A male voice answered, and immediately she was harmless and bumbling again. She was a silly old lady who had been told that a Miss Bedfellow took paying guests in Yarmouth, but she’d forgotten the address. Could they help? Did they have a street directory? She was so sorry to be a bother.

The male voice said quite kindly that what she needed was Inquiries. Inquiries was female, with a brisk voice which said that it had an idea that Miss Bedfellow was on the telephone; it was a name one noticed, wasn’t it? Yes, Inquiries was quite right. It read out, in a clear distinct way, both the address and the telephone number.

Miss Mayfield said some hasty words of thanks, found some money, gave Miss Bedfellow’s number and waited, feeling the sweat break out on her neck.

Another female voice, calm, unhurried, said, ‘Sea Mist Boarding House. Miss Bedfellow speaking.’

‘Would it be possible for me to speak to Miss Ethel Rigby?’

‘I’m sorry. What name did you say?’

She repeated it.

‘There’s no one of that name . . . Oh Ethel Rigby. Oh, I know. You can find her at Walwyk, W-a-l-w-y-k. It’s in Essex. Curlew Lane, Walwyk. Whatever made you think she was here? It’s two years ago.’

God, please, God, help me to give a reasonable answer, or she’ll go and write a letter or something, and I shall be betrayed.

It slid into her mind, complete with names and everything.

‘Yes, two years. How time flies!’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Crawford, of Gorleston. My daughter made Ethel’s acquaintance during that summer holiday, and as we’re arranging a party . . . I’m afraid Essex is rather far, isn’t it? Just for a party, I mean. Thank you. Goodbye.’

*

She left the booth and went through a performance which an observer would have found eccentric. She took a letter from her bag and went to the counter and asked a question about airmail charges to Barranquilla. All the time that the clerk was consulting the rules, she was dabbing her letter on the wet sponge provided for the convenience of people who did not care to lick stamps. When the writing was blurred and the paper limp and moist, she received, absent-mindedly, the information she had asked for and went to the door.

It was some time before Miss Benson arrived.

‘It’s your own fault you had to wait,’ she exclaimed. ‘That prescription! What’s in it? Rhinoceros horn? Well, where’s your parcel?’

‘In the dustbin. There was a jar of something which had broken and soaked everything. I did salvage the letter, but I don’t suppose I shall be able to read it.’

‘It’ll be more legible when it’s dry,’ Miss Benson said comfortingly. Really, poor old girl, she did look upset; a parcel probably meant a lot in her meagre life.