though it was supposed to be the same person every three monthsfor the first year). They met in Morrisons café, as before when she met the Man, and followed the same procedure. The Woman was quite smiley, very pleasant, or at least determined to appear so. She had tea, nothing fancy, no Earl Grey or anything. She said Sarah was doing well. Tara kept her expression blank, wondering how this judgement was made. Did it rest on the fact that she’d kept her excruciatingly boring job? Was it because she’d caused no trouble of any kind, or none that had come to the notice of any of the authorities? Or was it because she hadn’t had a nervous breakdown with the strain of becoming a new person? It didn’t matter, really, but she would like to have known how the assessment that she was ‘doing well’ was made.
The Woman asked if there was anything she needed help with, any difficulties she was experiencing. Tara took the opportunity to say she would like to get her driving licence back and she would like to have a car which she thought she could afford. She wanted to get out at the weekends and see something of what she’d heard was beautiful countryside. Ah. This was a problem. She couldn’t have her old licence back, because of the name. She’d have to apply, as Sarah Scott, for a licence and this would mean, of course, sitting the test. Did she think she was up to it? Not just the driving, but the mental strain of it all? Tara said she thought she was. Very well, the Woman said, though she looked doubtful. It’s more complicated these days, she added, there’s an online test first. Tara raised her eyebrows and smiled. I didn’t mean, the Woman said, that you wouldn’t be up to it, just thought I’d point it out in case, with being out of circulation, you hadn’trealised. Thank you, Tara said. She was a nice person, this one.
There was the first tiny awareness of something close to excitement when she went to get the necessary forms to apply for a driving licence. She half expected to find that she didn’t have the right documentation but what she’d been issued with passed muster (in fact, it was hardly scrutinised). Booking a few refresher lessons was easy, and the instructor, an amiable middle-aged man, recognised at once that she had driven before.
‘Lost your licence, did you?’ he said.
If he was waiting for a story about how this had come about, she didn’t give him one. Her driving was so smooth and expert he soon gave up directing her and wondered aloud why she’d thought she needed any lessons. Not that I’m complaining, he added, it gives me a holiday.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of driving again that made her careless. The driving instructor dropped her off at the end of her street and she walked briskly down it, her head held high for once. She might even have been humming. Her thoughts were of what sort of second-hand car she would buy. Once she’d had a Ford Escort, then a Fiat, but now she’d try to find a VW Polo, though maybe even a five-year-old Polo might be too expensive. With all this small contentment taking up her mind, it was a shock to discover that her keys were not in her bag. Slowly, trying to be careful and thorough, she put her bag on the windowsill and methodically emptied the contents. There were not many. She unzipped the inner compartment where she kept her money: it was all there. But no keys. Shetold herself to stay calm and think. The thinking only told her what she’d realised already. The only person who had a key to her house was the landlord and she did not have, in her bag, his telephone number. More thinking, all of it done while she stood absolutely still in front of the house, led to the inevitable conclusion that she would have to break in. This would mean smashing the front window, a rather large piece of glass. The front door was solid wood, no glass panels. What could she do it with? There were no stones lying around, no handy implements. There was no
The Woman asked if there was anything she needed help with, any difficulties she was experiencing. Tara took the opportunity to say she would like to get her driving licence back and she would like to have a car which she thought she could afford. She wanted to get out at the weekends and see something of what she’d heard was beautiful countryside. Ah. This was a problem. She couldn’t have her old licence back, because of the name. She’d have to apply, as Sarah Scott, for a licence and this would mean, of course, sitting the test. Did she think she was up to it? Not just the driving, but the mental strain of it all? Tara said she thought she was. Very well, the Woman said, though she looked doubtful. It’s more complicated these days, she added, there’s an online test first. Tara raised her eyebrows and smiled. I didn’t mean, the Woman said, that you wouldn’t be up to it, just thought I’d point it out in case, with being out of circulation, you hadn’trealised. Thank you, Tara said. She was a nice person, this one.
There was the first tiny awareness of something close to excitement when she went to get the necessary forms to apply for a driving licence. She half expected to find that she didn’t have the right documentation but what she’d been issued with passed muster (in fact, it was hardly scrutinised). Booking a few refresher lessons was easy, and the instructor, an amiable middle-aged man, recognised at once that she had driven before.
‘Lost your licence, did you?’ he said.
If he was waiting for a story about how this had come about, she didn’t give him one. Her driving was so smooth and expert he soon gave up directing her and wondered aloud why she’d thought she needed any lessons. Not that I’m complaining, he added, it gives me a holiday.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of driving again that made her careless. The driving instructor dropped her off at the end of her street and she walked briskly down it, her head held high for once. She might even have been humming. Her thoughts were of what sort of second-hand car she would buy. Once she’d had a Ford Escort, then a Fiat, but now she’d try to find a VW Polo, though maybe even a five-year-old Polo might be too expensive. With all this small contentment taking up her mind, it was a shock to discover that her keys were not in her bag. Slowly, trying to be careful and thorough, she put her bag on the windowsill and methodically emptied the contents. There were not many. She unzipped the inner compartment where she kept her money: it was all there. But no keys. Shetold herself to stay calm and think. The thinking only told her what she’d realised already. The only person who had a key to her house was the landlord and she did not have, in her bag, his telephone number. More thinking, all of it done while she stood absolutely still in front of the house, led to the inevitable conclusion that she would have to break in. This would mean smashing the front window, a rather large piece of glass. The front door was solid wood, no glass panels. What could she do it with? There were no stones lying around, no handy implements. There was no
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