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 yes. Did you—wait a minute. I’m afraid my girl’s away, I’ll have to get the book.” He turns to me. “Get the appointment book from Dawn’s desk.” I hand it to him and he flips through the pages. “Yes, we can manage tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. You know where we are? And the fees? Good. Oh did you? But then things do get exaggerated a bit you know. Yes, well, goodbye. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” He puts down the ’phone and turns back to me.
“The dual control packed in,” I say desperately. “You can check it yourself if you like.”
“I will do that. Now perhaps you can explain how the Echo seems to be following you about everywhere you go. This publicity could ruin us.”
The telephone goes again. “Good morning. East Coast Driving School. Yes, yes. Yes I think we can.” He flips through the book again. “Mrs. Dobson? Fine. Right, we’ll see you then. Oh, did you? Yes, I know what you mean. I’m talking to the young man now. Do you? Well, we’ll have to see about that, Mrs. Dobson. It all depends on our rotation schedules. Goodbye.” He puts the ’phone down and shakes his head. “Woman must be mad, quite me-add! Now, where was I—oh yes, I was talking about all this rubbish in the papers. It’s making us a laughing stock. At your current rate of progress, we’ll be out of business in a few weeks if I go on employing you.” The ’phone rings again.
“East Coast Driving School. You saw our what in the paper? But we don’t advertise. Oh, well. It doesn’t matter. Of course we’d be delighted to enrol you.” He reaches for his pen.
And that is how it goes on all day. Any publicity seems to be good publicity and there are twenty people who ring up to say that they had been meaning to take lessons for years and decided to do something about it after reading about us in the papers. Faced with this sudden upsurge in business Cronky finds it increasingly difficult to keep the rough edge on his