“Did you come by bicycle?” Gretchen asked as Jean gathered together handbag, shoes, cardigan and began to reassemble herself.

“No. Bus.”

It had been two buses, in fact, taking the best part of fifty minutes including the wait in between.

“Well, Howard will give you a lift home. The service on Sundays is terrible.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jean as Howard reappeared from the kitchen with a carrier bag into which he proceeded to transfer the contents of the basket—rhubarb, lettuce and beetroot. “The bus will be fine.”

“We insist, don’t we, Howard?”

“Yes, you can’t carry all this like a market porter.”

Their joint determination swept away all her objections.

“And you must come again soon for a fitting,” Gretchen said as she and Margaret stood at the gate to wave her off.

“And to finish our badminton tournament,” Margaret reminded her.

She was clutching this week’s copy of Girl that Jean had brought her but been too tactful to hand over until Lizzie had left. By way of thanks she had given Jean a shy hug.

Unable quite to bring herself to return the invitation to tea until she had reflected on how her mother was to be accommodated in such an event, Jean said, “I’ll be in touch the moment I hear from Dr. Lloyd-Jones.”

It struck her as soon as the words were spoken that this introduction of a business—and, moreover, medical—matter into what was purely a social occasion had sounded a wrong note, but Gretchen didn’t seem to notice.

The interior of the Wolseley smelled of gas and leather and the memory of every car Jean had ever ridden in. She sensed from its pristine condition, polished chrome trims, glossy walnut dashboard and dustless floor, and the way that Howard opened and gently closed the passenger door on her, that he was as proud of his car as Gretchen was of her orderly house.

“Do you drive?” he asked Jean as they set off along empty suburban streets.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she replied. “Although I don’t have a car. I used to be a driver with the ATS in the war. I was even a driving instructor for a while.”

“Were you?” He gave her a quick sideways glance as if he was seeing her in a new light. “I’ve tried to teach Gretchen but she’s terribly nervous behind the wheel. She’s happier being the passenger.”

“Most husbands prefer it that way,” Jean said.

“I did try to encourage her. But perhaps not enough,” he conceded.

He took the corner with his foot on the clutch, something she had always told her students not to do, as it meant you were not fully in control of the vehicle.

“I think men like to keep their cars to themselves, so they put it about that driving is harder than it really is. There’s nothing to it once you’ve learned.”

“There might be something in that,” he admitted.

His hand on the gear stick, brushed against the side of her knee as he changed down coming out of the turn, but he didn’t seem to notice, so Jean decided she wouldn’t notice either.