Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Driving Instructor

My bedroom is at the back of the house and looking obliquely left over a series of tiny back gardens. I can see a chunk of sea between the gap thoughtfully bequeathed by two boarding houses. In the middle of it nestles a small boat and I think of Mr. Bendon. Mrs. B. has not yet told me what happened to him and it’s a bit early to ask. Maybe he was drowned or maybe he couldn’t stand the sound of her voice any more and kept his boat pointed out to sea.

It is cold so I close the window and switch on the electric fire thoughtfully provided. Five minutes later I realise that nothing has happened and notice a small meter which exchanges warmth for 5p pieces. Mrs. B. is not Nelson Rockefeller in drag. I unpack, wash from the rose-patterned china jug and bowl set—idly wondering whether I’m supposed to throw the dirty water out of the window—and lay down on the bed. I’ve almost dozed off when there is a light tap on the door and Mrs. B. tells me that supper will be ready in half an hour and that I can watch the television if I want to.

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