“Ah,” was all that Goodman said. He continued to look Arthur steadily in the eye, until Arthur couldn’t bear it any longer.
“I’m so sorry; I’m disturbing you in your work. I’ll be off, now. It was, er, nice talking to you. Good day.”
As Arthur exited the garage, a gaggle of young women dressed in simple, workaday fashion crossed his path. Two of them carried baskets laden with primroses, cowslips, and violets, and a third—Lily Ives, Arthur realised as they drew nearer—had her arms full of boughs of flowering hawthorn. He wondered that she didn’t prick herself. They looked at Arthur, and at the garage, and at one another. And then they burst into peals of laughter that echoed up and down the lane as Arthur walked stiffly back to the inn.
Arthur didn’t visit the tap room that evening. He
