17A small shabby woman was sitting in the bus which runs out of Ledlington and passes the entrance to Cranberry Lane. She had the name of the turning written down on a rubbed piece of paper, and she had showed it to the conductor as well as taking a frequent look at it herself, so she hoped there would be no mistake about putting her down. Being Saturday and the traffic all in the opposite direction, she was alone in the bus, which was scheduled to run out to Poynings and Little Poynton and return with a full load for the late house at the cinema. She would have been happier if there had been other passengers, because she could have asked them to be sure she didn’t miss her turning. She had always found people so kind about that sort of thing. You had only to say that you were not used to
