An hour, and an hour perhaps to get back into the town—still plenty of time, as she had judged it, to catch the ten-forty-five for Bleasham.

Suppose it was not Tuesday that the train ran.

It was. It was and she would be in time. Somewhere someone had to tell the truth. She was determined now. She would make it happen.

Rachaela sat on the ground, on the slope of unbuilt land up the street, where the van came when the van came.

She watched for the car.

The village started half-alive about her, lights went on in some windows, then off again as the daylight strengthened. A woman came out of her house and apparently poured a pot of tea around the base of a bush. Another one put washing on to a line, gaudy bedclothes and sombre shirts.

A car or two, the wrong ones, took off down the street in the direction of the town.

A dog barked.

The village was, as she had thought, a dump, where time was whittled away in some vintage manner. Tainted by Scarabae.

But the car would come.

The car was late.

It was half past nine and the car had not arrived.

Rachaela stood up. Was the driver lost?

The driver would not be lost.

An old green Ford Zodiac materialized on the road, driving down into the village. It went past Rachaela, and pulled up outside the pub.

Rachaela ran.

‘I have to catch the ten forty-five at the town station.’

‘I doubt if you’ll do it, miss,’ said the driver sadly.

‘You’re late.’

‘It’s the traffic, you see. Should have ordered the car sooner, miss.’

‘I did.’ She got in. ‘Will you try?’

‘The Poorly connection is it you want?’

‘Poorly, yes. For London.’

‘Your best bet is if I drive straight over to Poorly. Cost you a bit more, but you’ll get the eleven-fifteen London train for sure.’

‘All right. Do that then,’ she said recklessly.

‘You understand, I’m trying to help you out.’

‘Drive to Poorly.’

‘Don’t want you to think I’m just angling for extra fare.’

‘It doesn’t matter. So long as I get the train.’

The village reversed, took off and poured away.

After all, this was the moment of severance.

The car raced up the road. Rachaela felt a flare of mad joy. As if she could leave all her troubles behind. But they were only just beginning.

The driver was talkative. She let him go on, offering the proper monosyllable here and there. He wanted to tell her his life-story, not hear her own.

Perhaps he had lied about missing the town connection. He had four children, two parents, and a weak-willed sister.