does run into them at different parts of the year,” Betty said, snuggling down with a sigh of contentment. “Rather like life: they just come and go in an instant of time.… We’re like that. Herby. Life seems to last a long while when you’re young, but when you come to measure it by ages and ages, it doesn’t amount to much.”
Such profound philosophy had been something of an effort for Betty; she had been building up to a crisis.
“I’ve got to be sure!” Herbert said abruptly as she began to walk her fingers playfully across his chest. “Nothing wrong under the dashboard, so it must be the engine. I’m sure it died!”
He jerked himself free and half fell out of the car into the dust of the lane. Betty straightened up in annoyance and blew a tickling wisp of hair out of her eye.
“You and your car engine!” she called after him. “Haven’t you got a spark of romance in your soul?”
“Of course, but—I’ve got to be sure we can get home!”
Reaching the front of the car, he flung back the bonnet with desperate energy, anxious to get his hands on something tough and worldly—and unfeminine.
Betty relaxed again and stretched languidly on the back of the seat. Her eyes rose from Herbert’s shoulders as he poked his head in the engine. She saw another transitory flash across the sky and she wished—wished that Herbert might become more of a man and less of a ninny.
“Damn!” he muttered, straightening. “This is going to take a bit of fixing. Ignition wire has corroded through and I’ve no light to see to mend it in the dark. It’s broken away at the main cable from the battery. Means scraping, and it should be soldered on by rights. Bit of a job.”
This talk of car parts somehow did not fit in with a romantic half-hour in the summer dusk. Betty abandoned her hopes, and got up. Climbing out of the car, she walked round to where Herbert was standing. She could not see anything inside the engine but she could smell stale oil. Herbert loomed dim and troubled beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he said hesitantly, “but I shall have to ask you to walk home without me. I’ll have to stay and direct any traffic there might be in case of accident. My lights will hold out for a while.”
“Why can’t you repair it if you’ve got lights?” Betty asked.
“Because they’re fixed frontwards and I’d need them pointing backwards. ’Sides, it would mean messing about with bare wires with the juice on—even if I could do it. Which I couldn’t.”
Betty was recalling the music-hall gag about cars stopping before the girlfriend can be taken home. This, though, was something different. It even sounded as if Herbert actually wanted to be rid of her.
“You live next door but one to Tom Clayton’s garage, don’t you?” Herbert went on. “I wonder if you’d mind asking him to come and tow me to his place? If we can’t fix it here, it will mean having the car out of the way, anyhow.”
“But Tom Clayton doesn’t like you!” Betty pointed out. “I can’t see him turning out at this hour to drag this old iron to his garage. He’d rather cut your throat if he could. Not for a moment do I think he’d tow you in.”
“He only dislikes me because we both happen to lo—like you,” Herbert corrected himself quickly. “He’d come if you were to ask him. Anybody would do what you ask, Bet.”
“Well.…” The appeal to her charms was a masterstroke. “Well, all right,” Betty sighed. “I’ll walk home, it only to get in at a reasonable time before Dad starts asking silly questions. I’ll see what I can do about Tom Clayton, but I don’t promise anything.”
There was a silence. She hesitated a moment.
“I’m afraid I can’t say good night as I should.” Herbert sounded apologetic. “I’m all dirty.… Oil, you know.”
“I can’t see any oil on your face,” Betty said, standing so close to him in her scrutiny that he could smell perfume.
“You can’t? Oh—good!”
Betty stared at his murky figure incredulously, wondering whether he really had not seen the hint or whether he was being evasive. Whichever it was, he plunged back into the dark engine and began to tinker noisily.
“Night!” Betty said, tight-lipped, and turned to begin the long tramp up the dusty lane.
* * * *
Betty walked slowly. She was feeling too piqued to lend aid willingly. That she would do so finally she well knew, but the delay would serve Herbert right! He should be like other men—be progressive, buy a decent car, pay more attention to her.
She walked along slowly in the starry night, mist rising cool and clammy from the fields on either side of the lane. Out here in the quiet—for even the quarries had become silent now—there was time to think. Should she abandon Herbert and his noisy old banger for the stern-lipped Tommy Clayton, or thoroughly cultivate the boisterous, talkative Vincent Grey? Finding the right man with whom to spend the rest of her life was vitally important, for she was heartily sick of being sub-postmistress. One day, she knew, she would have to make a choice of one of the trio, all of whom she believed would jump at the chance of marrying her.
Altogether it took her an hour to walk the two miles, but towards the end of the journey she put on a sudden spurt as she felt the chill of the night striking through her thin clothes. It was just chiming half past eleven by the Langhorn church clock as she knocked sharply on the house door of Clayton’s garage. She had to knock again, more emphatically, before there was an answer. Then it was Mrs. Clayton who opened the door and peered out into the night, a fan of brilliance from the passage behind her.
“Betty!” she exclaimed. “It’s late! What’s wrong—?” She broke off as if expecting a dreadful answer.
“Nothing serious, Mrs. Clayton. I just want a word with Tommy if he’s in.”
“He’s having his supper. Come inside.”
Betty followed through into the back regions where the brilliance of the electric light dazzled her for a moment. Clayton was seated before a plate of stew, dry bread piled up like a miniature Stonehenge on a plate beside him. Propped against a pickle jar was a textbook; the title, Betty noticed casually, was Ball’s Stars in Their Courses.
There was an air of disorder about the kitchen. At sixty-five, and a widow, too, the grey-haired Mrs. Clayton did not pretend to be house-proud. She had simply ceased to care. Silently she walked back towards the empty fireplace and drew up a chair.
“Sit you down, Betty.”
Tom Clayton laid down his knife and fork. “A bit of a late call for you, Betty.… From the look of your shoes you’ve been doing some tramping, too.”
“Two miles,” she answered, self-piteously, seating herself. “I’ve been out since just after lunch with Herby Pollitt, and his car has broken down. He wants you to go along and either patch things up or tow him in!”
“Some hopes!” Clayton said, glancing at the clock. “I closed the garage at eight.”
Betty looked at him and sighed. Whilst thirty minutes earlier
