22 December 1994 changed everything for me.
*
A white BMW filled my rear-view mirror; I hadn't seen it when I pulled out. Brian slapped his hand on the car's glove compartment and said, "I've been a driving instructor for twelve years and that's the worst start anyone's ever made to a lesson."
My rigid, almost prosthetic, arms tensed as my hands constricted the steering wheel. I exhaled as we approached a roundabout, stopped the car and waited for a gap. As vehicles passed I thought about my failed driving tests and why today had to be different.
"Come on, come on," Brian urged. "Fuck off, fuck off."
My interpretation of his outburst was: "When it's safe proceed as quickly as you can." After a year of lessons I almost understood him. Starting the car forward I circled the roundabout and turned off at the third exit.
"You were so slow back there I thought we'd run out of petrol," he chuckled. "You've had a bad start, but forget it. Don't get tense: that's my job when you're at the wheel. Your driving reminds me of having sex with my wife. I tell her if she relaxed she might enjoy the experience."
With each word the car was shrinking while Brian expanded. I wound the driver's side window down, rain splashed on to my face. I passed a cyclist and pondered which would be most stressful, Brian's lesson or the test afterwards.
"You're improving," Brian sniggered. "Pushbikes used to overtake you."
Brian leant forward and turned on the CD player. Lush guitar chords filled the car. He bit into a cereal bar and smiled to himself.
"Like the song?" he asked.
"It's all right."
"All right? I spent three days on that."
"That's you?"
"Me and my drum machine."
"Brian, I'm impressed."
"What the best thing about a drum machine?"
"It keeps perfect metronomic time?"
He flicked a look at me to see if such a literal answer was genuine. "The best thing about a drum machine is that it doesn't get pissed on a Friday night."
The rain was becoming heavy so I wound the window back up and turned the windscreen wipers on. The two wipers moved hypnotically with timing that Brian's drum machine would envy.
"The song's about Christmas," he volunteered, "and starvation in Africa."
"Hasn't that field been ploughed before?"
Brian scowled at me, raspberry and cranberry breath drifting across the car.
"Junction."
"I know what a junction looks like," he said, returning his gaze to the front. "Nodding dog, nodding dog."
After checking the traffic I pulled out. "Brian, a nodding dog's head goes up and down, north-south. To look at two sets of traffic is an east-west motion."
"Fuck me, it's a talking compass."
"Just trying to help."
He lowered his voice, each word deliberate, "It might take ten thousand lessons, but I will motivate you." He nodded, re-enforcing his statement. "Pull into the estate. You can reverse around a corner. Then we'll see who's smiling."
I parked the car near a corner that wasn't too sharp, started back slowly, and hit the kerb almost immediately.
"Relax and try again," he said.
I manoeuvred around the corner without incident and stopped.
Brian tutted. "Most drivers park next to the kerb not the white line in the middle of the road. Let's do it right."
Two teenage girls were giggling and pointing at us. Brian wound down his window and shouted, "It's hard enough for him without you watching. Why don't you mind your own business?"
From underneath their shared umbrella the girls sneered at him. As they turned away one gave Brian a non-Department of Transport hand signal.
"Silly bitches," he said. "You'd have thought the learner sign might have given them a clue about what was happening."
I tried again. And again. And again. My hands and legs shook as my mind went blank, all the practice and lessons forgotten. On my twelfth attempt — I was counting — I hit the kerb four times.
"You're never going to fucking do it," Brian snapped. His unblinking eyes were a frozen counterpoint to a face that could have recently suffered third-degree burns. "Drive to the Test Centre if you can move the thing forwards."
The journey was made in silence. At the Test Centre I parked the car. Staring straight ahead I listened to the rain tip-tapping on the windscreen.
"For Christ's sake, stop moping," he said. "It's up to you now. Keep failing tests, not reversing around corners, messing up junctions and you'll be wasting my time for years." He shook his head. "Stop being a smart arse and show some pride."
*
All I recall from the test is following a funeral procession. To access another test route I reversed eighty yards in a straight line and then around a corner.
No problem.
I knew I'd passed.
The examiner said, "To conclude we have the theory test." I thought of Brian's words, "No one's ever failed a theory test. If you're the first I'll never speak to you again." The examiner showed me pictures of various road signs. I'd seen them all before, but now none made sense. As he put the pictures back into his pocket my eyes welled up: I'd blown it.
*
"Well?" Brian asked.
At that moment I hated him.
"Well?" he repeated.
"I passed. I don't —"
"Yes!" he shouted, enveloping me in a hug. "I knew you could, you just needed the confidence." He released me and shook my hand. "I'm so pleased for you. You deserve it."
"Thanks. Cheers."
"I'm sorry I was a bit harsh with my pep talk, but you needed a kick up the backside."
I nodded.
"Brilliant," he said, "you've got that monkey off your back."
"Yes," I agreed, though I don't know if we were talking about the same monkey.
Steve Firth is a short story writer. He lives in Wakefield, England.