by covering myself in Mrs. B.’s talcum powder.
No sooner am I tucked up in bed than there is a knock on the door and Mrs. B. comes in before I can say “Get your knickers off”—not that I feel like saying it, anyway. She is carrying a tray and wearing a pink fluffy dressing-gown which presumably has a nightdress underneath it. I say ‘presumably’ because all I can see are the Bendon boobs lurching towards me again like a flesh Etna erupting.
“I thought you might like a mug of Ovaltine,” she says. “It helps you sleep, you know.” She is wearing that perfume again and it doesn’t take any prisoners, I can tell you! By the cringe! When she sits down on the edge of the bed, I feel I am being anaesthetised.
“You shouldn’t have bothered, really you shouldn’t,” I say—and then I notice she has started sniffing. It must be her talc she can smell. God knows how, with the pong she is giving out.
“You naughty boy,” she says, all skittish like. “You’ve been at my Rose Blossom, haven’t you?”
Before I can say anything she leans forward and flicks open the front of my pyjamas. “Where have you put it all?” she says, running her finger down my chest. Most of it is between my toes and at her present rate of progress it won’t take her long to get there. Normally I would have her into bed quicker than you can say ‘Eric Robinson’ but tonight I just don’t feel like it. I can’t forget the bloody Morris and what I am going to say to Cronk in the morning.
“Sorry,” I say. “I won’t do it again.” I spring back against the pillow and pull my pyjama jacket together. “I’ll buy you some more talc.”
Mrs. B. takes her rebuff coolly and shakes her head.
“You’re a funny boy,” she says. “Don’t bother about the talc. There’s plenty more where that came from.” She stands up and puts the tray down on the bedroom table. “Make sure you put the mug back on the tray. It leaves a ring otherwise. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. And thanks.”
She goes out and I am left listening to the sea and the wind. They don’t sound so loud tonight. Maybe I am getting used to them.
“Oh, it doesn’t do you justice, luv,” says Petal. “I’d hardly have recognised you. They’re beasts, those reporters, you know. They just don’t care about people’s feelings. All they want is a story.”
Petal—real name, Peter Flowers—is about five foot six low, with dyed blond, razor cut hair, and is wearing a white safari jacket with purple silk scarf, blue towelling trousers that cling as if soaked in water, and dinky little brown wet-look shoes with enormous butterfly buckles across the insteps. He looks as out of place in the front office of the E.C.D.S. as Sammy Davis Junior at a Ku Klux Klan rally. Despite that, he is one of my fellow instructors.
We are looking at the front page of the East Coast Echo which carries a picture of me silhouetted against the half-submerged Morris under the caption “New driving instructor loses his way on the first day.” The E.C.D.S. sign is clearly recognisable in the photograph and the school is mentioned again in the jokey story below.
I am double choked because I have skipped one of Mrs. B.’s excellent breakfasts in order to be at the garage since eight o’clock—holding my breath while they give the Morris the once over and picking pieces of duckweed off the chassis. To my relief, there is nothing seriously wrong with it apart from a broken headlight and a few more bends on the front bumper, and once I have had the headlight fixed and wiped over the bodywork with a damp cloth it would take a keen eye to notice that anything has happened. With a bit of luck, Cronk need never know, and I can settle up with the bleeder in the Viva later. I have a faint fear that the police will suddenly start getting interested but—
All ‘buts’ are swept aside by the poxy little shit from the Echo. Now I have no more chance of keeping my little mishap dark than Raquel Welch has of being mistaken for Twiggy.
As if to confirm my view, Cronk comes in looking as if he is about to announce the outbreak of World War III.
“Into my office, lad,” he snarls without looking at me and marches on ahead so that the papers on Dawn’s desk skip and dance in his slipstream.
“Ooh, you’re for it,” squeals Petal, obviously relishing the thought. “He’s in one of his real paddys. He can be a tartar when he likes, can’t he, Dawn?”
Dawn nods and it may be my imagination, but I think I can see a trace of sympathy wrinkling her make-up.
“Just tell him what happened,” she says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Too true, dear,” says Petal. “Those bastards have tried it on with me before now. This place is getting like Chicago. I remember one day down by the pier—”
I leave him rambling on and go into Cronk’s office wondering what time the next train leaves town. Cronk wheels round on me.
“Right,” he says. “I’ve heard it from Mr. Padgett and I’ve read it in the papers. Now, what’s your version?”
“P-Padgett?” I stutter.
“He runs the Clifftop Garage. Rang me up at home this morning.”
Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? The Russians have nothing on this lot, I can tell you.
“I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any serious damage,” I whine.
“Very considerate of you. Now, tell me about the accident.”
So I tell him that it wasn’t an accident and that this crinkly-haired bugger in a Major Driving School Viva has tried to force me under an oncoming car and the expression on his face does not change by one twitch of a muscle.
“Did either of the other cars stop?” he says.
“No.”
“Did you get their numbers?”
“No.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“So the fellow in the Viva could say that you were trying to overtake him and misjudged the distance?”
“Yes, I suppose he could, but it would be—”
“Shut up! Did you have anything to drink when you were out with Cripps?”
“A few halves. Surely you don’t think I was—”
“Shut up! I won’t tell you again. You were bloody lucky the police didn’t breathalyse you. They’re getting very hot on it round here.”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“I know, I know. But don’t you see what I’m getting at? It’s your word against the fellow in the Viva and, if I suspect rightly, that’s Tony Sharp and he’s a darn sight better known that you are—and that counts for something around here, I can tell you. Even if you could find the chap in the other car, he probably didn’t see anything conclusive. Face up to it, lad. You haven’t got a leg to stand on.”
“You know the bloke that did me?”
“I think I do. Look, lad; let me explain. I served in the army under a man called Major Minto. We didn’t get on well then and we get on a bloody sight worse now. The problem is that he runs the Major School of Motoring, so the situation has to be watched very carefully. He’s on the council and has quite a few friends around here—that little creep from the Echo was probably one of them. If we put a foot wrong we’re in trouble, but they can ride us and get away with it. I’ve said the man you describe as running you off the road was probably Tony Sharp, their chief instructor. He’s a cocky sod and it isn’t the first time he’s tried something like this.”
“So