The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) by A. D. Elliott Page B

neck twitching.
    “You wait here, I’ll be back.”
    “We’re not going anywhere,” Mrs Argyle called after him. “Pillock,” she muttered when he was out of earshot and returned to staring out the window.
    “What are we going to do?” Owen said, panicking.
    “Some opportunity will present itself, it usually does ,” Mrs Argyle replied calmly, dismissing his concerns with a wave of her hand.
    Owen doubted this but lacking an alternative strategy he slumped into the seat opposite. They pulled into another station for a moment.
    “Next stop is ours ,” declared Mrs Argyle.
    “Who are we going to see?” a sked Owen.
    “ Ken,” Mrs Argyle answered simply, her normally feint Scottish accent briefly becoming much broader. But by the next sentence it was back to how it usually sounded. “I hope he’s home, I didn’t get chance to call.”
    Owen wondered what relationship this man Ken had with the lady who had lived next door for so long, realising that he knew very little about her aside from her address. “What did you do for a living? Were you a nurse?” Owen was thinking of his wound, which was throbbing again.
    “A nurse? What makes you ask…?” Mrs Argyle looked up at Owen’s wound, answering her own question. “Oh no, I just picked up a few first aid skills in the war.”
    “It must have been very frightening ,” Owen commented, thinking back to work he had done for his history class about being a child during the Second World War (which he presumed Mrs Argyle was referring to), as he doubted she could have been very old at the time.
    She shrugged. “We had a job to do and we did it.” She resumed staring out of the window.
    Owen wanted to ask what war-time job she would have performed as a child but was interrupted by the return of the ticket inspector.
    “I phoned the station and they know nothing of you.”
    Mrs Argyle sighed. “That’s odd. Well I have no more money.” He didn’t look impressed. “I’m a pensioner,” she added as explanation.
    “That may well be, but you can’t travel without a ticket !” The train started to slow as it pulled into Tring station.
    “Fine ,” Mrs Argyle sighed as she stood up, “we’ll be on our way then.”
    “You need to pay!”
    Mrs Argyle ignored him, striding purposefully toward the doors. He moved to stop her but hesitated. Clearly sensing that he was onto a losing battle he huffed on down the train toward the next carriage. Mrs Argyle beamed to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The train came to a stop and the doors slid open.
    “Okey dokey! Onwards!” Mrs Argyle was sounding more and more like she was a commanding officer in the military. “Not sure how long a walk it is. Are you feeling up for a hike?”
    Owen nodded and they made their way out of the station. There was a brief altercation at the barriers with the station staff over the absence of Mrs Argyle’s ticket, but again her resolve won out and they allowed her to pass. They left the station and walked down the road that ran alongside its entrance. A few minutes of intense power walking later, they crossed a bridge over a canal and turned down a narrow road.
    “ Beggars’ Lane ; how very apt,” Mrs Argyle read out the road sign in front of them, smiling to herself enigmatically. By now Owen had given up questioning what she was talking about and concentrated on trying to keep up. They continued to the end of the road.
    “ I hope they’re not your best shoes,” she said as they crossed the road and climbed over a fence into a field. Well Owen climbed; Mrs Argyle simply leant one arm on the top and flipped her legs over, landing effortlessly on both feet before continuing. Owen just shook his head in wonder at the age-defying agility that she possessed and followed in her wake.
    Mrs Argyle strode across the field but then stopped suddenly in the middle, staring ahead. Owen caught up to see what she was looking at. Stood about twenty metres ahead was a young