A Different Kind of Love
The Dandelion Clock
The Loss of InnocenceClick on the titles of these books and read the reviews that appeared in previous issues of IGW...all reviewed by Tony Heyes (our man from England)
The Driving Test
by Jay Mandal
“I wish it was today.”
“It is.” Christie tipped out his tea, and put the mug in the dishwasher. He sighed at the chaos within, and began to rearrange the plates.
“You know what I mean. The driving test. I wish it was today, not next week.”
“Look at it this way: you’ve more time to practise.” Christie removed an awkwardly-shaped dish. It took up far too much room, and it made more sense to wash it by hand and put a couple of bowls in its place.
“And more time to worry.” Marc mooched over to the fridge where he started playing with the egg timer. “If I don’t pass this time, I might as well give up.”
Christie pulled out the lower rack and his heart sank as he saw the machine needed more salt. Why hadn’t Marc put more in when he’d unloaded it the other day?
He unscrewed the lid of the dispenser, and, left arm half in the dishwasher, began to pour. The water level rose, then stopped, and he realized he was tipping the salt over the metal base of the machine. He wondered who had thought up such an awkward method. He adjusted the flow of salt, and, after a few moments, was able to stop pouring and screw the lid back on the dispenser with his right hand.
“You’ll pass,” he assured Marc as he put the bag of salt in the cupboard under the sink and checked that the lid of the bleach was on properly. Once, it had almost come off, and Christie had had to explain to Marc how the child-proof top worked.
“You said that last time.”
“This time it’ll be OK. Think positive.” Christie closed the cupboard door and straightened up.
“D’you know how many times I’ve taken my test?”
A rhetorical question, as Christie had heard often enough. “Other people take it lots of times before eventually passing.” He opened the pedal bin and was about to throw in an apple core when he saw the ice cream carton. It practically filled the bin. Marc was meant to be the artistic one, yet sometimes he seemed to have no sense of proportion.
“Is 20:02 a parallelogram?” asked Marc as he stared at the digital display on their cooker.
“A palindrome,” Christie corrected automatically. “I expect so.” He began to wipe the counter tops. Marc’s mind was obviously on other things, as Christie chased him—like some bird that flies from bush to bush in front of you as you walk***, round the kitchen.
Marc frowned. “Can you take me out tomorrow?”
“It’s Friday. It might be too late to book.”
“In the car.”
Christie sighed. “You know it always ends in tears.”
“But my test’s next week!”
“Don’t panic. I’m making some tea. Are you having a cup?” Christie took a bottle of milk out of the fridge. “Marc, did you open this?”
Marc scratched his head. “I might have done. Why?”
“There was a bottle already opened.” Christie put it back, and got out the old one.
“I was hungry, so I had some corn flakes. I like the top of the milk on corn flakes.”
They hadn’t had full cream milk for the past two years. Christie tipped boiling water into their two mugs into which he’d already put a couple of tea-bags. “Can’t your instructor take you out again?”
“He’s not as cheap as you.”
“I thought you loved me for my mind.”
“You know what I mean,” Marc said, accepting a mug from Christie. “I’m just not good at practical things.”
“You mean you’re good at impractical ones?” Christie raised his eyebrows.
“That was an accident. Anyone could put an egg in the microwave.”
“And you wouldn’t have an accident when you’re out driving?”
“You’d be there to make sure I didn’t.”
“We haven’t got dual-control. Anyway, there are some practical things you’re good at.”
“Name one,” Marc challenged.
Christie grinned.
“That’s different.”
“I can think of a few similarities. The gear stick, for one.”
“Idiot,” Marc said fondly. “So you will take me out?”
“How about a compromise? The instructor takes you out, but I pay.”
“But that’s –“ Marc broke off.
“What happens now?” Christie said drily.
“I don’t fancy my instructor.”
“I should hope not!”
Marc gave his mug to Christie to put in the dishwasher. “I think he thinks I do, though,” he said as he leant against draining board.
“What makes you say that?”
“He’s very twitchy when he’s with me.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“It’s the way he helps me change gear. He puts his hand on top of mine very gingerly.”
“Maybe I should be worried after all.”
“He’s sixty if he’s a day,” Marc objected.
“Some people prefer maturity.”
“I’ll stick with you.”
“Hoist with my own petard.” Christie finished his tea. “They didn’t have a written paper when I passed my test,” he added as he rinsed his hands under the tap.
“They didn’t have one when I took my first test,” Marc said despondently. “I’ll be invited to the driving school’s Christmas party next. Talking of which, do you want to come to ours?”
“Am I invited?” Christie asked, surprised.
“You are specifically invited. They’ve seen you dropping me off, you see. They worked it out pretty quickly.”
“You never said.”
“It isn’t a problem.” He watched Christie get out the ironing board. “Isn’t it my turn?”
“Probably.”
“Last time I did two shirts before I realized that the iron wasn’t on.” Sometimes he wished he was more like Christie. Christie was capable. He could open a packet of biscuits, even those without the tear here instructions.
“I don’t mind. You could change the toilet roll in the cloakroom if you want something to do.”
When he came back, Marc said: “They think it’s all sex at work. I mean the people at work think we’re at it like rabbits or we’re out wining and dining every night. There’s nothing romantic about doing the ironing and changing the toilet roll.” He scratched behind his right ear, and wondered if he was developing an allergy to his shampoo.
“This driving test is really getting to you, isn’t it?” Christie, who’d stood the iron at the end of the board for a minute as he put a shirt of Marc’s on a hanger, looked up at his partner.
“I know it’s stupid, but I just can’t help it.”
“I could leave the ironing.”
Marc looked blankly back at him.
“And prove that romance isn’t dead. I didn’t feel much like Iron Age man, anyway,” Christie said, grinning mischievously. “More like homo erectus.”
“I’ll prove it to you,” Marc said. “Next time Christie phones me, I’ll put it on hands-free. Then you’ll see it’s not all romantic stuff or talking dirty.”
The phone rang at half past twelve. Marc picked up the receiver. “It’s him!” He flipped a switch so that the whole office could listen in to their conversation. “He’s probably just checking that I want pizza tonight.”
“Sounds like he’s down the pub,” someone whispered.
“I’m phoning from the staff room,” Christie said, as if he’d overheard the man’s comment. “Look, I know I’ll see you in a couple of hours anyway, but I thought you ought to know straightaway.” A pause. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
Marc frowned. The others in the department looked anxiously at each other and wondered if they should really be listening.
Christie took a deep breath. “You’ve got nits. Head lice,” he added, as Marc flung himself over the amplifier.
The others wandered back to their own desks.
“He was right,” said one.
“What’s that?”
“About their conversations. That one wasn’t at all romantic.”
“It’s all right for you,” Marc complained. “It’s an occupational hazard for teachers. I’ve had to put up with all the jokes. ‘Is that your idea of talking dirty?’ ‘Most people keep a cat or a dog as a pet.’ ‘Hey, if you’ve any of that nit lotion left over, can I have it for my roses? The greenfly was really bad last summer.’ Someone came in wearing protective clothing one day. Went on about germ warfare. I’ve even been asked if they migrate.”
“Migrate?” Christie repeated, mystified.
“That’s what I said. Told him they weren’t bloody birds. Then he explained. You know, go south.”
“I’m really sorry. Still, there’s one good thing to come out of it.”
“What’s that?” Marc asked moodily.
“You’ve stopped worrying about your test.”
Marc gave him a filthy look and stomped off.
However, he had to admit that Christie was right: compared to head lice, taking a driving test paled into insignificance. He tried not to scratch his head, but the very word ‘nits’ made it virtually impossible. Of course, they used the shampoo. It was alcohol based, and Marc joked that he’d be taking his test under the influence. Still, at least he’d be relaxed … as relaxed as a newt.
The day finally arrived. Christie gave him a good-luck card and a peck on the cheek before he dashed off to work. His instructor took him out for one last lesson which went so smoothly Marc was convinced the test would be the usual disaster.
His fears were unjustified. Three-point turns, reversing round a corner, parking, hill starts – and even a real emergency stop when a cat decided to run across the road – were all accomplished as if he’d been doing them perfectly for years. He’d even read the correct number plate first time. Then came the result. “I’m pleased to say, Mr Preston, that you have passed your driving test.”
Marc had waited for this moment for a long time. After the magic words, he would grin wildly, mumble incoherently, and generally behave like an idiot. Or else he’d forget himself, and kiss the examiner and have to apologize. Maybe he’d text Christie on his mobile to tell him the good news. He had envisaged being on a high like he’d been when David Beckham scored against Greece. Instead, he sat there, unmoving. Shock, thought the examiner.
In a way, he was right: Marc was in a state of shock. He was staring at the board the man had been using during the test. As Marc watched, transfixed, a perfectly visible, and very much alive, louse marched determinedly up the examiner’s clipboard.
The End
Jay’s latest collection, The Loss of Innocence, is available from BeWrite Books and from the usual outlets