Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre
by
Sue Pacey

 

I sat in the ‘test centre,’ which was rather a grand title for what was essentially a run-down portacabin.

I had to pass this driving test first time if I wasn’t going to spend the next three months of my midwifery training, sleeping in the Nurses’ home when on call.

I had just got married and much preferred to spend nights in the arms of my husband rather than some cold billet, miles from home. Living at home was allowed, providing you could drive.

So, I had taken a crash course (prophetic as it turned out) and bought a car.

Daisy was a 1957 black Morris Minor with leather seats, electric fuel pump, split windscreen and absolutely no synchromesh on the gears. She was a ‘foxy lady’ and I loved her from the second my eyes looked into her headlamps. She cost £60 and went like a Ferrari.

So here I was, confidently awaiting the examiner.

The door opened and three men came in. I knew instinctively which one was mine, the tall, miserable-looking one.

“Miss Hanson!”

“Mrs.” I corrected.

“Oh,” he looked at me distastefully, probably thinking, Another one wanting to drive so she can be off spending her poor husband’s money!

“Follow me Madam!” He spat out the last word and I felt like a brothel-keeper, up before ‘the Beak.’ “Read that number plate over there; the black car.”

“Err…which one?” I stumbled, seeing a row of cars, all black.

He gestured toward the cars with his clipboard, not looking at me. I chose one at random and read it aloud.

“Thank you. To the car, if you please.” There was no smile or change of expression. I let him into the passenger seat after a lengthy fumble with the keys.

Mirrors, signal, manoeuvre, mirrors, signal, manoeuvre, repeated a voice in my head.

“Now!” he barked, “From time to time, I will issue commands and you will carry them out, with due deference to other road users and prevailing conditions. Is that clear?”

I wanted to shout “Yessir!” and salute, but this was no time to make an enemy. I wondered if he’d been in the Army, a regimental Sergeant Major at the least.

“Begin” he ordered.

“Would you like to put your seat belt on?” I enquired softly.

“Absolutely not madam! I do not believe in them.” It was not then compulsory. Carefully, I put mine on, adjusted the seat and mirrors, started the engine and I was off.

It went surprisingly well, with him barking commands and me carrying them out, and as time went by I began to enjoy myself. The three-point-turn was ‘textbook,’ my instructor would have cried with joy. Then came the reverse around the corner. It began well, but I clipped the kerb on the way back.

“Would you like me to take that again? I said in a tiny voice.

“No Madam, that will not be necessary,” he said, looking at me over his half spectacles; the sort your doctor wears when giving you bad news. I couldn’t help noticing that he’d put on his seatbelt.

Forget it and carry on, I remonstrated with myself.

“Now, I will bang the dashboard with my newspaper and you will do an ‘emergency’ stop.” Clearly it was not open for discussion. He rapped the ‘dash’ and I executed it perfectly. Old ‘grumpy drawers’ removed his seat belt again and sat back.

I’d cracked it! Just the Highway Code to go and I knew that parrot fashion. Nights of unadulterated passion beckoned invitingly.

The Co-op milk float shot out of a side street without warning. Jumping on the brakes in an unscheduled emergency stop, I managed somehow to miss it, as bottles of milk flew in all directions. “Oh shit!” I screamed, hoping he wouldn’t consider it a command.

“Old Grumpy” shot forward and banged his head hard on the windscreen, catching the sun visor, blood spurting from the gash.

As he clasped a pristine, monogrammed white hankichief to his head, I drove to the hospital, at speed, with absolutely no deference to other road users or prevailing conditions, as he hung on as best he could. Then an unbelievable thing happened.

We sat outside Casualty, and he ran me through the Highway Code! I sat in disbelief, whilst he totted up my score.

“I’ve failed, haven’t I?” I squeaked miserably, risking a timid glance.

“Yes Madam!” he uttered between clenched teeth, in a voice that said it was a foregone conclusion. I took a deep breath.

“Right!” I said, regaining my composure and leaping from the car, ran round and threw open his door.

“Out!” I barked. He obeyed, still clutching the hankie. I slapped him on the back. “Come on old son, let’s get you into Casualty for some stitching and it’s going to be very painful.” He grimaced, a wry smile on his face.

“Never mind,” I said, “we both lost today; me, the pleasure of spending nights at home and you lost an argument with the windscreen.” I winked at him. “Women drivers! Eh?”

 

Sue Pacey © 2007

 

 

 

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