Submarine

Brushing the new bracken on the far side of the hedge, the mud-spattered front of a Land-Rover was charging towards him. He wrenched at the Volvo's wheel, braked; the rear wheels skidded on the mud-smeared surface. He heard the smashing of glass, felt the jolt as the front wheel dropped into the ditch. He tried to switch off the engine, but could not reach the ignition key: he was hanging on his side, unable to free the seat-belt.

'What the bloody hell!' he yelled in exasperation. 'Can't you-'

He heard a female voice, calm, authoritative. 'Don't move. I can reach the key.' A slender arm stretched through his window to reach the ignition key- and then the engine stopped.

'Take your weight while I try to open the door.'

He snapped the belt free, then found himself being dusted off by a girl in her mid-twenties. She seemed pretty cool, her hazel eyes steady beneath the woollen pom-pom hat perched on fair curls. The diesel of the Land-Rover was still chugging.

'Thanks,' he said shortly. 'You were taking up a lot of the road, weren't you?'

'You might have hooted,' she retaliated. 'It's a well-known blind corner. You were going too fast.'

'We don't all know the country round here as well as the locals.' He jerked his head towards the Land-Rover. 'You'd better switch off the engine.'

'I've got a rope in the back,' she said, ignoring his question. She jumped back into the Land-Rover and threw it into reverse. 'I'll back down to the bottom and return via the loop lane. I'll get you out backwards.' And the Land-Rover disappeared backwards down the hill.

'Well, I'll be…' He stood back, smoothing the back of his head. He inspected the canted Volvo: extricating it shouldn't be too difficult, but the inside wing was knackered. The girl might know where to find the nearest agent. He hoped his father had insured the Volvo comprehensively.

When she returned from the other direction, she permitted him to secure the rope, but insisted on driving the truck herself. She was a good-looker, her fair hair emphasizing her striking, lively eyes. Her jeans and parker jacket were mud-spattered and worn, but what little there was of her seemed to fill them very adequately. Levering and tugging, they finally extricated the heavy Volvo which, in addition to the wrecked wing, had suffered damage to the tracking. It took her half an hour to tow him to the garage at Hangstone Cross. It was clearly going to take some time to sort out the damage, and the garage owner asked if they could return after lunch.

She looked at her watch, then glanced up from beneath her curls: 'I've missed Tom by now,' she said, turning towards Farge. 'Can I drop you anywhere? There's a good pub in the village — not far for you to walk back.'

He climbed into the passenger seat of the Land-Rover and then she was off and into over-drive before he had belted himself in. He glanced across at his driver who, perched upright in the driving seat, her shapely legs stretched fully for her feet to reach the pedals, could barely see above the windscreen: she was much smaller than he had supposed. A tiny pulse was throbbing in the hollow where her neck emerged from the open shirt. The face was delicately chiselled too; a small, full-lipped mouth; weather-tanned, freckled cheeks above a determined chin. A character, — this bird.

'Miss Prynne,' he shouted above the din. 'You've got to eat somewhere and I'm grateful for your help. How about a beer and sandwich with me?''

He watched the flush to her cheeks, the momentary scowl, passing like a cloud.

'Thanks, but I'll have to make a phone call first.' Then she asked, 'But how d'you know my name? I don't know yours.'

'That can wait,' he teased. 'I'm grateful, that's all.'

The sun emerged and the clouds were scurrying across the brittle blue sky when they drew up outside the pub. Over the draught bitter and ploughman's lunch, she said:

'You're Julian Farge, aren't you?'

The car?'

'Your father's well-known round here.'

Their eyes met momentarily and he could see that she was sizing him up. 'I'm on leave,' he explained quietly. 'I was on my way back from Spinneycombe. I wanted to see your mother on my father's behalf.'

She arched her corn-coloured eyebrows. 'Oh?' she said.

He told her about her sheepdog, tried to express his father's regret. 'I'm sorry,' he ended lamely.

After a while she said: 'You're different from your father.' For the first time she smiled. Her small face seemed lit up from inside by a genuine pleasure. 'I don't mean to be unkind. You know that.'-She reached across and impulsively touched the sleeve of his coat. She accepted another half-pint, and they continued to talk. She told him of her life as a sheep-farmer on the moor. 'Tell me more about yourself,' he urged. But she had to return to Spinneycombe, and could drop him off at the garage on the way.

The proprietor was waiting for them. He told Farge that the steering linkage had to be replaced, and that the nearest Volvo dealer was in Taunton.