“Is she going to be all right?” Arthur asked, unable to keep his anxiety out of his tone. “We’ve been through a lot together. I’d hate to have to say goodbye to the old girl.”
“Don’t you worry, sir,” Goodman’s mellow voice reassured him from under the bonnet of the Bentley. “She’s in good hands. We’ll have her back on her feet in no time.”
Arthur peered at the mechanic suspiciously, trying to divine whether the man was making fun of him. It never worked, not for him at any rate. His sister Mary would have had this man’s measure in an instant, but Arthur had always found it dreadfully difficult to tell what anyone was thinking. “Ah! Good man! Er, no pun intended, of course,” he added, feeling his face grow hot.
“‘Course not, sir.” The mechanic straightened, the corners of his eyes settling merrily into the crow’s-feet Arthur had noticed earlier. He wondered how old the man was. Arthur’s eldest brother Charles didn’t have crow’s-feet yet, and he was past thirty, but then, country folk aged sooner, didn’t they? “Now, you’ll be staying at the Green Man?” Goodman continued.
“Oh! I really hadn’t given it much thought. Too worried about the old lady here.” Arthur slapped the Bentley on the rump a little self-consciously.Old ladywas rather a misnomer, of course—in fact, she was considerably younger than Arthur’s own scant twenty-one years. But perhaps car years were like dog years, each of them worth seven of his own? Arthur realised the mechanic was waiting good-naturedly for him to stop wool-gathering, and felt a flush spread anew across his features.
“Only natural you’d be concerned,” Goodman said with a smile. It was a rather nice smile, Arthur thought a little wistfully. Easy, and relaxed, and confident, and all the sorts of things Arthur wondered if he’d ever be. “Well, sir, I can recommend the Green Man on two counts: first, their steak and ale pie’s as good as you’ll find, and second, it’d be ten mile or more before the next inn that’d be able to put you up.”
“Oh!” Arthur said again. “Then I suppose the Green Man it shall be. You’ll be able to leave word there, should there be any delay?”
“That I will, sir,” Goodman assured him. “Now off you go and make yourself known to Mrs Ives, and I’ll be rolling up my sleeves and getting to work.”
Arthur couldn’t prevent a glance at the man’s muscular forearms as he bared them. They were covered in coarse, wiry hair and looked twice the girth of Arthur’s own, culminating in broad, strong-looking hands, their blunt nails stained with the oil of his trade. Raising his gaze, Arthur flushed as he looked directly into amused dark eyes. “Jolly good,” he said, feeling like a fool.
“Tell her Bob Goodman sent you,” the mechanic called to Arthur’s back as he left the garage.
* * * *
The Green Man was luckily not too far from the garage. Arthur walked down a rather pleasant lane bordered with early-blooming hawthorn. “Cast ne’er a clout ere May is out, Arthur quoted to himself, remembering his nanny reciting it when he was a boy. She’d explained that it referred to the hawthorn tree, and not the month, but she hadn’t gone so far as to hint just what a clout might be, and why one would be so unwise to cast it before-times. Arthur had had a vague idea it had something to do with those abominably itchy woollen vests she’d always forced upon him whenever there was an “R” in the month.
The lane was deeply rutted, but, fortunately for Arthur’s footwear, the recent fine weather had dried up the worst of the winter’s mud. Although the breeze was stiff, the air was mild, filled with the scents of cut grass and spring flowers. Arthur found himself quite enjoying his stroll. His destination lay across the village green, and turned out to be a public house much like any other. There was a tap room in front and a lounge out back which Arthur suspected was rarely, if ever, patronised. It also advertised a couple of rooms upstairs available to let to benighted travellers, in which category Arthur supposed he must now consider himself to belong.
Opening time being nearly two hours off, Arthur found the lady of the house engaged in mucking out the tap room with a broom, her generous form swaddled in a voluminous pinny and a kerchief protecting her curls. She gave him a considering look before speaking. “Can I help you, sir? Opening time’s not till six, but if you’re a bona fide traveller, as they say…?” She paused to allow him time to take the hint.