Driving Ambition

It was a big surprise for everybody when I passed my driving test on the first attempt.

I recall arriving at the test centre five minutes late and charging into the crowded office full of excuses. The patient receptionist shook her head and pointed to a gentleman waiting outside in a beige mackintosh and thick black glasses. “You’d better hurry,” she said, winking at me. “Mr Bantam’s keen to go home on a Friday.”

I scrawled my signature on a couple of forms and dashed outside.

   “Mr Bantam?” I offered my apology and mumbled nonsense about public transport.

   He nodded, rolled his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette under his heel. I shook with nervous excitement when he tossed me the car keys. Mr Bantam gestured toward a black Toyota Camry with a vague wave of his hand, checked his wristwatch and noted the time on his clipboard.

*  *  *

I was determined to drive a car as soon as I could peer over the steering wheel of my father’s old Morris Traveller. My mother always laughed when she spotted me perched on her cushions in the driving seat.

   “You look so serious,” she said, “as if you’re a gangster’s get-away driver.”

   I liked the sound of that, even if I was too young to understand what she meant. 

   The first time I drove in earnest was on a family holiday in Scotland. I recall sitting on my father’s lap and he allowed me to steer the Traveller around a field near our campsite. Thick clouds of white exhaust smoke billowed behind us as we trundled around the grounds in first gear, to the amusement of my siblings who were coughing and spluttering. I was in a small boy’s heaven and so excited that I couldn’t sleep for days. 

   My first official lesson with my father was some years later, when I was sixteen. As practical sessions go, it was a short-lived. He chose a wide tree-lined boulevard and attempted to teach me all about three-point-turns. I thought I understood the principle, but to be honest, I hadn’t a clue. I’d no practical experience of using the pedals. The nearest I got to footwork was using three shoe boxes painted in different colours to help me identify the controls. I lurched forward and slammed the brake hard, stalling the engine. Then I restarted the engine and tried to reverse. The car leapt backwards and hit one of the many plane trees behind me, crumpling the chrome bumper. I leapt out of the car as if it had bitten me and turned to face my father. His face was ashen, with eyeballs about to explode out of their sockets. He remained silent while he drove home and we didn’t repeat the exercise. I refrained from asking for another chance after he repaired the damage. In his mind, I wasn’t a natural driver, and that was that.

   I was just sixteen when I received my provisional driving licence and within forty-eight hours, I’d survived my first crash. If that had been my only encounter with motor vehicles, I’m sure it would have had a lasting impact and put me off for life. In fact, I shelved my ambition to drive for a few months until I could afford regular lessons. Holly, my big sister, had passed her test with a driving instructor called Kim at ‘Lady-Drive.’        

   “She’ll drive you insane,” said Holly, “but she’s got a great reputation.”

   My father discovered my intention and told me I’d kill myself or worse, incur more unnecessary garage bills. “I don’t know why you want to learn, lad,” he said. “Believe me, it’s not much fun driving in London.”

   Looking back, he had a fair point. For most residents in the city, a car is just a means of escape; a way to get away for a relaxing break. Most of the time, they’re a liability and an expensive waste of time. 

*  *  *

Mr Bantam must have thought I was wasting his time when I turned up late for my driving test. We strolled across the car park in an awkward silence while I fumbled with the electric key. I recall him adjusting his spectacles and squinting his lips to one side as he waited beside the passenger door. He checked his watch again and tapped his front teeth together with a hollow - tut! - adding an exasperated exhale for effect. 

   I was sure he’d made his mind up about me. In my opinion, he’d failed me before we’d even set off. I had nothing to lose. Drawing a deep breath, I pressed the button on the key fob. 

   Beep! Beep! 

   Mr Bantam licked the tip of his Biro and ticked the first box on my test report. The car started first time and chugged at a steady pace while I adjusted my mirrors and fixed my seat belt. 

   “So,” I said, “where are we off to?”

   Without a word, Mr Bantam jabbed his nicotine-stained forefinger toward the open gateway and indicated a left turn with a jerk of his thumb. He wriggled about in his seat until he found a comfortable position and crinkled his long nose with a sharp sniff. I bit my lip, released the handbrake and slid the stick-shift into first gear. The Camry was bigger than I was used to, but responded with a smooth purr as I teased the accelerator and raised the clutch. The car slid forward with avuncular sympathy, as if willing me to succeed; a clandestine supporter, rooting for the newest kid in town.

*  *  *

   “The accident in your Dad’s car wasn’t your fault,” said Kim. “Just think of it as a wake-up call, right?” My first lesson with her was frustrating because I expected to drive straight away. She chatted away about spinning clutch plates and various technical aspects of the engine while encouraging me to familiarise myself with her car; set my seat height, get used to the mirrors and turning the key in the ignition. I don’t think Kim paused for breath for thirty minutes and I listened to her talk and talk.   

   “Forget everything you know about driving a car,” she said. “I guarantee you’ll thank me.” At the end of the lesson, she promised I’d drive next time. 

   Over the four months preceding my test, Kim collected me from my home address every Saturday morning. I hadn’t realised I’d be driving around my local area with an illuminated ‘Lady-Drive’ sign perched twelve inches above my head. As a teenage lad, it was embarrassing to be spotted by my friends as I drove around town, and I recall ducking down twice when they spotted me approaching. Kim sighed and got me to pull over, explaining that she wouldn’t risk a bump because of my ego. Besides, they’d soon be begging me for a lift in a few weeks.

   ‘Lady-Drive’ was a North London franchise and Kim worked on contract for them. Amongst other things, she aspired to establishing her own driving school. If she could get the business, she’d give it a shot and intended to call it ‘Kimz Karz.’ I heard in great detail about many plans and schemes during my time in her vehicle. She talked about her family and her young son, and her school days and this and that and everything else in between. Her monologue was relentless and distracting until, one Saturday, I pulled over without warning and stopped the engine. Kim’s jaw sagged open. She was silent for once and scowled at me as though I’d bumped into a lamppost or run over an old woman at a zebra-crossing.

   “I didn’t say to pull over, young man,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

   “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”

   “What the hell are you talking about?”

   “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you never---”

   “Never mind me, pal. I’m doing you a favour here,” she said, facing me and furrowing her brow. “When you’ve got a car-full of mates all shouting and giving you lousy directions, you’re going to know how to focus and get there in one piece.”

   “Yeah, Kim but---”

   “No buts, pal,” she said. “If you ever do that again, it’ll be your last lesson, right?”

   There was no arguing with Kim. It was her car, after all. Anyway, I couldn’t afford to pay for any repairs.

   As the last week with Kim approached, she persuaded me to book extra lessons during the four days prior to my test. It was money well spent and the continuous period of practice served me well. I recall on the last day together, we stopped at a café and she suggested a late breakfast.

   “I could do with a bacon butty,” I said. “What can I get you?”

   “You know me by now,” she said. “I’m a no-nonsense lady.”

   “Am I missing something?” I asked. “Is that a cryptic clue?”

   “Just think of me as a sausage sandwich girl who likes a splash of brown sauce.”

   “You should have said.” I smiled.

   “I just did, didn’t I?” she chuckled.

We had a natter while we rested in the café and Kim enquired about my nerves.

   “I’m feeling pretty confident.” I said, avoiding eye contact.

   “Really? That’s fantastic,” she said. “You’ve done ever so well.”

   “Actually, to be honest, I’m crapping myself.”

   “I swear, I’ll refund your money if you fail.”

   “I wouldn’t promise that if I were you, Kim.” 

   “No, seriously,” she said, “you got this.”

With a smile on her face, Kim assured me that Friday’s test would be a piece of cake compared to an hour-long lesson in her car and no earache afterwards.

*  *  *

I eased the Camry between the sandstone gate posts and nudged forward into the endless line of traffic trudging past the test centre. It was three-forty and the weekend exodus had started early, as usual. London’s major roads were approaching grid lock; everybody had piled onto the streets in a scramble to escape. 

   Mr Bantam moved little throughout our journey, but his eyes were on the go all the time; checking all my observations, signals and manoeuvres, and searching ahead; looking for hazards in advance. 

   After a couple of minutes, I felt a wave of confidence pass through my fevered brain. We’d travelled less than half a mile before everything I’d learned with my Kim made sense. I’d got used to the clutch’s biting point and the unfamiliar gear box performed well in the low gears needed for the rush hour traffic. 

   “If you feel out of your depth, then slow down,” Kim had said, every lesson. “Just take your time and remember to breathe.”

   I was ambivalent about my weekly lessons with Crazy Kim; she drove me nuts with her incessant banter and non-stop yacking, however, everything she’d told me now rang true. That’s fortunate, because at the next junction, I made an emergency stop for real. The one moment Mr Bantam dropped his head to scribble a note, I hit the brake to avoid a pantechnicon slamming into the nearside door. 

   Without hesitating, I hopped out of the vehicle and exchanged insurance details with the lorry driver. He blamed his mistake on the other rush hour drivers.

   “You’re lucky to get away with a smashed front bumper, lad,” he said. 

   “It could’ve been a write-off more like.” 

   “Too right,” he said, as if he’d done us a favour. “A proper messy job.”

   I snapped some shots of the collision on my iPhone and returned to the Camry. 

   Mr Bantam held a monogrammed handkerchief to his bloody nose and complained about his bruised chest. I restarted the engine and awaited instructions, wondering if I’d over-stepped my authority by taking the initiative. Maybe I’d been impetuous?

   “Down there and take the fourth on the right,” he said, pointing to a side street ahead. “We’re heading back.” 

   So that’s that, I thought, swallowing a lump in my throat. It could’ve been worse, I suppose. I sighed at the prospect of Kim telling me where I’d gone wrong. The thought of listening to more of her pithy wit and wisdom filled me with dread.

   At the first opportunity, Mr Bantam retrieved his clipboard from the footwell, ticked all the boxes and offered me his quivering hand. 

“Well done, young man,” he said, with a tight-lipped smile, having recovered his dignity. “You made the grade.” 

The End