for mint humbugs seem like an event of world importance: there was a seductive pleasure in even being able to touch her hand accidentally when she held forth change. Old man Shapley, indeed, was agreeably surprised at the astonishing increase in his business returns once his daughter had come to help him. Having got past the age when feminine charm means anything, he put it all down to his own window displays and the cleanness of his offerings, looking quite beyond the curvacious girl with the bushy blonde hair who had stirred up such heart-throbbing among the young men of Langhorn.
Mrs. Shapley guessed the reason for prosperity, mainly because there had once been a time when she had adopted similar tactics…and had finished up with stolid Joseph and his store of many colours.
Betty numbered three principal rivals for her favours, and played one against the other with sublime disregard for their feelings. There was Vincent Grey, the young solicitor’s clerk who worked in Lexham—the nearest town—and towards whom she felt more serious than anybody else. Then there was Tom Clayton. He owned the garage two doors away and had the opportunity of seeing Betty in all her moods—even in the back garden in her worst mood when she tried to repair a puncture in her bicycle tyre. She sort of liked Tom; she was not sure. He was strong and grim and businesslike, and talked as though he did not want to give anything away. He was a bit of a student, too, with a liking for astronomy.
Then lastly there was Herbert Pollitt—straightforward, almost simple-minded, accepting everything, contradicting nothing. He lived in lodgings and hated them, and was doing his utmost to make a living peddling insurance.
Betty was with Herbert at the moment. For her it was just another outing, for Herbert it was a foretaste of Heaven, and a rather noisy Heaven too if his car be included. It had chugged its way from Lexham to this present spot—a country lane with open fields on both sides, a couple of miles from Langhorn village.
But now it had come to a halt and Herbert was trying with some uneasiness to decide whether it was because he had switched off the ignition, or whether it was because the confounded thing had lain down and died just before he had switched off.
“What in the world are you doing?” Betty asked him in surprise as he doubled himself up and squinted under the dashboard.
“Eh? Oh—nothing. Just wondering.…”
“You don’t have to be a contortionist to do that, do you? I thought you stopped here so we could talk.… It’s so quiet—now,” Betty added, glancing significantly at the faded bonnet.
“Yes, isn’t it? Except for those rumbles from the quarry-blasting, that is. I didn’t think they worked this late.”
Betty listened to the remote concussions for a while. “Maybe it’s thunder,” she said.
Herbert Pollitt was annoyed: he wanted to devote his attention to Betty, yet at the same time he was wondering if the car would ever start again. Between the two issues he only succeeded in looking vacant.
It needed every volt of Betty’s charm to make the car seem worthwhile. It had had innumerable owners, and had once been proudly advertised as a tourer. Now only the doors retained correct working order in that they at least opened and shut. The bodywork was battered, dented, and scraped. A sinister worm of oily string secured the rear plate; the upholstery was discoloured; the folding hood had degenerated into a flattened trellis of wooden struts with rusty studs alone showing where canvas had been.
In the midst of this Betty sat, half-sprawled, her shapely legs thrust well under the dashboard—until the icy cold of the brake lever against her bare calf made her withdraw hastily. The late evening air was warm, the sky dim and cloudless blue out of which stars peeped as though wondering what was going on below. The close of a perfect July day, nearing ten-fifteen. The narrow lane was empty in front and behind. The strong smell of newly mown hay drifted over hawthorn hedges greyed with dust from a rainless fortnight. It was the sort of evening to make an old man feel young, and a young man younger still. Except for this infernal car.
Herbert took off his cap presently—he always wore it while driving—and mopped his good-looking face. Black curls tumbled in a permanent state of rebellion against brush and comb. His eyes were hazel, his nose long and thin; his mouth broad and straight. His jaw was always so intensely shaven, it created a vague wonder among his male friends as to his source of razor blades.
Yes, Betty had not chosen an unworthy-looking specimen by any means. He did not mind spending what little money he had; when his car would function, it was hers for the asking. Though he never took advantage—much to Betty’s secret chagrin sometimes—he was definitely in earnest. It was sheer diffidence that held him back.
“It’s sort of—hot,” he observed presently.
“Is it?”
This casual desire for confirmation made Herbert feel hotter still. Betty was so close to him that her plump shoulder in the thin short-sleeved frock pressed against his. Her arms were folded and her blue eyes stared into the darkling sky. Herbert, sideways to her, could see that mass of thick, bushy fair hair with the cornflower blue ribbon holding it in place, the high forehead, the retroussé nose with its air of assurance, and then the full lips and dimpled chin which betrayed the streak of self-love in her nature. Her neck was shapely, forming a finely moulded line from beneath her chin to the base of her throat—but it had the red hue of sunburn marring its unsullied beauty. The folded arms were pink, too, on the outsides. It had been a hot day, and a Wednesday. The shop had been closed since noon. Herbert had given himself a half-holiday, and Betty and he had been together since two o’clock.
There were more distant rumblings from the quarries—the only sound in the quiet.
“Been a lovely day,” Betty whispered at last, turning her head sideways, her large blue eyes fixed on him.
“Yes, lovely,” Herbert agreed; then she pursed her lips at him provocatively. He wondered whether she meant he was to kiss her there and then or whether she felt annoyed.
“I think the engine’s gone dead!” he said lamely.
“Just the engine?” Betty asked archly, her mouth resuming its normal shape, “What of it? It’s only two miles or so home.”
“But I can’t leave the car in the lane! The battery will only keep the lights going for about twenty minutes. I’d have the police on my track.”
Betty shrugged and resumed her study of the sky. An engine and a flat battery meant nothing to her. Then suddenly she sat up with a jerk and gripped Herbert’s arm tightly. “Wish!” she ordered. “Wish—now! For the thing you want most!”
“Why?” he asked, bewildered.
“A shooting star. Didn’t you see it?”
He looked upwards. The sky had taken on the deep purple of approaching night. Many more stars had ventured out. As they both gazed in hushed expectancy, another streak of light smeared soundlessly across the expanse and was gone.
“Two!” Betty exclaimed. “Did you wish that time?”
“Does one? I always thought it meant a baby was going to be born and—” He broke off in sudden embarrassment. “I didn’t mean that exactly. I—er—I think we’d better be going.”
“Why?” Betty relaxed and smiled. “We’ve only just got here.… Don’t you sometimes want to just sit and think? Wonder what the future has in store for you? I do!” Her soft hand reached out
