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own.’
    Harriet insisted I had a coffee before I left, so it was twenty minutes later when I set off. Despite my bold words to Tony and Harriet, I had serious reservations about the journey ahead. There was no sign of the snow abating and road conditions were worsening all the time.
    I had almost reached the junction with the Netherdale ring road when a bumping vibration told me the Range Rover had picked up a puncture. I slowed gingerly to a halt and put on my hazard lights. The action was a reflex one; I had little expectation of their being any traffic as I hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving Mulgrave Castle. I swore a bit – no, to be fair, I swore a lot – then got out to inspect the damage. The rear wheel on the driver’s side was the culprit. The snow, driven by a strong north-easterly wind, was driving almost horizontally into my face. I cursed Bing Crosby and Irving Berlin for wishing a ‘White Christmas’ upon the world and started to rectify the problem.
    I unloaded the jack and the spare wheel. Changing a wheel is not my idea of fun at the best of times. This certainly was not the best of times. The operation must have taken in excess of half an hour, during which I got cold and wet, then colder and wetter. The biggest problem I faced was that when I had put the car in for servicing a few weeks earlier, the mechanic had used an air-powered wheel-brace to tighten the wheel nuts. This is a far more efficient device than a hand-operated one; the problem is it makes the nuts virtually impossible to remove by hand. I was forced to undo them one at a time, removing the jack and edging the car forward between each removal to get the next nut in a position where I could bring my full weight to bear by standing on the brace. When my foot slipped from the brace and the tool scratched my shin, I almost gave up.
    But eventually, and with considerably more swearing, I completed the repair, replaced the punctured wheel in the boot, and let down the jack. When I had secured everything I climbed back into the car and started the engine. Although I was now sheltered from the weather I was cold, wet, dirty, and weary. My temper was not at its best either. I thought briefly about the couple waiting at the station. No doubt they’d have the refuge of a warm, well-lit coffee bar. I sat for five minutes or so, allowing the car heater to alleviate the numbness in my hands and feet. The heater did its best, but the difference it made was negligible.
    The station yard was almost in darkness when I arrived some twenty-five minutes later. Obviously I had miscalculated. There would be no more trains stopping there before Boxing Day and the station staff had been ordered to save on electricity.
    The car headlights picked out two figures huddled against the meagre protection offered by the wall of the building. Through the myriad of snowflakes dancing across the beam I could just make out that they were a man and a woman. Obviously these were my passengers. I pulled to a halt alongside them and climbed stiffly out. I was about to greet them when the woman spoke, ‘Where the bloody hell do you think you’ve been? Do you realize how long we’ve been waiting here freezing to death? Put the cases in the boot and get us to the Castle, pronto. Just you wait until my sister hears about this.’ She swept past me and climbed into the back of the car.
    I turned to her companion; half hoping for a warmer reception. ‘You should have been here an hour ago. You’ll be lucky if you’ve still got a job once I speak to Sir Anthony, you’re a bloody disgrace.’
    With that he joined the woman in the back of the car; my car. I walked angrily across to where they’d left their baggage. There were two suitcases and a hold-all. I examined these; then returned and opened the back of the Range Rover. The wind was driving the snow directly towards the back of the vehicle. I