Heirs of the Body(21)

The weather was beautiful, so she decided to drive rather than be stuck in a stuffy train. It was a pretty route, through the Chilterns and the Cotswolds, though negotiating the streets of Oxford in between could be tricky.

She set out on Friday morning. The A-40 from London to Oxford was quite busy but all went smoothly. She managed not to run over any undergraduates—or dons, come to that—in the streets of Oxford. Beyond the city the traffic thinned out, and she was able to enjoy sailing through the countryside in her sky blue Gwynne Eight.

After stopping for a picnic lunch, she came in midafternoon to a high point with a view over the Vale of Evesham. Just over the crest, a convenient gateway in the drystone wall offered a place to pull over. She got out and, shading her eyes, gazed over the fruitful valley of the Severn to the Malvern Hills and the distant, hazy-blue line of the Brecon Beacons beyond.

Once that sight had meant she was nearly home. Now she was a visitor.

“Brace up,” she told herself firmly. If it weren’t for the war, if Gervaise had not been killed, he would have married, perhaps someone she disliked. She would have married Michael.… Best not to dwell on that. One way or another, Fairacres would have ceased to be her home.

Sighing, she turned back towards the car. The right front tyre was flat.

“Blast!” Hands on hips, she glared at it.

Alec had made her learn how to change a wheel, but she had far rather not. She belonged to the RAC, and this was a main road; perhaps a patrolman would come by soon. Or if she sat on the running board looking disconsolate, perhaps a helpful motorist would stop to give her a hand. If she took the spare wheel off the back of the boot and leant it against the car, it would be obvious what the trouble was.

She glanced at her watch. She had written to Geraldine that she’d arrive at teatime, so there was no hurry. On this glorious day, to sit hopefully in the sun for half an hour, listening to the song of larks and the bleat of sheep, would be no hardship.

Besides, trying to do it herself and making a mess of it might take far longer than waiting for an expert to come along.

With a bit of a struggle, Daisy managed to unbuckle the spare wheel. She was examining with dismay the black marks on her driving gloves when a vast, gleaming car purred over the hill and down towards her.

It slowed as it came alongside. The smartly uniformed chauffeur, in the open front, turned towards her. “Trouble, miss? Puncture, is it?”

In the enclosed rear, a khaki-clad figure leant forward and rapped on the dividing glass with the handle of a stick or umbrella. “Get on, get on!” snapped the passenger impatiently, his voice muffled by the closed windows.

Her would-be gallant rescuer rolled his eyes, shrugged, and mouthed, “Sorry!” as he changed into first gear. With a soft, expensive hum, the bronze Daimler slid away down the steep hill.

“Brute!” Daisy exclaimed indignantly. Khaki—a high-ranking army officer? But the chauffeur’s uniform was not military. Whoever the passenger was, he was a rotten cad.

Contemplating the wheel without enthusiasm, she reminded herself that she was a modern, competent woman. It didn’t help. She just plain didn’t want to tackle the job.

However, the trickle of vehicles she had encountered before seemed to have dried up entirely. She could at least show willing and make a start by getting out the jack from the tool chest. That was easy. Alas, having accomplished it, she realised she had forgotten how to use the blasted thing.

This bar obviously fitted into that hole, but what next?

The drone of a motor caught her ear. Something was coming up the hill, so it couldn’t be going fast. Daisy decided she was jolly well going to stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop.

As she stepped forward, a blue motorcycle came round the bend. Beholding the blue and white RAC insignia, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.

The blue-liveried patrolman pulled up and saluted. “Puncture, ma’am? A chap in a Daimler told me you needed help.”

“The passenger?” she asked, surprised.

“No, the shover.”

“That sounds more likely. Yes, a puncture.”

“You’ve got the spare all ready, and the jack, I see. Won’t take a jiffy.”

And it didn’t. Which made the Daimler passenger’s refusal to stop all the more egregious.

“Don’t forget to get the tyre repaired before you go much farther, ma’am.” Her saviour pocketed a tip, saluted again, hopped onto his bike and buzzed off.

Daisy drove on, passing north of Bredon Hill. Soon the pepperpot bell tower at Upton-upon-Severn came into view. Reaching the drawbridge just as it opened, she watched a brightly painted narrowboat chug through the gap. She refrained from the childish pleasure of waving to the boatman and his wife.