Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett

she, but wide, and he looked ridiculously healthy. He wore the hairiest tweed jacket she had ever seen, with a knitted sweater that must have been made by an elderly sister somewhere, plus a checked cap and army boots. His nose was huge, red and veined. “Pleased to meet you,” he said politely, as if she was his ninth visitor today instead of the first human face he had seen in fourteen days.
    “Here y’are, Tom,” said the skipper. He handed two cardboard boxes out of the boat. “No eggs this time, but there’s a letter from Devon.”
    “It’ll be from ma niece.”
    Lucy thought, That explains the sweater.
    David was still in the boat. The skipper stood behind him and said, “Are you ready?”
    Tom and Papa Rose leaned into the boat to assist, and the three of them lifted David in his wheelchair on to the jetty.
    “If I don’t go now I’ll have to wait a fortnight for the next bus,” Papa Rose said with a smile. “The house has been done up quite nicely, you’ll see. All your stuff is in there. Tom will show you where everything is.” He kissed Lucy, squeezed David’s shoulder, and shook Tom’s hand. “Have a few months of rest and togetherness, get completely fit, then come back; there are important war jobs for both of you.”
    They would not be going back, Lucy knew, not before the end of the war. But she had not told anyone about that yet.
    Papa got back into the boat. It wheeled away in a tight circle. Lucy waved until it disappeared around the headland.
    Tom pushed the wheelchair, so Lucy took his groceries. Between the landward end of the jetty and the cliff top was a long, steep, narrow ramp rising high above the beach like a bridge. Lucy would have had trouble getting the wheelchair to the top, but Tom managed without apparent exertion.
    The cottage was perfect.
    It was small and grey, and sheltered from the wind by a little rise in the ground. All the woodwork was freshly painted, and a wild rose bush grew beside the doorstep. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney to be whipped away by the breeze. The tiny windows looked over the bay.
    Lucy said, “I love it!”
    The interior had been cleaned and aired and painted, and there were thick rugs on the stone floors. It had four rooms: downstairs, a modernized kitchen and a living room with a stone fireplace; upstairs, two bedrooms. One end of the house had been carefully remodeled to take modern plumbing, with a bathroom above and a kitchen extension below.
    Their clothes were in the wardrobes. There were towels in the bathroom and food in the kitchen.
    Tom said, “There’s something in the barn I’ve to show you.”
    It was a shed, not a barn. It lay hidden behind the cottage, and inside it was a gleaming new jeep.
    “Mr. Rose says it’s been specially adapted for young Mr. Rose to drive,” Tom said. “It’s got automatic gears, and the throttle and brake are operated by hand. That’s what he said.” He seemed to be repeating the words parrotfashion, as if he had very little idea of what gears, brakes and throttles might be.
    Lucy said, “Isn’t that super, David?”
    “Top-hole. But where shall I go in it?”
    Tom said: “You’re always welcome to visit me and share a pipe and a drop of whisky. I’ve been looking forward to having neighbors again.”
    “Thank you,” said Lucy.
    “This here’s the generator,” Tom said, turning around and pointing. “I’ve got one just the same. You put the fuel in here. It delivers alternating current.”
    “That’s unusual—small generators are usually direct current,” David said.
    “Aye. I don’t really know the difference, but they tell me this is safer.”
    “True. A shock from this would throw you across the room, but direct current would kill you.”
    They went back to the cottage. Tom said, “Well, you’ll want to settle in, and I’ve sheep to tend, so I’ll say good-day. Oh! I ought to tell you—in an emergency, I can contact the mainland by wireless radio.”
    David was