Dying in the Wool Read Online Free PDF Page B

way.
    ‘He said that to me too. And there’d be any expenses I might incur, travelling, standing a drink, and so on.’
    ‘So perhaps you would like something on account?’ I took a folded five pound note from my pocket and handed it to him.
    He grinned for the first time. The smile lit his face and I saw the relief. He would go home to his wife and children and say that he had a job.
    He extended his hand and this time the handshake was stronger and held longer. ‘Thank you. You won’t be sorry.’
    ‘I’m going to Bridgestead on Monday. I suggest we meet, say Tuesday evening and compare notes.’
    He nodded. ‘I’ll take the train to Bingley, that’s nearest.’ He took out a notebook and wrote the name and telephone number of a hostelry. ‘I know the landlord at the Ramshead Arms. He owes me a favour and will give me a room if necessary.’
    ‘Six o’clock. And if I can’t make that time for any reason I will telephone Mrs Sugden and she’ll send word to you.’
    And that was how I came to work professionally for the first time, and to employ Jim Sykes, the man in the homespun suit.

The Silesian Merino Shawl
     
    Early on Monday morning, the sun shone brightly in a crisp blue sky. It was the kind of day when you look through the window and expect that it will be warm, only to get a chilly surprise when you put your nose outdoors. I loaded the boot of my Jowett convertible with portmanteau, camera bag and walking-stick tripod. I had packed my Thornton-Pickard Reflex, useful with or without a stand. The tiny Vest Pocket Autographic Kodak slid into the notebook section of my satchel.
The VPK is to other cameras what a watch is to a clock
, as the slogan goes. In other words, easy to lose at the bottom of your handbag. Mrs Sugden shook the travelling rug and folded it carefully.
    Setting off can be a trial.
    Mrs Sugden will say, ‘Have you got the map?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Two minutes later: ‘Have you got your driving goggles?’
    ‘Yes.’
    A minute later: ‘Is there petrol in that there can?’
    At which point I pretend not to hear, and have totally forgotten what it was I meant to remember.
    In spite of the sunshine, it would be a chilly ride. My motoring coat is a great fleecy swaddler with detachable lining. It saw me through the war and is way out of fashion, but it makes me feel safe, secure and immune to traffic accidents.
    I pulled on my tasselled motoring hat and gauntlets.
    ‘Have you got …’ Mrs Sugden began.
    I turned on the petrol tap.
    ‘If I haven’t got, it doesn’t matter.’ I switched on the ignition. ‘I’m going to Bingley, not the North Pole.’
    I turned the choke to rich and pressed the starter button. You will gather from this that my motor is modified for easy use, and I don’t apologise for that so there.
    Mrs Sugden waved. ‘Go careful!’
    ‘I will.’
    Rain during the night had dampened the roads so they were not so very dusty. Once out of Leeds, I made good progress, through villages, past farms and mills, keeping an eye on the signposts and milestones.
    I thought about the time Tabitha and I last met. It was almost two years ago, June, 1920, at the opening of the Cavendish Club. All through the war, we VAD girls had nowhere in the capital to call our own. Afterwards, that was put right and Tabitha and I were among the supporters of the campaign for a club that women could afford. Since then, the two of us had promised in our Christmas letters and summer postcards to meet up, never doing so until now.
    We had arranged to meet in a café on Bingley High Street. Once parked by the side of the road, I shed my antique coat, swapped the tasselled hat for a cloche, and set off to find the café.
    Looking over the red and white check curtain that hung across the lower half of the plate glass window, I saw her. With one hand she held a cigarette, with the other she twirled at a strand of her blonde curly hair. She has the quality of a Dresden doll, with neat features, a snub