It was Juhe seveh, Friday, the sed day of the coarse- fishing season.
I hadn』t had any difficulty in fixing things with the firm. As for Hilda, I』d fitted her up with a story that was all shipshape and watertight. I』d fixed on Birmingham for my alibi, and at the last moment I』d even told her the name of the hotel I was going to stay at, Rowbottom』s Family and ercial. I happeo know the address because I』d stayed there some years earlier. At the same time I didn』t want her writing to me at Birmingham, which she might do if I was away as long as a week. After thinking it over I took young Saunders, who travels flisso Floor Polish, partly into my fidence. He』d happeo mention that he』d be passing through Birmingham on the eighteenth of June, and I got him to promise that he』d stop on his ost a letter from me to Hilda, addressed from Rowbottom』s. This was to tell her that I might be called away and she』d better not write. Saunders uood, or thought he did. He gave me a wink and said I was wonderful for my age. So that settled Hilda. She hadn』t asked any questions, and even if she turned suspicious later, an alibi like that would take some breaking.
I drove through Westerham. It was a wonderful June m. A faint breeze blowing, and the elm tops swaying in the sun, little white clouds streaming across the sky like a flock of sheep, and the shadows chasing each other across the fields. Outside Westerham a Walls』 Ice Cream lad, with cheeks like apples, came tearing towards me on his bike, whistling so that it went through your head. It suddenly reminded me of the time when I』d been an errand boy myself (though in those days we didn』t have free-wheel bikes) and I very nearly stopped him and took ohey』d cut the hay in places, but they hadn』t got it i. It lay drying in long shiny rows, and the smell of it drifted across the road and got mixed up with the petrol.
I drove along at a gentle fifteen. The m had a kind of peaceful, dreamy feeling. The ducks floated about on the ponds as if they felt too satisfied to eat. Ilefield, the village beyoerham, a little man in a white apron, with grey hair and a huge grey moustache, darted across the green, planted himself in the middle of the road and began doing physical jerks to attract my attention. My car』s known all along this road, of course. I pulled up. It』s only Mr Weaver, who keeps the village general shop. No, he doesn』t want to insure his life, nor his shop either. He』s merely run out of ge and wants to know whether I』ve got a quid』s worth of 『large silver』. They never have any ge ilefield, not even at the pub.
I drove on. The wheat would have been as tall as your waist. It went undulating up and down the hills like a great green carpet, with the wind rippling it a little, kind of thid silky- looking. It』s like a woman, I thought. It makes you want to lie on it. And a bit ahead of me I saw the sign-post where the road forks right for Pudley a for Oxford.
I was still on my usual beat, ihe boundary of my own 『district』, as the firm calls it. The natural thing, as I was goiward, would have been to leave London along the Uxbridge Road. But by a kind of instinct I』d followed my usual route. The fact was I was feeling guilty about the whole business. I wao get well away before I headed for Oxfordshire. And in spite of the fact that I』d fixed things so ly with Hilda and the firm, in spite of the twelve quid in my pocket-book and the suitcase in the back of the car, as I got he