An hour later Jonty viewed his reflection in the long mirror which graced his bedroom with some satisfaction. He was wearing his Sunday clothes – well-pressed grey flannels, a white shirt, old school tie and tweed jacket – and thought he looked just as he ought. The rain had stopped, though the puddles still glittered when he glanced into the farmyard below his window, and he had slicked his hair down with water and meant to wear the new cap his mother had bought him last time she had visited Norwich. It was a heather mixture tweed, almost the same as his hacking jacket, and he thought his mother had done well to get such a close match.

Having satisfied himself that he looked all right, Jonty glanced at the heavy watch adorning his wrist. If he left right away he could catch the two-thirty bus, which would get him to Thorpe station about five minutes before Tess’s train came in, but he did not intend doing so. He meant to linger in his bedroom until he had managed to miss the bus so that he might ask his father if he could borrow the Ford. Jonty had passed his test the previous year and often drove into the village or the city. He was hopeful that in time his father might agree to his having the Prefect whilst Mr Bell himself continued to use the Morris. In truth, Jonty had begun to wince inwardly every time Mr Bell took the wheel of the Ford, for the older man was not a good driver. Self-taught, he seemed to think changing gear unnecessary, never depressed the clutch when braking suddenly and would demand in a hurt tone: ‘Why do the perishin’ engine cut out whenever I stop? That don’t do it when you’re behind the wheel.’

Jonty had tried to explain but his father had only sniffed. ‘Nonsense, bor,’ he had said robustly, and next time he wanted to turn left had set the windscreen wipers going. Jonty still cringed when he remembered what had happened next. His father had let go of the wheel and leaned forward until his nose almost touched the windscreen. ‘What’s them things a-doin’, when I told ’em to turn left?’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Oh, I don’t like these new-fangled things. And the roof won’t fold back, it’s made of some hard stuff, I dunno what you call it, and the windows is glass not Perspex; what’ll happen if a stone fly up and hit the windscreen? Answer me that.’

Naturally enough, Jonty had decided not to try to explain, save to say that the Morris was on its last legs, only really fit for short runs into the village, whereas the Ford, a far younger vehicle, would still be in excellent trim in twenty years. ‘You bought the Ford to replace the Morris,’ he had reminded his father on several occasions. ‘I learned to drive in it, because you didn’t think the Morris was reliable. But now all you do is moan, and drive the Ford as if it were a tractor. It won’t do, Pa! Why not let me take over the Ford and you stick to the Morris, since you clearly prefer it?’