Winter of Change

MARY JANE HAD never travelled in a Rolls-Royce—she found it quite an experience. Fabian was a good driver and although he spoke seldom he was quite relaxed, she sat silently beside him, thinking about the last two weeks—such a lot had happened and there had been so much to plan and arrange; she hoped she had forgotten nothing—not that it would matter very much, for her companion would not have overlooked the smallest detail. He had told her very little about the journey, beyond asking her to be ready to start at eight o’clock in the morning.

They were on the motorway now, doing a steady seventy, and would be in London by early afternoon, giving her ample time in which to pack her things at the hospital before they left for the midnight ferry.

‘Anything you haven’t time to see to you can leave,’ he had told her, ‘and arrange to send on the things you don’t want—Mrs Body can sort them out later. You can buy all you need when we get to Holland.’

‘Oh no, I can’t, I’ve only a few pounds.’

‘I will advance you any reasonable sum—do you need any money now?’

‘No, thank you, but what about my fare?’

‘Mr North and I will take care of such details.’

They had settled into silence after that. Mary Jane stared through the window as the Rolls crept up behind each car in turn and passed it. Presently she closed her eyes against the boredom of the road, the better to think. But her thoughts were muddled and hazy; she hadn’t slept very well the night before, and fought a desire to doze off, induced by the extreme comfort of the car, and had just succeeded in reducing her mind to tolerable clarity when her efforts were shattered by her companion’s laconic, ‘We’ll stop for coffee.’

She glanced at her watch; they had been on the road for just two hours and Stafford wasn’t far away. ‘That would be nice,’ she agreed pleasantly, and was a little surprised when he left the motorway, taking the car unhurriedly down side roads which led at last to a small village.

‘Stableford,’ read Mary Jane from the signpost. ‘Why do we come here?’

‘To get away from the motorway for half an hour. There’s a place called The Cocks—ah, there it is.’ He pulled up as he spoke.

The coffee was excellent and hot, and Mary Jane ate a bun because breakfast seemed a long time ago, indeed, a meal in another life.