The cars ahead moved. Charles dragged heavily on the tapering gear-lever and somehow jerked the motor up through three changes into top. He hoped, for the sake of the people to whom these cars were to be delivered as brand-new, that practice would soon make him a smoother driver.

At the docks came another ordeal he had, fortunately, not had the foresight to worry about in advance; the cars had to be drawn up close together in a dead straight line to facilitate loading on to the ship. With eyes shut he jerked his vehicle violently forward for the last ten yards, swinging on the steering wheel, and stamped on the brake. ‘All right, mate! No need ter show yer bloody skill!’ came a hoarse shout: opening his eyes he saw that he had drawn up dead level with the car next to him, and left barely one inch of clearance.

Perhaps it was an omen, indicating that, in this new sphere, chance would decide to favour him. Certainly if his luck had followed its old habitual course, he could have driven into the dock and been drowned.

Before catching the train back there were pints of beer in a dockside pub. At first Charles sat rather uncomfortably apart from the others, who all knew each other well, but after a few minutes a serious-looking middle-aged man in a grey cloth cap, whom he knew as Simons, edged towards him along the bench and gave a friendly nod as a signal that he was about to open a conversation.

‘Well: get on all right?’

‘Yes, thanks; it didn’t seem a very difficult job this time,’ Charles answered.

‘No, not this time, it wasn’t,’ Simons admitted rather reluc­tantly, as if implying that it was usually much worse; he was not a pessimist, but he had the habit of mind of the responsible mature artisan, always prepared for huge burdens to drop on his shoulders. Then he looked at Charles rather curiously.

‘Friend of Bunder’s?’

It was obvious what he really wanted to know; are you with us, or with them? Bunder’s set were markedly different in appearance and habits from the rest of the Export Express staff. Charles was about to answer that he was scarcely on nodding terms with the Bunder clique, when it struck him that he might learn more if he kept the issue in suspense a little longer.

‘Can’t make him out, quite,’ he said slowly, hoping to convey the impression that he had been encouraged to throw in his lot with Bunder, and was hesitating. Simons evidently took this as he was meant to.

‘Well,’ he said with deliberation, ‘you’ll find as it pays to make him out, even if it takes time, before you—’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, he drained his Guinness and set the glass down with a rap on the table.