Unsurprisingly, Edith did not wave goodbye, preferring to cling on for dear life as Baz accelerated away in a cloud of dust, leaf mould and diesel fumes. It was a glorious morning but she was in no mood to take in the view. The wind chill factor, the alarming speed, the deafening noise and the nauseating stench all combined to force her to retreat within herself and she focussed hard on thinking happy thoughts, none of which included Martin Ellingham, his appalling Aunt Jill or the spiteful Little Orphan Annie who seemed to have ingratiated herself into Ellingham's pathetic excuse for a family.
Joan watched them disappear rather rapidly into the distance, ruminating that Edith should definitely keep her wits about her, and her elbows in, should they pass any other vehicles in any of the narrower lanes. Indeed, those boys only knew one speed and that was bowel-liquefyingly fast. Smiling to herself, she removed her purse from her mortally wounded vehicle, and, clambering over a nearby stile, made her way across the fields towards her home, mission accomplished.
Out on the cliffs, Martin glanced at his watch, and decided that it was still too risky to return. Shaking out the old crocheted blanket, he laid it neatly on the grass and cautiously sat down, fixing his attention on two small yachts which bobbed merrily just offshore. He'd walked briskly along the path, keen to put significant distance between himself and Edith Montgomery. Deep in thought, he had marched on, performing extensive mental arithmetic; analysing the risk vs reward equation of his relationship with her. In fact, his indefatigable logic proved his theory. No matter which way he measured it, Edith was not worth the trouble. As a result, he now felt no compunction in having abandoned her, he now experienced nothing but relief at her departure. Indeed, it was quite a liberating sensation, not to be beholden to anyone any longer.
Didn't Gandhi adhere to the yogi tradition of brahmacharya? The Buddha followed an ascetic life path too; Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, Chopin, even Salvador Dali; all chose celibacy apparently. After all, most priests managed it, didn't they? The only difference was that his church would be the operating theatre, and his god would be medicine. And, whenever temptation came his way, he would only have to remember the pain, misery and anguish that Edith had inflicted upon him and any unmanageable desire would surely evaporate; volatilising into the atmosphere like a cloud of liquid nitrogen. Perhaps his interest in antiques might expand to include Eastern religious symbolism, he thought. He'd always appreciated the aesthetic of the Buddha, and a few well selected specimens, combined with his spare, monastic decor, might well serve to remind him to remain, steadfast, on his chosen path.
Fifteen miles away, with the Land Rover's engine screaming in protest and the rev counter flickering into the red, Baz approached the last corner before the turnoff to the station. Instinctively, Artie braced himself, laughing maniacally as they swung around the corner on three wheels, as he merrily exhorted Baz to check the rear view mirror to see if all or any of their load remained in place. Luckily, everything was well secured and their passenger had actively and vehemently demonstrated both her vice-like grip and her steely will to live.
Chomping on the miserable stub of his cigar, Artie slid from his seat as they pulled to a stop in the surprisingly busy carpark. Unusually for a Sunday morning, there were buses everywhere, disgorging their passengers who spread across the platform and its environs like a liberated flock of sheep; shepherded ineffectively by harried men in white coats and hand knitted ties, and women with clipboards and sensible shoes.
Neither Artie nor Baz were keen on crowds and, as it seemed they'd successfully discharged their responsibility and delivered the London Ginger as requested, they were keen to get a move on, and get home for breakfast. Artie gestured at Edith impatiently, encouraging her to dismount but she found herself unable to either straighten her legs or relinquish her grip. To her horror, she felt his large, rough and calloused hand wrap around hers as he began, rather clumsily, to unbend her fingers, forcing her to emerge from her semi-catatonic state.
He retrieved her case and placed it on the pavement next to him before holding out his arms and suggesting with a cheeky smile that she launch herself into them. By now Edith was beyond caring so, as soon as she felt the blood supply returning to her legs, she stood up and did as she was asked. With a wink at his brother over her shoulder, Artie held on to Edith just a moment too long before depositing her inelegantly in front of him. He'd attempted a sneaky squeeze but, as he would tell his brother later over a hefty traditional breakfast expertly fried in lard, she was nothing but a disappointing bag of bones.
Without uttering a word, or even the barest flicker of emotion passing across her blank, wind burned face, Edith clasped the rope handle Artie had so expertly fashioned for her case, and barged her way toward the crowded platform.
As Joan trudged across the headlands that skirted the edges of the cropped fields, her satisfaction at Edith's departure was gradually replaced by the realisation that her only mode of transport was now probably destined, literally, for the scrap heap. Though she considered herself highly resourceful, the practicalities of living rurally and without a reliable vehicle had begun to hit home. She would need to make quite a few desperate phone calls as soon as she got back to her cottage and, as her mental to-do list for the day became longer and longer, the speed of her gait increased accordingly.
After her confrontation with Edith earlier, Louisa had slipped back into the warmth of her bed, her legs like jelly and her body trembling and uptight. While she had no qualms about standing up for herself, she was not a mean or vindictive girl by nature and, as she recalled the harsh tirade she had directed at Edith, she felt that, perhaps, she had been a bit too horrible. She had listened to Joan's truck depart and, after a few moments of lying quiet and still, and straining her ears for any sound, she concluded that she was entirely alone and was relieved to discover that her shaking abated. Tiptoeing downstairs, she had discovered Joan's note and, realising that she would never have to see Martin's atrocious, and hopefully, ex-girlfriend ever again, she swung her arms back and forth and allowed herself to clap her hands gleefully. After making sure Martin's car was still parked in the driveway, she made herself a cup of tea, before curling up peacefully on the couch with her magazine.
Martin checked his watch again. If the train timetable had any credibility at all, then, at that very moment, Edith should have stowed her case and would be settling herself into her seat for her journey to Paddington. It dawned on him that she had still not given him an answer as to why she travelled down here to see him but he had the vague idea that it must be something to do with her association with his father. Martin's fists clenched involuntarily at the thought of she and Christopher colluding. He could imagine enough of the conversation to know that he'd undoubtedly been the object of their derision, and he felt yet another painful stab at her cold perfidy and what he knew would have been his father's brutal scorn. He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself and focusing on staunching the hurt from this latest wound. As the the seagulls wheeled and screamed above him, and the flat morning sea began to be gently ruffled by the burgeoning breeze, he opened his eyes and lifted his chin. He may have been labelled a weakling and a crybaby his entire life but, in that peaceful spot above the cliffs, with the endless ocean stretched out before him, he'd never felt so determined to repudiate his long list of critics, and to succeed; alone, and indifferent to all of them.
As it turned out, the train was fully booked and Edith should have considered herself fortunate to have obtained a seat at all. When the concert had first been announced, ripples of excitement had passed through the the rest homes and retirement cottages of the West Country. It wasn't often that performers of this calibre made it to this part of the world, especially as convenient weekend matinees were prominent on the list of performances. Featuring an actual nineteen forties big band and impressive headline performers including Miss Vanda Swann, the legendary Gracie Fields tribute artiste, the The Music of World War II Concert at the Torquay Town Hall was the highlight of the year for many. And so here they all were, crowding the platforms and swarming the train doors in their excitement to board; the able-bodied and infirm, the weary veterans and the women that had kept the home fires burning, the silver foxes and the bald, shiny pates; all equally as enthusiastic to revisit their youth, and all expectant of a good old fashioned sing-song.
As Joan scrabbled over the dry stone wall at the back of the barn, she was surprised to see a lorry easing its way down her driveway, before recognising it as being one of her neighbours, a large land holder in the district. Waving, she dusted herself off and walked briskly toward him, anxious that he should not try and manoeuvre his large, wide vehicle too close to Martin's immaculate, new car. That would be all she needed, she thought, and found herself breaking into an anxious jog.
The driver wound down his window and nodded at her by way of a greeting. After a quick exchange of words, where he explained that he'd seen her stricken vehicle, and she told him why she had been forced to abandon it, it seems that not only was her neighbour heading into Port Wenn but he might also have a mate who had a number of wrecked Series II Land Rovers dotted about his farm, from which they may be able to obtain a functioning differential. At this news Joan clasped her hands together in delight, before explaining to him that she needed to check on Louisa, after which she would be very grateful for a lift into the village where she could pay a visit to the local mechanic. She would also need some persuasive currency in the form of vegetables and eggs, so she asked him if he wouldn't mind waiting before she trotted down to the house and burst breathlessly through the front door.
With the slightest hint of damp beginning to seep up through the blanket on which he sat, Martin decided that it was a prudent time to make his way back to the farm. He knew that Auntie Joan would be tied up for most of the day, relocating and reestablishing the girl into her new accomodation so, with that in mind, he imagined a pleasant, solitary day of reading and tinkering, followed by a quiet dinner with just the two of them. With a sigh, he realised that even that would present its own challenges, as he imagined the way the conversation might proceed, but he was confident he could deflect and rebuff any line of questioning she might attempt. He sprung to his feet, brushed himself down and shook out the blanket, a pained expression on his face as he tried to fold its stretched and misshapen edges into a neat and tidy square. He would have a slight tail wind for the walk home which was pleasing as he felt his stomach begin to groan and complain for want of breakfast.
There was not a spare seat to be had as the carriage lurched once and the train began its acceleration away from the station. Edith had secured a window seat by sheer force of her obnoxious personality; these indecisive and decrepit country bumpkins were no match for a determined, mean spirited woman from the big city when it came to utilising public transport. As she elbowed her way through the throng, stepping on feet and kicking away walking sticks wherever necessary, and threw herself into a forward-facing window seat. Folding her arms, she glowered out of the window, ignoring the excited chattering of her fellow passengers. For a short while, the journey was almost unremarkable; the most annoying thing was the strange odour that filled her nostrils, an eye-watering combination of rose-scented powder, liniment and mothballs. She reached up a weary hand to her face and pinched at the bridge of her nose before being overcome by a series of explosive sneezes, biting her tongue involuntarily such was the force of the last. Groaning to herself, she leaned her head against the window and surrendered herself to the soporific effects of the train's rhythmical motion.
It cannot have been much later that she was jarred awake by the most tuneless cacophony she had ever heard, a veritable choir of tortured cats; as the anticipation had escalated so had the excitement, and the Old Age Pensioners of North Cornwall had whipped themselves into a frenzy. Sensing that this level of stimulation could result in a requirement for mass medical interventions, one of their designated marshalls, in a moment of divine inspiration, threw back her head and began to warble:
'There'll be bluebirds overrrrrrrrrr
The white cliffs of Doverrrrrrrrrr
Tomorrow, just you wait and seeeeeeeeee'
And, with that, everyone joined in; their wobbling, faltering and reedy voices as passionate and nationalistic as if it were VE Day all over again. Edith stared at them, aghast. Despite coming from a military background, she had a deep seated mistrust of displays of fervour, even patriotic ones, and this, combined with her intense distaste for the elderly, made her feel nothing short of disgusted. What they needed to realise, she thought angrily, was that they were all past it. They had had their day and now they should just shut up and keep their repulsive, unfashionable selves hidden away and stop offending the sensibilities of healthy, attractive people like her. Appalled that the old woman who sat across from her seemed to be attempting eye contact, she shot her a contemptuous glance and, twisting sideways, she focussed on staring impassively at the passing countryside.