Читать книгу Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions - Timothy Lea - Страница 27

“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 what are we going to do about it?” I shout, showing him that the red blood runs thick in my veins.

“You aren’t going to do anything, lad. You concentrate on your instruction and leave Minto and his lot to me.”

His tone suggests I don’t argue with him, so I stand there humbly like I used to do in front of my old schoolmaster.

“Right, off you go,” he says. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt this time, but watch it! Miss Boswell will tell you who you’re with today.” I turn for the door. “Oh, by the way,” he adds, “what did you do about paying for the damage to the Morris?”

“I told them to send me the bill.”

“Well, we’ll get the insurance to cover it this time. I’ll tell the garage.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“One more thing.” He ignores my grovelling and drops his voice confidentially. “You probably noticed that when you were out with Cripps that he fancies his tipple. It’s not a good habit to get into and I don’t recommend you to try to keep pace with him. He’s had a lot of practice, if you know what I mean.”

I nod wisely.

“Keep an eye open for him, because he’s a good bloke really, and he may need your help one day.”

“You were in the army with him, weren’t you?” I say casually to draw him out.

“That’s right,” says Cronk firmly and finally. “Now, you’d better be getting on with the job.”

I soon find that army service with Cronk is a common bond between all the instructors. Even Petal, who hardly comes over as an advertisement for the Royal Marines, was a cook and occasionally makes wistful references to it. “Totally untrue what they say about the army food, duckie. Considering the conditions I was working under, I was performing bloody great miracles every day. Nobody ever grumbled about my food.”

“Few of them lived to.”

Interjections like this usually come from John ‘Garth’ Williams, who stands about six foot four on other people’s stockinged feet and needs a shoe horn to get into his Triumph Herald. He is the clumsiest man I have ever met and is always apologising for knocking things or people over, and running his fingers through his tousled hair in gestures of helpless self-exasperation. Despite that, he is a handsome bloke in a craggy, beefy way that went out of fashion the day they opened the first male boutique, and I can imagine women fancying him.

I am glad to see him, because I don’t reckon that either Petal or Cripps go much on birds and it’s nice to have someone to compare notes with occasionally. Now that I’ve got through my first day and am beginning to feel the lay of the land, my normal appetites are returning and a bit of nooky seems just what the doctor ordered. I look at Dawn and she crosses her legs and looks straight back at me.

“What have you got lined up for me today?” I say, “or can I choose?”

“You can do what you like,” she says wittily, “but you’ll be going out with Lester and a few of the old faithfuls this morning. In the afternoon you’re solo with Miss Frankcom.”

Miss Frankcom. The very name reeks of sex. I can see already, five foot eight and a half inches of insatiable nymphomaniac. Hardly outside the 30 m.p.h. limit and she’s abandoned all pretence of handling the gear stick and is rampaging across the front of my cords. “Miss Frankcom, please! Miss Frankcom, you mustn’t! Not here. Oh, no, oh!!!!” I can hardly wait.

Poor Dawn, if only she’d moved a bit faster, she might have been in with a chance.

“What’s Miss Frankcom like?” I ask Garth. Garth reflects for a moment. “Mature,” he says. He winks at me and I reckon I must be on a good thing.

The thought of what is to come keeps me going through a very dreary morning. Lester Hewett is the fourth member of the instructors’ pool and is a silent, spotty youth I imagine to be about the same age as myself, though without any of my physical magnetism. There are white sweat patches under the armpits of his sports jacket and nobody would even think of asking him to do a Colgate commercial.

Not surprisingly, his pupils seem to have been selected on the basis that if Lester pongs a bit they will never notice and it is not just for the hand signals that I keep the windows well down. Lester sniffs in the back and occasionally whispers unhelpful comments into my left ear, thus undermining my authority and alarming some of the pupils, who I can see suspect him of being a potential hi-jacker: “O.K. Start driving towards Cuba.”

In the course of the morning I get lumbered with three real draggies. Firstly, a middle-aged schoolmaster type who grips the wheel with such feverish concentration that I expect to see additional mouldings on the plalstic when he releases it and yelps “Oh, my God!” at moments of tension—which occur pretty regularly. He has considerable difficulty judging the space into which the Morris will fit and steers down the middle of Cromingham High Street as if transporting a load of nitro-glycerine across a bumper car track. Faced by an approaching vehicle, his first impulse is to stop and wave the madcap oncomer to the side of the road.

No sooner has he staggered away shaking his head than I am stuck with the colonel’s lady, who calls me ‘young man’ only because she suspects I would not understand the Hindu for ‘hey you’: “Young man, I have arthritis and it is impossible for me to hang my arm out of the window”; “Young man, the gear lever does not appear to be working properly”; “Young man, my seat belt is cutting into my shoulder.” She is dead ruthless and I would not fancy my first pupil’s chance if he met her coming the wrong way up a one-way street. She is also incapable of accepting anything as being her fault. “Wretched car!” she hisses every time she mangles the gears. “Witless ingrate,” she levels at some old age pensioner taking his life in his hands by stepping on to a zebra crossing thirty yards ahead. All in all, she is pretty exhausting company, but I can see how we got our Empire.

My third pupil is the enormously pregnant Mrs. Owen, who can hardly get behind the steering wheel and rabbits on continuously about how she is having lessons to take her mind off the baby. It may take her mind off it, but every time she leans forward I expect the little bleeder to come popping out under pressure. She keeps making jokes about how it might be safer if we practised three point turns outside the Maternity Hospital and that doesn’t do much for my state of mind, either. I am well pleased when it is time for dinner.

Lester offers me one of his crust-free salad spread sandwiches but I refuse with ease and leave him slopping his hot Bovril into the plastic top of his thermos flask. By my standards it has been a successful if fairly tedious morning and I want to compose myself for going ‘solo’. I have tried hard not to think about Miss Frankcom in the belief that things thought about never come up to expectations but this has proved impossible, so I now think about her continuously in the hope that this double bluff will fool fate into making her everything I want her to be. I sit in one of the shelters on the front and marvel at the amazing softness of her skin, the exquisite whiteness of her teeth seen through lips half-parted by the outward symtoms of acute ecstasy, the fawn-like gentleness of her exploring fingers …

It is therefore something of a surprise at two o’clock to find that Miss Frankcom is about seventy-five and nutty as a fruit cake. To think of her in relation to sexual intercourse seems as crazy as entering Charlie Drake for the Olympic high jump.

“Thirteen times she’s taken her test,” says Garth, “and on one occasion the examiner was crying at the end of it.”

“You bugger!” I hiss at him as we watch her innocently studying the Highway Code as if she had never seen one before. “You never told me she was like that.”

“I said ‘mature’,” says Garth innocently. “You can’t argue with that.”

“‘Mature!’ By the cringe, she’s obsolete. There must have been a bloke with a red flag in front of the car when she first took the test.”

“Look on it as a challenge,” says Garth, trying to sound reassuring. “If you can handle her, you can handle anything. You’ve got to watch her all the time, because she can do some very funny things. I remember when she drove straight into the fire station—luckily there weren’t any fire engines there at the time.”

“Why the hell do we take people like that?”

“Use 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 dream. I attempt to hide behind a boat but Gruntscomb’s eyes don’t miss much.

“Mr. Lea, isn’t it? Good heavens. Don’t tell me you were in this one as well. Fantastic! What happened? You what? Unbelievable! Quite unbelievable! Lucky to be alive, eh? What about your passenger? Miss Frankcom? Oh, her! I’ve heard about her. Taken the test fifty times, hasn’t she? Thirteen. Oh, I thought it was more than that. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” Click, click, click. “You like water, don’t you? No, I’m sorry. Of course it isn’t funny. Yes, I’m sorry you didn’t like our last story. Most people thought it was very good, but there you are. Oh, is that Miss Frankcom? I must have a word with her. Miss Frankcom, Miss Frankcom!” And he pisses off across the beach to where Miss F. has foolishly revealed herself. Apart from jumping on him and his camera and burying them both in the sand, there is very little I can do, so I return to the Morris which looks like a boiled sweet some toddler has spat out into an ash can and imagine Cronk’s face when he opens his morning paper or the Norfolk Mafia get on the blower to him.

To my amazement the engine fires first time which is either a credit to British engineering or an indication that it is getting used to working on a mixture of petrol and water. I dish out some silver to my fishermen friends: “You be lucky there, bor” and pull alongside Miss Frankcom who is clearly relishing Gruntscomb’s greasy attentions.

“No, I haven’t tried the Major School,” she is saying. “After so long with the East Coast I feel I should see the thing through with them. To change now would be an admission of failure. Almost like giving up.”

“Touting for business, are you?” I snarl.

Gruntscomb looks aggrieved. “No, I was just trying to get the whole story. I wondered if this incident would have any effect on Miss Frankcom’s future plans.”

“No, dear,” says Miss Frankcom considerately, “it was an accident and I don’t blame Mr. Lea for anything.”

That’s enough for me and I bundle her into the Morris before she can say anything else more quotable.

“You must be shaken after that,” I say comfortingly, “let me run you home.”

“Aren’t we going to finish the lesson?” she says.

Somehow I manage to resist strangling her—mainly because I don’t reckon my hands will fit round her bloody great throat—and dump her outside her bungalow. I am so choked that I could easily drive the Morris over the nearest cliff but I know Gruntscomb would be waiting there with his crummy little camera poised for action so there is no point. Why should I give the bastard any more free material?

Determined to make a clean breast of it I give the Morris a wipe down and return to the E.C.D.S. where Dawn, presumably wearing dark glasses to celebrate it being the coldest day of the year, looks up as I come in.

“Where’s Miss Frankcom?” she says.

“Good question, I filled her knickers with paving stones and pushed her off the end of the pier.”

“Did she sink?”

“Not her. She was running up the beach thirty seconds later shaking like a golden retriever. Where’s Cronky?”

“He’s out playing golf. Where is she, really?”

“You mean you haven’t heard yet? I thought the telephone would have been ringing all afternoon. I could hear the drums beating outside the coast guard station.”

“You haven’t had another accident? I don’t believe it!”

So I tell her what happened and I must say she is quite sympathetic in a “well I never” “ooh er, you didn’t” sort of way. It is the first time I have ever known her show any emotion apart from when she spilt nail varnish on her new tights and in my present mood her interest is most welcome.

“What are you going to do?” she asks eventually.

“Go out and get pissed … the minute the pubs open,” I say, “do you want to keep me company?”

To my surprise she takes the invitation seriously and I can see her little mind ticking over.

“I don’t fancy sitting in a pub all night,” she says, “but there’s a dance at the Shermer Young Conservatives—” her voice tails away temptingly.

“Will they let me in? I haven’t brought my passport with me.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s nice. They’ve got a good band up there.”

So a few hours later I am building up my confidence with a few pints in the “Three Jolly Rapists” or whatever Mrs. Bendon’s local is called and thinking of the reproachful look in her eyes as I slid out of the house in my zoot suit. A frilly blouse she had on and when you look down her cleavage it’s a poor reason to be leaving home on a cold night.

Luckily Dawn, running down the concrete path of her council house looks a very reasonable alternative even if it is by lamplight. Not the kind of girl you would take home to mother perhaps, but dad would be very grateful. She smells like homage to “California Poppy” and has bloody great curtain rings hanging down from her ears, but her tits stick out where tits ought to stick out and her mouth looks a bit more exciting than the slit in a pillar box—not much smaller, mind you, but more inviting. I feel the dark glasses could be dispensed with but I don’t want to pick a fight with her at this stage of the evening.

“You look fabulous!” I say, and from my waist down I mean it.

Shermer Y.C.s hold their dances at the tennis club and from the “Shermerlins” to the cider cup the festivities live down to my expectations so completely as to be not worth describing, but luckily I have taken steps to make good the foreseen absence of strong liquor by bringing my own half bottle of scotch. With this, I lace every drink sipped by the fair Dawn until she is snuggling up to me as if I am her favourite teddy. I do nothing to disillusion her and am awaiting the right moment to suggest we hit the trail when I notice a familiar face propped up by the doorway.

It belongs to the long blond streak of piss that drove me off the road. Tony Fart-features or whatever his name was supposed to be. As I see him so he recognises me and our eyes meet with not enough love left over for a parish funeral. He sneers and turns away and my fists contract. My first reaction is to belt the living daylights out of him, but there are other considerations. Am I going to risk leaving this gorgeous half-cut hunk of mammal sleepily kneeding my thigh for a mere affair of honour? Am I buggery! I can catch up with shag-nasty any day of the week. Tonight I intend to be up at the crack of Dawn.

“Come on, gorgeous,” I murmur into one of her stretched ears—those earrings really are heavy—“time to go home.”

She doesn’t argue and I half carry her to ‘Ladies Cloaks’ and hope she doesn’t fall asleep inside.

While I’m waiting I take another look around the dance floor and watch. Tony Sharp waltzing with a pert little brunette who he seems to be massaging into his body like embrocation. Whoever it is, she obviously fancies him, which, I guess, makes two of them. I try to catch his eye for a further staring match but he is too busy to notice and they disappear into a scrum of bodies.

Behind me the door opens and my dream girl lurches out. She has left her dark glasses behind but I don’t care because it gives me my first opportunity of the evening to admire the acres of mascara plastered round her eyes.

“You look fabulous,” I say pulling her towards me by the lapels of her synthetic fur coat. I may have said this before, but I can’t say it often enough: always tell them they look great. You will never find a woman who will think any less of you for it.

I 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.