14
MARTY’S TRIP TO HARTSHOLME
November 1944The following weekend Marty arrived driving a car. He steered it at a snail’s pace into the kerbside in front of the Dowlands’ house, parking with jerk of the hand-brake and several tootings of the horn. Then he swung his long legs up and lay with his neck against the back of the seat so that his feet were totally visible on the dashboard. He took out a book from his top pocket and held it in front of his nose, feigning reading, and pretending to ignore the tiny face at the front gate peering through the slats.
Robert watched for several minutes before calling, “It’s me. Me. Robert Dowland. Can you see me here?”
“You bet. You bet I can see you.”
“Is that your car?”
“You bet it’s my car.”
“Hey, do you think I could go for a ride? I haven’t b
