Timothy watched his wife walk past the school on the way home and felt uneasy. She had been to see Nelly and he wondered what had happened. It was lunchtime and he thought he might go home and find out. But he was delayed, first by a parent calling, then the telephone and eventually he abandoned the idea. Bad news will keep, he decided.
When the children began to gather back in the playground for afternoon school he was still looking out of the window. He saw a knot of boys near the wall and noticed that Oliver was amongst them. He was curious. Pieces of paper were being surreptitiously handed to the boy and he seemed to be explaining something before handing them back.
He was pleased that Oliver was more popular, but his curiosity made him call the caretaker.
‘Those boys, what are they doing, do you know? My son seems to be in demand. Some new game, is it?’
Mr Evans looked uneasy. ‘Not sure, sir.’ Timothy looked at the grey-haired man and shook his head.
‘I think you do. Come on, I’m not going to murder them. What are they up to?’
‘Well you’d better come around here and have a listen.’ He led the headmaster through a gate and along the walls until they were close to where the boys stood.
‘My dad wants to know if this is right; fourteen shillings and sixpence,’ one of the boys was saying.
‘Tell me the prices again,’ Oliver asked.
‘What are they doing?’ Timothy whispered.
‘Young Oliver is checking the betting slips for the boys’ dads, sir.’
When the two men walked back into the school building, Timothy looked puzzled.
‘How can he? He must be making it all up. He’s slow at maths and can’t add two and two and be certain it’s four.’
‘Tell him it’s a two to one winner at a stake of sixpence and he’ll work it out like a shot, sir. Hundred to eight, odds on, he knows the lot, as long as it’s racing.’
Timothy walked through the milling children, ducking flying balls and flaying skipping ropes and children involved with whips and tops and all the other games of skill the playground nurtured. He beckoned his son.
‘Oliver, where did you learn to work out complicated sums like that?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t want to say, father.’
‘Mr Evans told me you have found mistakes on some of the betting slips you’ve been shown. It’s very clever. You’ve had difficulties with sums, and if someone has found a way of helping you, I’d like to know.’
Still Oliver said nothing. He hung his head and his pale face turned a bright pink.
‘Was it one of the teachers? Or Mr Evans?’ Timothy coaxed.
‘It was Gran.’
‘Your Grandmother?’
‘She’s always losing her glasses – but that isn’t a bad sign -’ he added quickly. ‘I help her to pick out her bets. She only does threepenny bets. Nothing wrong with that is there, Father?’
‘No, nothing wrong. Does she win often?’
‘No. She goes on hunches and names she likes, rather than on form. Although I read out the tipsters column when I can.’ He was relaxed now he was reassured that he hadn’t got Nelly into more trouble. ‘Like the Derby,’ he went on. ‘She wouldn’t back the Queen’s horse because it was lame. Rumours aren’t true are they? Like some of the things people say about Gran, calling her Dirty Nelly and that.’
‘You found the piece about the Queen’s horse in the paper?’
‘I only read bits of it. I suggested Gordon Richards’ mount and it won, but she didn’t back that either. She said he’d tried for twenty-seven years and couldn’t win on his twenty-eighth try.’
‘Which horse did she back in the Derby?’
The blush came back to Oliver’s face as he said, ‘Er – Windy.’
‘Why Windy?’
Oliver began to giggle. ‘I don’t know, Father.’
Timothy began to smile and Oliver’s giggles increased.
‘I think you do, young man!’
When Oliver had gone to his class, Timothy began to laugh. If Oliver had been present when Nelly was eating, there was little doubt where the idea of backing Windy had come from. Laughter spluttered on and off all afternoon. Timothy was embarrassed by it, but every time the thought came back it burst out again. Like a schoolboy, he thought guiltily, an immature schoolboy, but the humour of it stayed with him for the rest of the day.
Amy managed to close the shop in time to catch the bus into town. It was tempting to look at the shops and perhaps buy a new dress; she fancied the sailor style in navy and white that had been advertised in the local newspaper at two pounds ten shillings, but seeing the queue already forming outside the cinema, she joined it and leaned against the wall to wait patiently until the doors opened and they were allowed to file in.
She did not see Harry’s car drive past, slow down and stop, so she was surprised when he touched her arm and came to stand beside her.
‘Harry! What are you doing here? You aren’t taking the day off to see a film, are you?’
‘I could do…’
‘Don’t!’ She turned away, but she was shaking inside at the feel of his arm against hers. She tried to move away but he wouldn’t allow it and the queue held her captive. She imagined that her heart-beat would be felt by him, that he would know how much she wanted him.
‘Come for a drive instead,’ he whispered against her ear, bending down to make sure he was not over-heard.
‘No Harry. No more. I’ve finished with long journeys that never take me anywhere. Go away, please.’
The queue began to move and she thankfully darted into a space between two women who were obviously friends. Harry stood close behind her, pressing himself against her. He leaned forward, breathing on her neck. ‘Just to talk, Amy, love. I promise only to talk. About your Freddy. About him working for me? Like the idea do you?’
She tried to move away from him and was challenged by several people in front of her who turned and glared, accusing her of trying to take their place.
‘Please go,’ she whispered. ‘Leave me alone.’
Then he did, and she felt the loss like a blast of cold air in the summer sunshine.
When Amy came out the sun had gone and it was raining. She bent forward and began running for the bus. Harry was waiting at the corner and he took her arm and guided her away from the bus stop and to his car.
‘You can’t refuse a lift home, not in this weather.’
‘Straight home,’ she said.
‘And I’ll make sure I don’t leave the keys in the car this time,’ he grinned and Amy found herself responding to his obvious pleasure at having her beside him again.
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to say I’m sorry. I’m not.’
‘I bet you felt mean though, making me walk, and wonder all the time where you’d left the car.’
‘I didn’t. Satisfying it was. I enjoyed it.’
‘I didn’t, Amy, and I haven’t enjoyed a moment since. Missed you terribly I have. There’s no fun in my life now. Can’t we go back to how it was? It was good. You enjoyed it too didn’t you?’
‘I’m thirty-seven and going nowhere.’
‘Where d’you want to go? I’ll take you!’
‘You aren’t free to make any promises.’
‘But what if I were? What then?’
‘Ask me again, when it’s happened! Take me home, Harry.’
He drove silently for a while then slowed down and stopped in a quiet, tree-lined part of the road.
‘No, Harry. I mean it. Stop here and I’ll get out and walk. Rain or no rain. I mean it!’
‘Just talk for a moment. Look, I’ll put my hands in my pockets, right?’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ She sat rigidly staring at the rain-streaked window, her face sad, but her mouth determined.
‘Amy,’ he said sadly. His arm moved around the back of her seat, the promise to keep his hands away from her forgotten. Amy pretended not to notice, but her heart was beating fiercely. The air in the small car filled with urgent awareness. His fingers touched her nape, felt the fine hairs, the soft skin.
She moved, and at once his other arm wrapped around her, but she was reaching for the door and she turned her head to protest as she felt him hold her back. They met more positively than either had intended, and the joy of the contact could not be halted and she was in his arms, their lips meeting in a painful yet sweet moment, burning them with the intensity of the longed-for kiss.
When he spoke, his voice was gruff with emotion.
‘Where shall we go?’
‘Home.’ She touched his mouth with a finger to hush his protest. ‘I have to pick up Margaret from Evie’s. I can’t be late. I’ll – I’ll need Evie’s help again, won’t I?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘No, Harry.’
‘Then stay here, please. Just a minute or so.’
‘What were you doing in town?’
‘Waiting for you. I saw what time the pictures finished and I waited.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Stupid question. An attempt to take the steam out of the situation. What did she care whether or not he had eaten? But she couldn’t say what she wanted to say, so she went on with the trivialities. ‘Your meal will be spoilt. You’ve been home regularly lately.’
‘I love you.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Where shall we go?’
‘I can’t, Harry.’ She was almost at the point of tears.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Tomorrow. To talk.’ She pulled further away from him, stared out at the rain again. ‘Take me home.’
Slowly he released her but then he glanced at her and she turned to meet his gaze and the tears glistened and he gave a groan and reached for her. This time she did not try to escape.
When Harry reached home, Prue wanted to talk about the discrepancies in his books, but he shrugged her aside. He was breathing heavily, and Prue took it for anger.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’
He was irritated by her and he looked at her tall, thin face with its constant air of disapproval, and wondered why he was here with Prue, when every part of him wanted to be with her sister. Why should he go on wasting the days, and weeks, and years with a woman he didn’t love, while only a few minutes away, there was Amy.
‘Your dinner is spoilt,’ Prue said calmly. ‘Shall I do some eggs? I bought them from Nelly Luke. She’s filthy but I’m sure the eggs will be all right.’ She went to the stove and began attending to his supper. The meal she had cooked earlier lay on the table, dried and ruined, a silent reproof. He left the room, saying, ‘I don’t want anything,’ and went into the office and closed the door.
‘But it’s early – I thought we’d…’
Fear clutched at Prue’s stomach. For the first time she suspected that there was a woman in his life. His face was flushed and she was almost certain that the redness was enhanced by the slightest touch of lipstick. It was something she had always dreaded. Harry was so attractive to women. They all succumbed to his natural charm and the sparkle in those blue eyes of his. He always attracted the attention of women. Attractive women, she thought sadly. A good wife she was, without a doubt, but an attractive woman she was not.
She had always disapproved of Amy, but now, she wished she were more like her. Amy knew how to attract men, knew how to make the best of herself. Her sister had always had so little, but she had a flair for making the best of herself, a way of dressing that made her noticed, a jaunty way of walking that showed her happy acceptance and joy of life.
Prue made a cup of tea and stared into space, facing the knowledge that she had always been jealous of Amy. That her disapproval of her was a cover for the envy she had always felt. But now, she would turn to her and ask for her help. Amy would know what I have to do to keep Harry. If only I can pluck up the courage to tell her.
Harry was still in his office and she went out of the house and crept around the side to look in through a gap in the blinds to see what he was doing. He was sitting at his desk, his chin on his hands, unmoving, his eyes clouded with unhappiness. She picked a duster off the line, her excuse if she had been seen, and went back inside.
Fay and Johnny were both up early. Johnny was due to take a bus out at five-forty, and Fay was travelling to Pembroke to begin a new area. She knew she was being irritable and unfair, and tried to stop. But even the way he held his knife and fork seemed to be a challenge.
‘Johnny, why do you hold your knife that way? It isn’t a pen!’ She snatched the offending knife from between his fore-finger and thumb, smearing egg-yolk across his hand, and replaced it, slapping it on his palm and folding his hand around it.
‘Sorry, love. I forget. Habit of years, see.’ He always accepted her criticisms without rancour, angry with himself for not knowing the right way, rather than with her for pointing them out.
‘Sorry, Johnny,’ she said, still angry. ‘But I do hate it when you won’t learn.’
‘Got a long drive today; shall we eat out this evening? Save you cooking? We haven’t been anywhere for ages. Do us both good.’
‘We can’t waste the money.’
‘Yes we can. I’ve got some overtime this week, and life shouldn’t be nothing but work, should it? Come on, love, let me have my own way sometimes.’
‘Where shall we go?’
‘Nothing too fancy. What about the Swan Inn in Llan Gwyn?’ He touched her hands, made her look at him and was frightened to see the unhappiness there. ‘Promise I won’t hold my knife wrong. All right?’ He was relieved to see her smile.
‘All right, Johnny. Book for eight. I don’t think I’ll be home much earlier. In fact, if I’m not home by the time we should leave, you go and I’ll meet you there at eight.’
‘That’s a long day, love. I hope you won’t have to do it very often.’
‘It’s a new area. I simply don’t know.’
When Johnny had gone, she stared out of the small kitchen window into the yard, with its dustbins, coal-shed and assorted buckets and bowls. On the side of the shed was an old galvanised bath that had once been filled twice a week for the family to bath. How she missed the bathroom from her old home, where Evie and Timothy now lived. Perhaps, if this new area was a success, they would soon be able to find the deposit for a house and move on. Far from this place, she hoped fervently.
Yet, she thought as she looked up, above the buckets and the dustbins and the galvanised bath, to the woods she could just see, if Alan were out there, how could she even think of moving away? She shivered. She felt trapped.
Fay looked at her watch, bought to replace the one she had left at the castle. She had half an hour before she must leave. She hadn’t been up there for days and she must keep the promise she had made to herself, not to give up hope of finding Alan again. Changing into casual shoes, and throwing a coat over her shoulders, she left the house.
She picked her way through the seldom-used path behind the row of cottages and up through the woodland, where puddles tried to block her progress. Her feet slid in the sticky surface and she cursed as mud stained her stockings. Now she would have to change them.
Making her way to the castle site, she was aware of the silence. Few birds sang. It was as if a thousand eyes had seen her coming and were watching, waiting for her to go back and leave them in peace to get on with their lives.
At the castle, the grass looked oddly tidy. Still short and marked in white lines from the day of the party. Soon the straight lines would waver and vanish, and the softer curves of nature would return. Fay went slowly towards the kitchens. If anyone was sleeping here, that was the most likely place, she decided, even in weather as warm as today.
She stepped away from the outer walls and as she looked towards the whitewashed, repaired kitchens, a figure appeared, stared briefly then ran away from her. Fay followed. Determined once and for all to see the man, convince herself that she was mistaken, that his likeness to Alan was nothing more than her final grieving.
The man obviously knew the place well because he ran to a wall, climbed it with ease and jumped down on the other side. She ignored the confining straight skirt she wore and went after him. He had paused, convinced she could not follow and stood for a moment longer, surprised as she appeared at the top of the wall and jumped down beside him.
He ran again but Fay, determined, kept up with him. She noticed he was limping and once, when he leapt over a straggle of rocks, saw him stumble. She felt no pity to make her slow up, her expression was one of great determination as she closed in on him. He tripped again, she heard an explosive curse and she was behind him, reaching out, touching his coat, pulling him, making him stop.
‘Leave me alone,’ the man said in a low growl. ‘Go away.’ Her heart beating wildly, her cheeks burning with the rhythm, her neck feeling as if it were about to burst, Fay faced him.
‘Alan. It is you! Alan. Oh, Alan.’ Tears filled her eyes and her throat was so tight she could no longer speak. They looked at each other, her face flushed with running, his partly in shadow, half hidden by the scarf he had hurriedly pulled up.
‘Go away,’ he said again.
Fay stared at him. His eyes, the only part of his face clearly visible, were bright. She saw flight threatening and took a firmer hold of his coat. ‘Alan. Why didn’t you come home?’
He stared at her as if about to speak but in the end, said nothing. Fay tensed herself for the moment when he would run. He tried to pull free and she gripped more tightly. He began to hit her hands with his left hand, raining blows that grew more and more violent. She ignored them and hung onto his coat. Her fingers were white with the effort but she only moved them to change her grip when his coat seemed likely to come off and be abandoned, allowing him to escape from her. ‘Alan,’ she kept repeating. ‘Alan. Alan.’ It was as if she expected the sound of his name would wipe out eight years like a bad dream. ‘Alan.’
She felt him relax, the blows to her hands ceased, but she still gripped him tightly. Then he spoke and all doubts faded and she wanted to cry.
‘Fay,’ he whispered.
‘Eight years. Why didn’t you come back to me?’
‘The Alan you knew is dead. I have nothing to give you.’
‘I should have been given the chance to disagree.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ he asked. Fay looked doubtful. She was still gripping his coat, afraid he would run. ‘I won’t run. For a while anyway,’ he said, guessing her thoughts.
‘You’ve watched me, stayed where you could see me. Why?’
‘There was nowhere else to go when I eventually came out of hospital.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were safe?’
‘I couldn’t. I’m not the Alan French you knew, Fay. If I had come back to you it would have only meant facing the loss of you soon after.’
He held the scarf up to hide the right side of his face and gently, Fay pulled it away. She had difficulty holding back the gasp of horror when she saw his face. It was terribly disfigured, the eyes untouched, but below them, nothing but shiny new skin over a shapeless mound of flesh. She managed to say calmly, ‘If it’s only the scar, I think you underestimate our love, your mother’s and mine. It’s shocking at first, but don’t you think we would soon forget it? It doesn’t alter our feelings for you.’ Even as she spoke, her words concentrating on reassuring him and hopefully persuading him to go home, she felt the chill of guilt run through her. She wasn’t his to return to. She belonged to Johnny now.
‘It isn’t the scar, I forget about it myself at times. I caused the death of my men. The knowledge gives me nightmares. I wake up screaming if I sleep under a roof. I was careless, and the enemy knew we were there. They moved in while I was changing the guard and I had relaxed the rigid discipline, even allowed the men to feed two hungry dogs. We were spotted as if we were amateurs playing games. I wake up full of blind hatred, wanting to kill.’ Fay could see his body shaking as he spoke.
‘How could I bring that home to those I love?’ he asked.
‘How do you live?’ she asked, trying to bring his mind back from the nightmares.
‘I work. I have a job in a library. A back-room boy of course. I have a room too, but I find it hard to sleep indoors, even after eight years.’ He was trembling and Fay knew instinctively that this was not the time for more questioning.
‘Come home,’ she said. ‘Your mother is alone now. Your father died six years ago and your sister lives the other side of Cardiff. Come back with me and see her.’
‘I can’t.’ He began to get agitated and he looked around as if enemies unseen were surrounding him. ‘I have to go.’ He suddenly ran from her and she stood up and shouted, ‘Alan. Meet me again, please Alan. Please.’
When she was alone, she was shaking and had to sit down. It was easy to believe the whole thing was a dream, something she had wished herself into experiencing.
She made her way back through the ruin to the kitchen. On the floor was a bed made from branches, criss-crossed and covered with mosses and bracken. A blanket was thrown across it and on the floor beside it was a thermos flask and a packet of sandwiches. She covered the bed with the blanket, tucking it neatly in around the sides, finding strange comfort in doing something to help him.
She returned from a rather unsuccessful day and sat on the wall all evening, waiting for him, but he did not appear. In Llan Gwyn, Johnny stood outside The Swan, waiting for his wife, who never came.
Every morning from then on, Fay walked up to the castle. She sometimes saw Nelly, and once they talked for a while about the flowers that filled the woods with colour, the patches of rosebay willow herb that grew in the clearings, the cow-parsley around the edges, and meadow sweet adding scent to the summer air.
Nelly knew Fay was unhappy, and understood why. She longed to help the obsessed girl and could not find the words. What a muddle; Johnny in love with a girl who was in love with a ghost.
While the weather was warm and dry, Nelly often went to the wood to attend to her early morning functions before getting dressed. One day she was digging up a few early potatoes, still in her night-dress, the hens clucking around her in the hope of a worm or two, the dogs watching her from their usual place near the door. From inside the cottage the sound of music came from her old windup gramophone which she left her digging at intervals to re-wind.
A growl warned Nelly someone was coming, but she made no attempt to go inside, but stood, one foot on the fork, waiting for her visitor to arrive. She groaned when she saw Evie.
‘’Ello, Evie. You’re early this mornin’. Come fer a cuppa tea ’ave yer?’
Evie dragged open the gate and demanded, ‘Mother! What are you doing?’
‘Diggin’ some ’taters for me dinner. What d’you think!’
‘In your nightdress?’
‘Ooh fancy! I fergot!’
‘I’m going to see the doctor.’
‘Not expectin’ again, are yer? That’d be nice.’
‘No I’m not. I’m seeing the doctor about you! I think he’ll agree with me, that you are in need of proper care.’
‘In need of care? Me? You do talk barmy sometimes, Evie.’
‘Your drinking. Your general behaviour. It’s – disgusting. Wandering about in your nightdress!’
‘As if I’d get up to any mischief with a fella just because I’m wearin’ a nightdress! You wear a pair of knickers and a bra that ’ardly ’ides your udders when you go bathin’!’
‘Mother!’
‘Mother!’ Nelly mocked.
‘I want to care for you, properly.’
A fat lot she cares, Nelly thought, picking up the last of the small potatoes. All those years when she was away with never a call to see if I was all right. Alive even. Just a card and a posh present on me birthday. A ’uge, expensive card too. That’s a right giveaway that is. Cares? That’s a laugh that is.
She threw the potato plant tops onto the compost heap, watched for a moment as the mother hen and the growing chicks ran to see if it was something edible, then turned to her daughter, a sad look on her brown face.
‘Sorry if I messes up yer posh act, Evie. I don’t wish you no ’arm, ’onest I don’t. But why did you come back?’
‘To look after you.’
‘Pull the other one,’ Nelly shouted. ‘You don’t give a monkey’s arse!’
‘Mother!’
‘Well you don’t! Be honest, why don’t yer?’
When Evie had hurriedly left, Nelly washed herself in a bowl on the kitchen table, packed her suitcase and went for the bus. At the gate, she stopped. ‘There’s that big ugly clock Evie bought me fer Christmas,’ she said to the dogs. ‘Never did like it. I wonder if I can manage that as well?’ She put the dogs on their rope leads, and struggled back up the path with the clock. There were some stones on the path, a result of her earlier digging and she slipped and fell, the clock under her leg and for a time she lay there, while the dogs barked their concern.
She stood up, and tested her leg, then kicked the clock and set off once again for the bus. She had hardly reached the first bend in the lane when she met the tramp.
‘Ello. Ain’t you the tramp that found my Mrs French’s purse?’
‘Yes. Hello again. Does this lane lead anywhere, or just serve the cottage?’
Nelly thankfully put down the clock and the cases. ‘You can cut through the woods if you’re wantin’ the council ’ouses. Or go back down to the road to Llan Gwyn. Where you makin’ for?’
‘Somewhere to buy a bite to eat and a drink. A friendly pub will do.’
Nelly’s eyes were studying his clothes as he talked. They were ill-matched, ill-fitting, but clean. Most surprising of all, his shoes were perfectly polished black leather.
‘There’s The Crown, or The Lamb and Flag,’ she said. ‘But they’re a long way off. Tell you what, ’ave a cuppa an’ a bite with me why don’t yer? I can easily get the next bus.’
‘I couldn’t —’
‘’Course you could. If you carry me cases to the bus stop I’ll cook you a great big fry-up. ’Ow’s that?’
The tramp looked doubtful. ‘If you’re sure…’
‘I’m sure. Fact is, without ’elp I’d ’ave thrown this ’orrible clock in the ditch before I got to the bus.’
‘Where are you going with all this, on holiday?’
Nelly roared with laughter at the idea. The tramp smiled widely, enjoying her honest enjoyment, showing clean, white teeth.
‘Me? On ’oliday?’ She put on a posh voice and said, ‘Oh no, my good man, I couldn’t possibly manage on the forty pounds allowance!’
She laughed again then explained. ‘No, takin’ this lot into town to sell, if I can drag it as far as the second hand shop. I’ll leave it all ’ere fer now. No one’ll disturb it.’ She walked back and dragged open the gate and the tramp followed her down the path.
She chatted away to him as she prepared his meal, but he said very little. After he had eaten he washed his plate and cup in water he poured from the big kettle on the hob, dried them and replaced them on the shelf. He thanked her, and asked what time the bus left.
Nelly looked at the alarm clock on the shelf, its glass broken and the figures almost unreadably faint. ‘Ten minutes,’ she announced. ‘Just time to walk down in comfort. Sure you don’t mind givin’ me a ’and?’ She found that her leg, where she had fallen onto the clock, was bruised and painful.
‘’Urt me leg,’ she explained, ‘but it ain’t goin’ to spoil me plans.’
He insisted on carrying both cases, and having the clock under his arm, while Nelly staggered along beside him with the dogs pulling with their usual enthusiasm. He stood with her at the kerb, shabby but somehow respectable. She could imagine him, better dressed, being accepted even by Evie. Though she’d probably make him shave off his smashin’ beard, Nelly thought with a sigh. Always ’ad to spoil things Evie did.
Much later that day, Nelly had spent most of the money given to her by Mrs Greener. She was hot and flushed as she and the dogs left their third public house and headed for the bus stop. She wanted to get home before the pictures finished and the buses were full to overflowing. It was difficult for the dogs when the buses were full.
The cases were one inside the other, and they weren’t heavy, but they constantly bumped against her legs as she walked. The dogs crossed in front of her and tangled their long leads around her feet. The evening was dull and it was beginning to rain. Her leg hurt and she wished she was home.
The bus was approaching, she could see it as it came down the hill towards the main road where she was waiting. She dropped the cases and leaned against the post. Searching through her purse she found her return ticket and put it in her teeth, ready for when she got on. She would have a snooze once she and the dogs were settled. If there was a seat. The conductor would tell her when she was home.
She saw a car coming, in front of the bus. She screwed up her eyes and peered at it through the rain, then jumped away from the post in panic. Evie’s car! Crawling along the kerb, looking for her. Someone must have told her about the trip to town.
She dragged the dogs away from the kerb; the cases caught in her damp coat and almost pulled her over but she got them all out of sight behind the wall of the pub and waited anxiously for the car to pass. It stopped, and she could imagine Evie’s face peering through the rain-spotted windows, looking for her.
‘The bus,’ she pleaded, her eyes raised to heaven. ‘Please Gawd, don’t let me miss the bus.’ But the bus overtook the now slowly moving car, and disappeared into the mist.