How to Pass Your Driving Test
By BRIAN BEHAN IHAD failed. The examiner with a wintry smile said smugly, '1 am sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Behan, that you have not reached the standard required by the Ministry to qualify you to drive.' Bemused and sick I took my pink rejection slip, my poor old ego lying trembling in the very outer darkness of despair. All round me thousands of certified drivers honked and twisted their way proudly carrying the Ministry's approval. While here was I, unfit, rejected, unable to do something that women and young boys were toiling away at.
I searched my heart for the reason for failure. Lack of tuition? No, if I gave any more to the Driving School I might as well work for them full time. At a pound a go, four lessons a week and three pounds for the use of the car during the test, it wasn't exactly a cheap hobby. Over- confidence? No, on the contrary I had gone there posing as an "umble Irishman,' content to crawl along at ten miles an hour. I had made a couple of mistakes, but these were due to nervousness more than lack of road skill. In any case he'd told me before we started out that he'd allow for nervousness. True, I had almost impaled a cocky youth on my bonnet, but that again was clearly his fault, shooting across the road like a loony.
Sadly I made my way back to the school. Here the chief instructor was cheerful. Heads or tails he couldn't lose. If I passed, then it was another success. If I failed, it was obviously due to the need for more lessons. Ruthlessly he pressed his point. 'Let's face it, Mr. Behan, you're not exactly in the first bloom of youth. Now from our experience it's the youth that can pass with the minimum of lessons. We calculate that you need a lesson for every year of your life.' Aghast I retorted, 'But I'm thirty-five. Do you seriously mean that I need another twenty lessons? It's a Pity I didn't take this test when I was two years old then.' Laughing delightedly, he answered, `You're a scream, yes, that's what 1 mean, you need plenty more lessons to get your hand in.' Regretfully I handed over, three quid for the following week. Then I had a think. Why not appeal to the Ministry against their examiner's decision? Alas, my Ministry man informed me tartly that there is no machinery of appeal. So I reasoned, 'The examiner holds the key, break him and away I go.' I resolved to re-apply for the test without delay.
From the start I resolved, like the Yank said, to 'Think Positive.' Instead of lowering my eyes and looking at the ground I sat, arms folded, with the other victims. As soon as my man arrived, he called, 'Ban, is there anyone named Ban there?' Rushing forward like a man possessed I screamed, 'You mean Behan, don't you?' Taken aback, he said, 'Well, you might call it that.' There's no might about it,' I retorted, 'that's how it's pronounced.' Savagely he inquired, 'Are you deaf, sir?' Immediately I registered an insult, 'Why do you ask? Are you taking the mickey out of me or what?' Sweetly he replied, 'Oh, no, sir, it's just that we are compelled to find out if our pupils have any physical handi- caps that would debar them and as you were shouting so loudly I wondered if perhaps you were deaf.'
Sullenly I followed him out to the car. A small man with greying hair and thin-lipped glasses, he looked slyly at me and jabbing his finger out said, 'What's the number of that car over there?' Pretending ignorance I asked, 'Which car? There's half a dozen over there. Why don't you say clearly what you mean?' Flushing up he said, 'Are you accusing me of giving wrong directions? Well, do you know who I am?' I neither know nor care."Well, for your information I am the chief examiner for this area.' My heart sank. 'Well, even so, what about it? A cat can look at a king.' Striding forward, he quipped, 'Well, you're not a cat and I'm not a king so let's get on with what I'm paid for, shall we?'
My three-point turn went off all right but I was rocky on the hill start. Then as we made our way back to base I spotted an old woman feebly making her tremulous way out to a pedestrian crossing. Delighted, I waved my hand up and down like a constipated pigeon.. The traffic behind me slowed down and I edged right up to the line. Smiling triumphantly at the examiner I was all set to go when he rebuked me. Looking down he smirked, 'You're in the wrong gear, Mr. Behan, for going away.' Flinging all caution to the winds I exclaimed, 'What has my gears got to do with you? You're not a mechanical expert, are you?' Savagely I drove on without regard to anything.
Convinced that I had failed again I let loose on him, 'You're anti-Irish, aren't you?' Amazed he looked at me. Relentlessly I pressed on, 'Oh yes you are, don't think we're fit to drive, you think we are all from the back of some bog.' Worriedly he hastened to re-assure me. 'Oh no, Mr. Behan, you're quite wrong. We get all sorts here but we treat them all alike: Why, I have an Irish grandmother.' Sneeringly I shot at him, `Ah, sure, everyone has an Irish grandmother. It's like a picture of Trafalgar Square.' Furious, I never noticed that I was swinging out too far to get round the corner. On I went, all four wheels three feet in on the pavement. A man exercising his dog made a dive for the wall and I shaved his bottom as we half turned.
Back at base the examiner mopped his brow. `Well Mr. Behan, I want to tell you here and now that this has been the worst hour of my life. I just don't know what to do, you have cast doubts on my impartiality. Should I fail you or let you take the test with another examiner?' Grasping at the whispery straw I shouted, 'I demand another test. You undermined my confidence telling me that you were the chief examiner, you had no right to mention your rank, it made me nervous.' He just sat there. A little way down the road my driving-school man waited anxiously. Too many failures are bad business, whereas a pass could mean a letter from the successful student praising the school and all those who served in it. It didn't look as though I was going to be issuing any testimonials. Then he spoke. 'Mr. Behan, this is what I'm going to do.' He pulled out the fateful green slip. 'I am going to pass you, I think you have reached the standard required and if I had the slightesi doubt I would fail you.' My heart nearly stopped with relief. I sat there thunderstruck. I said nothing until he signed on the dotted line. Almost grabbing the covering note I said, 'You mustn't take to heart all I said, I was feeling a bit nervous.' Smiling grandly he waved, 'Oh, it's the Irish, we know, well good luck now.'
On the way home the school instructor said, `Do you know who you got? That was the boss!' Grinning, I swung the wheel. 'Yes, I know, very nice bloke though. Do you know he passed me even after I ran three feet up on the pavement and scraped a lamp post?' The instructor smiled palely and stole an uneasy glance at the speedo- meter and I noticed that his foot was fluttering over the brake like a nervous butterfly. Still,' I continued, 'that was nothing to go by. Just nerves, that's all.' My companion took out his handker- chief and dabbed his lip. Usually communicative, he was obviously trying to ttliscourage me from talking; he was nervous! 'Bloody cheek,' I thought, 'people are all the same, it doesn't pay to tell them the truth, they just lose respect for you.'
We came to the last set of lights. After them it would be up the hill sharp left and we would be back at the driving school. Then my windy friend would be out of his misery. The lights changed. Aloof and precise I put her in gear and she started to move—backwards.. From behind came a familiar crash and tinkle. I struggled out, trying as I did so to arrange my features into that combination of amazement and aggression that seems to be standard on these occasions. But there was something familiar about the figure now bending tragically over the bonnet of his new- looking Consul. I heard my instructor hiss, 'It's the examiner!' There was only one thing to do and as One man we did it. We jumped back into the car and, just beating the lights, we roared off up the hill.
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