She drove into the small, unfenced yard, shut off her engine and looked at her watch. It showed seven minutes to two. The seven miles had not been as long as she had thought they were.
There was a door from the car-park into the building. Fenella opened it and found herself in the saloon bar, which was occupied by two or three men in pullovers and sports jackets. She went to the counter, behind which was a good-looking, fresh-complexioned fellow of about forty, and addressed herself to him with a hopeful smile.
‘What can I have to eat?’ she asked.
‘Well, being as it’s today and not any other day, anything you fancy, except a cut from the joint and two veg., love,’ he replied. ‘Sandwich, sausage roll, meat pie, Scotch egg, cold leg of chicken and salad – you name it and, if we’ve got it, you shall have it.’
Fenella revised her first impression of the village and settled for chicken salad and a glass of sherry.
At twenty-five minutes past two, rested and refreshed, she left the now untenanted bar by the door she had used when she entered the inn, and five minutes later she returned to it. She twisted the handle, but the door, not unexpectedly, was now locked. She hammered on it and it was opened by a bold-eyed woman who looked as though she might have gipsy blood. She stared insolently at Fenella.
‘What now? We’re closed till six,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know. I’ve just had lunch here. I can’t get my car to start,’ said the girl. ‘Could you find somebody to help me?’
‘No business of ourn,’ said the woman, preparing to close the door.
‘Well, is there a garage anywhere near?’
‘Only if you care to go into Croyton.’
‘Nowhere in the village?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, may I use your telephone?’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Well, is there somebody who could drive me to Croyton? You said there’s a garage there, didn’t you?’
‘Half a mo, then, but I don’t think there’s much chance. It’s the Mayerin’, you see,’ said the gipsy, more amiably. She closed the door in Fenella’s face. Several minutes passed and Fenella had begun to wonder whether the woman ever intended to come back when the door was opened again, this time by the handsome, jovial landlord.
‘In trouble are we?’ he asked. ‘That’s too bad, love. Anything I can do?’
‘I can’t get my car to start. I can’t think why. It was perfectly all right on the way down,’ said the girl.
‘Like me to have a look at her?’
‘Oh, yes, please, if you would.’ They went across to the car and the landlord tinkered about for a bit, then straightened himself and shook his head.
‘Afraid it’s a garage job,’ he said, ‘and there’s nowhere nearer nor Croyton.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose there’s somebody in the village with a taxi who could take me there and bring back a mechanic?’
‘I doubt it. No taxis hereabouts, and all the men be out at work, you see. Not as there’s all that many of ’em with cars, even if they were at home. Tell you what! I’ll run you in myself when I’ve had a bit of dinner. Say an hour. That suit you?’
‘Well, it’s very kind of you,’ said Fenella, ‘but I don’t want to wait as long as that if I can possibly help it. I’ve got to be in Douston by six. Perhaps I’d better try telephoning. I suppose there’s a phone-box in the village?’
‘Outside the post-office. It’s the general stores. But I don’t think you’ll get much satisfaction that way today. Far better do like I say, and hang on a bit until I’ve finished my dinner.’
‘Well, I will then, if there’s no quicker way, but I think I’ll try the telephone first. Anyway, thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He closed the door before she could ask him where to find the post-office, but outside the inn she encountered a long-haired, untidy, whistling youth and put the question to him.
‘Can you tell me which way to go to get to the post-office, please?’
The youth suspended his whistling and stared at her.
‘ ’Tain’t no sort of use you goin’ there,’ he said. ‘ ’Tis early closin day. They’m shut.’
‘I only want the phone box, not the shop.’
‘That’s out of order.’ He grinned. ‘Us done ’er yesterday.’
‘What a way to spend your time! Suppose somebody had an urgent call to make – a doctor or the hospital?’ said Fenella, speaking severely.
‘Too bad, wouldn’t it be?’ He sniggered and then swaggered past her, thumbs in the side-pockets of his deplorable jeans, and she heard him whistling again as he walked away.
She returned to knock again at the back door of the inn. This time it was opened by a girl of about nineteen.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘You want sommink? We’re just ’aving our dinner.’
‘Will you please tell the landlord that I shall be glad to accept his offer to drive me into Croyton?’
‘E’s ’aving his dinner,’ said the girl, in a tone of rebuke. ‘We’re all ’aving our dinner.’
‘I know. Tell him I’ll be back in about three-quarters of an hour, will you, please?’
‘What name shall I say?’
‘Lestrange, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll know who it is.’
‘Right you are, then.’ The door closed again. Fenella went back to her car and tried once more to get it to start. She was unsuccessful. There seemed nothing for it but to while away the time as best she could until the landlord was ready to drive her into Croyton. From there, she reflected (prepared to make the best of matters), she could not only get hold of a mechanic who would come back with her and fix the car, but she could telephone Douston from the garage and let her cousins know that she would be later than she had expected.
She strolled along the village street, found the side-turning which led to the church, stopped to admire the fifteenth century double
