The taxi driver who eventually picked him up was more help than he had dared hope. After studying Jon’s map with him, he looked up and smiled. ‘They’ve got the main roads cleared, mate. I can get you pretty close.’ He glanced down over the back of the seat at Jon’s shoes. ‘Do you want to stop off and get some rubber boots before we start?’
Jon grinned. ‘Sounds like good advice.’
He bought boots, a torch, a half-bottle of whisky and a long woollen scarf whilst his driver waited unrepentantly on the yellow lines (‘Can’t see ’em, mate, with all this snow.’), then he climbed in beside him, loaded with shopping bags.
‘Scott of the Antarctic.’ The man grinned again.
Jon laughed. ‘I just got back from the States. It was pretty bad there too.’
‘But they can manage, right?’ The driver pulled away from the kerb. ‘Here the whole bloomin’ country grinds to a halt after an hour’s snow. And me. I reckon I’ll pack it in after I get you there.’
‘If you get me there.’
‘I’ll get you as far as The Black Swan on the main road. It’s as good a place as any to give up if you’re going to. You might hitch a lift with a farmer. Their tractors can get through anything.’
It was a comforting thought as the car slithered its way east, the windscreen wipers pushing laboriously at the wedges of caked snow which clogged the glass. Jon shivered. He was tempted to broach his whisky, but it seemed unfair to drink alone and he wasn’t about to offer it to his driver, not while he was still driving at any rate.
Every now and then a pair of headlights, dim against the white-out ahead, approached them, passed and disappeared into the murk. The driver was sitting forward, leaning over his wheel, staring ahead.
‘It’s getting bad, isn’t it?’ Jon voiced his worry at last.
‘You’re not wrong.’ The taxi did a little shimmy sideways and the driver spun the wheel. ‘Stupid thing is, we’re nearly there. Can’t be much further.’
‘Do you think we should stop?’
‘Not here. No. Pete Cutler doesn’t give up if there’s a decent pub within sniffing distance!’ The broad shoulders quivered as he chuckled. ‘We’d freeze to death if we stopped here, mate. I reckon it’s about another two miles. Yes!’ He let out a whoop of triumph suddenly as some landmark loomed in the distance and vanished. ‘Hang on. We’ll make it.’
From the way Pete locked the taxi and followed him inside the long, low, pink-washed pub, Jon had the feeling his driver was not about to turn round and drive back to Colchester. He was right. ‘I’ll ring them back at base and tell them I’m camping down here at the old Sooty Swan for the night. Mine’s a pint of strong.’ He winked and disappeared into the passage beyond the saloon bar. Jon pushed open the door. A fire was burning brightly in the huge hearth, but the room was empty. It was several minutes before a figure appeared behind the bar. ‘Didn’t think I’d see anyone in tonight,’ the landlord greeted him cheerfully. ‘How did you get here? Hitched a ride with Father Christmas, did you?’
Jon smiled. ‘Something like that. A whisky for me, please, landlord, and a pint of strong for my mad driver and something for yourself.’ He hitched himself up onto a bar stool. ‘I don’t suppose there is any way I can finish my journey from here, is there? I’m trying to get to Redall Bay.’
The landlord was concentrating on drawing the pint. He frowned and sucked in a lungful of air through the gap in his teeth. ‘Tricky one, that. You’d need a four-wheel drive, I reckon. You going to see the Lindseys, are you? Or are you a friend of Bill Norcross? I saw he was down this weekend.’
‘I’m a friend of Bill’s, yes. And of Kate Kennedy. I don’t know if you’ve met her? She’s staying at the cottage.’
‘Writer lady?’ He set the glass on the counter and began to draw a second pint, presumably for himself. ‘He did bring her in here, yes. A week or so back.’
‘They’ve been cut off without phones for a couple of days, so I couldn’t ring.’
‘Unaccountable things, phones.’ The landlord put the second glass on the counter. ‘Always ring when you don’t want them, and won’t when you do. Do you want something to eat, sir, while I have a think about what you can do?’ He selected another glass and held it up to the row of optics.
‘I’d love something.’ Jon was cheering up by the second. He turned as the door opened. ‘Your drink, Pete.’ He took a moment to survey his companion who until now had been no more than a pair of broad shoulders and a round, red face, with a huge, lopsided grin. Pete was a large man altogether – not the ideal shape, Jon thought idly, for a life cramped behind the wheel of a cab. His brilliant blue eyes, surrounded by the gold wire rims of his spectacles, were topped by thick sandy eyebrows and he was wearing two clashing bright red sweaters beneath his anorak.
The two men moved to the fire and sat down. ‘Food.’ Jon handed him the menu. ‘The least I can do is buy you a meal after you got me this far.’
‘That’s uncommon nice of you.’ Pete grinned. ‘Any luck with a tractor?’
‘The landlord is thinking.’
‘Straining himself, is he?’ Pete leaned back on the settle with a hefty sigh. ‘I’ve known Ron Brown here for six years. He’s a good bloke. He’ll fix you up. You know, I reckon I’m starting to enjoy this.’
A chicken pie with baked potatoes, several drinks and much mutual backslapping later, Pete had wheedled Ron into lending them his old Land Rover. ‘I’m a professional driver, mate!’ he said, not for the first time. ‘You know it’ll be safe with me.’
‘In this weather and with you pissed as a newt? I’d lose my licence letting you have it.’
‘Then what say we borrow it without telling you.’ Pete heaved a contented sigh and patted his stomach. ‘I’ve had a nice time here. And I’ve heard a good story. I reckon I would like to go and do a spot of ghost hunting to round the evening off. In fact, why don’t you close up and come too? You’re not getting any more customers tonight.’
Both men had listened avidly to Jon’s story about Kate’s ghost, a story he had shamelessly embellished in the interests of camaraderie.
‘No fear, I’ll head for my bed, thanks.’ Ron shook his head. ‘I don’t fancy going anywhere in this and you wouldn’t either if you had any sense at all.’ He stooped and groped under the counter, standing upright again to toss a bunch of keys to Pete. ‘Just get it back to me in one piece tomorrow, boys, OK?’
Jon stood up. ‘Thanks. We will.’
On the doorstep they nearly changed their minds. The wind had risen and the snow was driving straight at them; there was a sting in it which cut into Jon’s face.
He hesitated. They could always wait until morning, when the sanders had been through, and go then. He glanced at Pete who was obviously thinking the same thing. Their eyes met.
‘A bit of an adventure?’ Pete said with a grin.
Jon nodded with a sudden surge of high sprits. He was right. This was an adventure.
They found the old Land Rover (the registration made it more than twenty years old, Jon calculated) in a lean to garage round the back of the pub. Facing away from the wind, it was surprisingly sheltered round there, and little snow had driven in under the roof. The two men climbed in and Pete, who had patted the bonnet as though greeting an old friend, inserted the key into the ignition.
‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’ Jon looked at him dubiously. He wasn’t worried about there being any other cars on the road, but he was imagining what it would be like if they skidded into a ditch.
‘Right as rain.’ Pete started the engine first go. ‘Don’t worry. I blotted up that beer with chicken pie and coffee. I’m all right. Not that any one will be driving their best tonight. You just keep your eyes skinned for this track down to the bay.’
The Land Rover backed out easily, its huge tyres holding their own in the slippery yard and gripping the road easily. They backed out past Pete’s taxi – now covered in snow – and turned onto the road again. The pub behind them, with its thatched roof and string of coloured lights looked reassuringly cosy as it faded abruptly behind them and disappeared.
‘A mile, he said.’ Jon leaned across to peer at the milometer. He snorted. ‘I wonder how many times this baby has been wound back.’
‘Probably only once. I reckon Ron has had her most of her life.’ Pete was leaning forward again, a frown between his bushy eyebrows. He did indeed seem remarkably sober suddenly.
‘A mile will be a guess, I suppose,’ Jon went on thoughtfully. ‘People are notoriously bad at judging
