoon T.V. movie to present the cup and prizes, and starts saying what a wonderful tournament it has been until somebody whispers to her to belt up. We have our photograph taken by Gruntsomb of The Echo—who else?—and a jug of beer is produced by Crippsy, who has turned up to see the final.

  It is the first of many and by the time I have had a quick dip in the cold bath full of the mud left by the other fifteen teams, I hardly know what way round my trousers go.

  We blunder out into the bar, expecting to find it jumping, but the place is strangely empty and most of the people there are members of the guest teams.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask nobody in particular.

  “They’ve gone home,” says a voice at my elbow. “They’re not very used to losing—not like that, anyway. Well done! My good luck must have worked for you.”

  It is Valerie, who has been clearing away the tea things. Seeing her reminds me of Dawn, but to my relief she seems to have pissed off.

  “Yes, we were a bit lucky,” I say modestly. “Er—how is Tony? I haven’t seen him since the game.”

  “Neither have I, and I don’t particularly want to. I think they took him home.”

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’ll ring for a taxi.”

  “N
o need to do that. I’ll take you.”

  “Are you sure it’s all right?”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  She blushes. “No, I didn’t mean that. Don’t you want to stay and celebrate with your friends?”

  A few moments ago I would have said yes, but now, seeing her has brought home to me the whole point of getting drunk.

  “No, I’ve had enough. Are you ready to go?”

  She nods her head. “I’ll just get my coat and lock up the kitchen.”

  Somehow I know it’s on. I don’t know how—I just know. It’s been one of my days. It’s The Day. My jacket pocket bulges with a pewter tankard inscribed ‘Shermer Seven-a-Side Tournament Winners 1971’ and I have this gorgeous little bird to escort home—or somewhere. She reappears by my side, looking sweet and pretty, and I tell her so.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s over on the other side of the car park. It’s one of the opposition’s, you know. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not as long as it’s got an engine in it.”

  I say goodbye to Garth and the rest of the Crabs, who are now too drunk to take in anything except more liquor, and we go outside. The puddles glint in the frosty moonlight and I steer her round them to where I can see the familiar outline of the Morris. There are a number of cars left but only mine has steamed-up windows. I notice the fact casually and it is only when I bend down to open the door that I realise why. Two completely naked bodies can be seen entwined across the back seat and the sole of a foot is clearly visible against one of the windows. It is moving as if gingerly probing the glass to see if it is real.

  I recognise Dawn first because her smudged, sweaty face is gazing up with unseeing, half-closed eyes. The man is Valerie’s property and she is quick to speak his name. “Tony,” she cries out despairingly. “Oh, no!” She turns and starts running through the puddles. I could go after her but I don’t think there is anything for me there now, and, anyway, the night air is beginning to make me feel sick.

  I could start making a scene about Tony and Dawn, but I don’t fancy her above waist level and I feel I owe Mr. Sharp a favour after all he has been through on my behalf. You can’t go on holding a grudge for ever, can you?

  I leave the foot tapping rhythmically against the car window and make my way back to the bar to continue celebrating.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning the Harlem Globetrotters are bouncing a concrete basketball round the inside of my nut and my tongue feels like the mat the All-Nippon Sumo Championships have been wrestled on. Added to that it is Monday, and only a berk of the first water would bother to show up at work. Nevertheless, I push my face round the door of the E.C.D.S. mainly because I want everybody to say flattering things about my performance in the sevens.

  Sadly, the subject is hardly mentioned—certainly not by Dawn, who does not put in an appearance all day—and when Cronky arrives it is to brief us all on our part in the approaching Cromingham Carnival.

  This riot of colour and spectacle occurs every year and is supposed to coincide with the arrival of spring—or April 1st, as it is known in the absence of any dependable signal from the weather.

  It appears that all the local tradesmen take part in a procession of floats through the centre of the town and that it has been decided that the Major School of Motoring and ourselves will each contribute one vehicle with an instructor sitting beside his latest pupil to pass the test. Miss Frankcom is due to take hers again for the umpteenth time and Cronky is obsessed with the idea that, if she passes, she will be the ideal advertisement for the E.C.D.S.: the perfect, happy ending to all the free publicity we had the year before. I can’t get very excited myself but I play along to humour him.

  I have my own test to worry about and it so happens that on the very same day that Miss F. is due to go into action I have to report to Norwich to take the practical part of my Register Qualifying Examination. Eyesight, driving technique and instructional ability are the three things I am tested on and, though I say so myself, I hardly put a foot or hand wrong and pass with flying colours. At last I am a ‘Department of the Environment Approved Driving Instructor’. I should be highly chuffed but now I have qualified it is rather like getting married to a bird you have been knocking off for months. There is nothing new to look forward to and you wonder why you bothered. When I first thought about it, being a driving instructor seemed quite a class profession, but now I’m not so sure. The more you come into contact with the nobs, the more you fancy a bit of their style of living, and when I look round the E.C.D.S. I wonder what my chances are of getting amongst it. Even Cronky, who runs the joint, can hardly be said to be overloaded with mazuma.

  These and similar thoughts are running through my mind as I drive back to Cromingham, but they soon get pushed to one side when I pull up outside the office. Quite a party is going on and it appears that Miss Frankcom has passed her test and bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

  “Oh, there you are, dear,” she says when she sees me. “We’d almost given you up for lost. Aren’t I a clever girl?”

  “Very,” I say, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I passed as well, so we can have a double celebration.”

  And we do. Gruntscomb of the Echo rolls up to take a few pictures and we all chip in for a couple of bottles of plonk, which go down very nicely. Miss Frankcom says she will be delighted to appear in the procession and Cronky beams away like a headmaster on Parents’ Day.

  Unfortunately, his smile dries up on the morning of the carnival because Miss Frankcom rings in to say she has twisted her ankle and won’t be able to make it. He fumes and sulks but there is nothing he can do about it so we have to dig up a substitute. This proves no problem and Dawn, who is now back with us— and joining me in making no reference to the Shermer Sevens—soon gets a chap called Roper to agree to turn out.

  He seems quite normal when you look at him. About fifty, with leather patches on his elbows and a white nylon shirt. His hands shake slightly but I don’t pay much attention to that—not then, anyway. We tell him what to do and he is perfectly relaxed about it all.

  The procession forms up behind the bus station and the big scene there revolves around whether the M.S.M. should take precedence over the E.C.D.S. or the two of us should drive abreast. It is all so bloody petty, but in the end Minto and Cronky have to toss for it. Minto wins and with obvious satisfaction waves his bulled-up Ford in front of my equally gleaming Morris 1100. In order not to be upstaged by Minto, Cronky has lent his brand new private motor and had an E.C.D.S. sign mounted on its roof.

  The instructor is Tony Sharp, who, for some reason best known to himself, has decided to wear a racing driver’s tunic. He looks a right berk, I can tell you. Rumour has it that blood samples taken from him at the hospital after the Sevens revealed signs of drugs, and there are differing schools of thought as to whether he was nobbled or took an overdose when trying to pep up his own performance. No prizes for guessing which version I am supporting.

  “Take it nice and easy,” I say to Roper. “No need to get too close to him. Let the crowd have a good look at you.”

  For once the Town Council have got their dates right and it is a nice day—the best I can remember in my six months at Cromingham. I wind down my window and savour the warm sunshine on my cheek. Behind us a party of six fishermen sit on a float, representing the sea-bed, and make unfunny jokes in order to hide their embarrassment. Beside the inevitable Neptune with a pitchfork for a trident there is a self-conscious mermaid sporting a fish-net brassiere and what looks like jodhpurs sticking out of the top of her silver foil tail. She is obviously not taking any chances with the weather.

  At last the Town Cleric gives the signal and the procession lumbers off with all the proud patrons racing back to the middle of the town to watch their underlings make fools of themselves. Past the Methodist chapel we go and Roper is performing perfectly. Sharp’s ex-pupil is a middle-aged, middle-class woman dressed up as if for a B
uckingham Palace garden party, and I watch her flowered hat practically obscuring the windscreen in front. The first part of the procession hits the High Street and I can hear the cheers beginning to build up. A policeman waves his arm officiously and I tell Roper to take up a position in the middle of the road. There it is, the High Street. Bunting and flags everywhere. Dear old Woolworth’s next to the new Marks & Spencer’s, the ‘Comeinside Cafe’ (called the ‘Semen’s Rest’ by Garth), the crab shop, ‘Cromingham Crafts’. I look at all the familiar landmarks and feel almost attached to the place. The Majestic Cinema—are they still showing ‘The Big Sleep’ or is it that they never change the posters?—and opposite, in all its shabby glory, the East Coast Driving School, with Dawn, Cronky, Lester, Petal and Garth all waving from the first-floor window.

  I am wondering where Crippsy is when Sharp’s car suddenly back-fires. I have only just woken up to what the noise is when I am thrown back in my seat as Roper’s foot goes down on the accelerator.

  “The swine’s firing at us,” he screams and rams the Ford up the backside.

  “Stop it, you bloody fool!” I begin, but before I can grab the wheel he has done it again.

  Crunch! The Ford shudders forward a few feet and the beautiful flowered hat is jerked over its wearer’s eyes.

  “Fight fire with fire,” shouts Roper, who is quite clearly mad. “That’s the only thing the bastards understand.”

  He gets in one more lunge just as Sharp is clambering out of the passenger seat and my rival is thrown into the gutter like an ejected cartridge.

  “They’re abandoning ship! We’ve got ’em! Depth charge the survivors!”