There were times during the ensuing weeks when Miss Mayfield would look at that little bunch of crumbling herbage to assure herself that the whole thing had not been a dream.

2

‘YOU WANT A TAXI?’ ASKED THE SELBURY PORTER, eyeing Miss Mayfield’s battered trunk, suitcase and corded crate. ‘’Cos if you do, you’d best run and grab one. I’ll foller.’

‘I’m being met, thank you.’ She had the Canon’s latest letter in her handbag; her fingers brushed against it as she took out her ticket and the two-shilling piece she had placed in readiness.

The Selbury station stairs smelled strongly of fish, of years of engine smoke; but outside in the yard the air was fresh and clean. It was one of those warm mid-April days that held the whole promise of summer.

Two taxis were just driving away. The woman with the baby who had shared Miss Mayfield’s compartment was being greeted and packed into a small car, bright with new green paint. The only other objects in the whole wide space were a third taxi, without a driver, and two dogs, ill-matched in size, happily engaged in canine miscegenation.

The porter clanged open the gate of the luggage lift and dragged Miss Mayfield’s possessions out, one by one. He gave her a look which said, very clearly, ‘Being met, eh?’

‘You need not wait,’ Miss Mayfield said, meaning it kindly. Although she had lived in England for two years, she was still geared to the timeless pace of Entuba, where a porter, unless told to do otherwise, would wait for ever. The Selbury man gave a little snort which said, ‘Wait – I should think not.’ Then he stumped away, somewhat mollified by the florin; he had expected sixpence.

The station yard was bordered by a high hawthorn hedge; dazzlingly green; there was a gap in the hedge, and through the gap came a man, short, bow-legged. At the sight of Miss Mayfield and her luggage he quickened his pace.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.

‘I’m not waiting for you. Someone is supposed to meet me.’

He nodded and went and leaned against the bonnet of his cab, rolled himself a cigarette and stood there smoking. She knew that he was watching her. Presently he called:

‘Care to go in and sit down? Take the weight off your feet. I shall be here till twelve-ten.’

‘That is very kind of you,’ Miss Mayfield said. She sat down thankfully on the worn leather seat and took out Canon Thorby’s letter. She had made no mistake. She was to be met at Selbury on Friday, the seventeenth of April, at eleven-thirty. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to twelve.

A man on a bicycle rode into the yard, threw his machine, against the wall and said:

‘Hallo, Ed. Broke down?’

‘Just waiting,’ Ed said.

‘You all right for tomorrow night?’