dear.’
‘Don’t panic yet, see. I’ll be here for another half-hour or so,’ the clerk said kindly.
Greta nodded and retraced her steps to the bench. ‘Oh goodness,’ she sighed and breathed on her hands, trying to stop them going numb. Then she heard the sound of a car approaching.
A loud horn assaulted her ears and bright lights dazzled her eyes. Once the noisy engine of the vehicle in front of her had died into silence, a female voice called out, ‘Damn! Damn! Hello
there! Are you Greta Simpson?’
Greta tried to make out the figure sitting in the driving seat of the open-topped car. The driver’s eyes were shielded behind huge leather goggles.
‘Yes. Are you Taff— David Marchmont’s mother?’
‘I am. Jump in then, quick smart. Sorry I’m late. The blasted car got a puncture and I had to change the tyre in the dark.’
‘Er, right.’ Greta stood, picked up her suitcases and hauled them across to the car.
‘Throw those in the back, dear, put these on and grab that travel rug. It can be a bit breezy if the old girl gets above twenty miles per hour.’
Greta took the proffered goggles and blanket. After a few false starts the engine burst into life and the driver reversed rapidly out of the station forecourt, narrowly missing a lamp post.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ Greta ventured as the car hit the open road and sped down it at frightening speed.
‘Don’t talk, dear girl. Can’t hear a word above this racket!’ shouted the driver.
Greta spent the following half-hour with her eyes tightly shut and her hands balled into fists, the knuckles white with tension. At last the car slowed, then it stopped abruptly, almost throwing
Greta over the small windscreen and onto the bonnet.
‘Do be a darling and open those gates, will you?’
Greta stepped shakily out of the car. She walked in front of the headlights and pushed open two enormous wrought-iron gates. On the wall to one side of them there was an ornate bronze plaque
with the word ‘M ARCHMONT ’ engraved upon it. The car drove through and Greta shut the gates behind them.
‘Buck up, dear. Nearly there now,’ the driver shouted over the roar of the engine.
Greta scurried back into the car and they set off along the rutted drive.
‘Here we go. This is Lark Cottage.’ The car shuddered to a halt and the driver leapt out, grabbing Greta’s cases from the back seat. ‘Home sweet home.’
As Greta stepped down, she watched the woman making her way through a glade of moonlit trees. Following nervously behind her, she sighed in relief as a small cottage came into view. Oil lamps
illuminated the interior, giving out a soft yellow glow. The woman opened the front door and they went in.
‘So.’ The woman peeled off her goggles and turned to face Greta. ‘This is it. Will it suffice, do you think?’
It was the first opportunity Greta had had to study her companion, and she was immediately struck by the woman’s resemblance to her son. She was very tall and long-limbed, with piercing
green eyes and a shock of windswept greying hair cut in a short, sensible style. Her outfit of corduroy breeches, knee-length leather boots and a tailored tweed jacket was both mannish and
strangely elegant. Greta glanced around the cosy interior of the cottage, looking gratefully at the fire, with its burning embers.
‘Yes. It’s lovely.’
‘Good. Bit basic, I’m afraid. No electricity in here yet. We were just about to install it when war broke out. The privy’s outside and there’s a tin bath in the kitchen
for high days and holidays, but it takes so damn long to fill it’s easier to use the sink.’
The woman strode towards the fire, picked up a poker, stirred the embers and threw on three logs from the basket beside the fireplace. ‘There. I lit it before I came to fetch you. The oil
for the lamps is in a canister in the privy, the logs are in the shed out back, and I’ve put some milk, fresh bread and cheese in the
‘Don’t panic yet, see. I’ll be here for another half-hour or so,’ the clerk said kindly.
Greta nodded and retraced her steps to the bench. ‘Oh goodness,’ she sighed and breathed on her hands, trying to stop them going numb. Then she heard the sound of a car approaching.
A loud horn assaulted her ears and bright lights dazzled her eyes. Once the noisy engine of the vehicle in front of her had died into silence, a female voice called out, ‘Damn! Damn! Hello
there! Are you Greta Simpson?’
Greta tried to make out the figure sitting in the driving seat of the open-topped car. The driver’s eyes were shielded behind huge leather goggles.
‘Yes. Are you Taff— David Marchmont’s mother?’
‘I am. Jump in then, quick smart. Sorry I’m late. The blasted car got a puncture and I had to change the tyre in the dark.’
‘Er, right.’ Greta stood, picked up her suitcases and hauled them across to the car.
‘Throw those in the back, dear, put these on and grab that travel rug. It can be a bit breezy if the old girl gets above twenty miles per hour.’
Greta took the proffered goggles and blanket. After a few false starts the engine burst into life and the driver reversed rapidly out of the station forecourt, narrowly missing a lamp post.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ Greta ventured as the car hit the open road and sped down it at frightening speed.
‘Don’t talk, dear girl. Can’t hear a word above this racket!’ shouted the driver.
Greta spent the following half-hour with her eyes tightly shut and her hands balled into fists, the knuckles white with tension. At last the car slowed, then it stopped abruptly, almost throwing
Greta over the small windscreen and onto the bonnet.
‘Do be a darling and open those gates, will you?’
Greta stepped shakily out of the car. She walked in front of the headlights and pushed open two enormous wrought-iron gates. On the wall to one side of them there was an ornate bronze plaque
with the word ‘M ARCHMONT ’ engraved upon it. The car drove through and Greta shut the gates behind them.
‘Buck up, dear. Nearly there now,’ the driver shouted over the roar of the engine.
Greta scurried back into the car and they set off along the rutted drive.
‘Here we go. This is Lark Cottage.’ The car shuddered to a halt and the driver leapt out, grabbing Greta’s cases from the back seat. ‘Home sweet home.’
As Greta stepped down, she watched the woman making her way through a glade of moonlit trees. Following nervously behind her, she sighed in relief as a small cottage came into view. Oil lamps
illuminated the interior, giving out a soft yellow glow. The woman opened the front door and they went in.
‘So.’ The woman peeled off her goggles and turned to face Greta. ‘This is it. Will it suffice, do you think?’
It was the first opportunity Greta had had to study her companion, and she was immediately struck by the woman’s resemblance to her son. She was very tall and long-limbed, with piercing
green eyes and a shock of windswept greying hair cut in a short, sensible style. Her outfit of corduroy breeches, knee-length leather boots and a tailored tweed jacket was both mannish and
strangely elegant. Greta glanced around the cosy interior of the cottage, looking gratefully at the fire, with its burning embers.
‘Yes. It’s lovely.’
‘Good. Bit basic, I’m afraid. No electricity in here yet. We were just about to install it when war broke out. The privy’s outside and there’s a tin bath in the kitchen
for high days and holidays, but it takes so damn long to fill it’s easier to use the sink.’
The woman strode towards the fire, picked up a poker, stirred the embers and threw on three logs from the basket beside the fireplace. ‘There. I lit it before I came to fetch you. The oil
for the lamps is in a canister in the privy, the logs are in the shed out back, and I’ve put some milk, fresh bread and cheese in the
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