Headmistress Gloria Pettigrew paces the Persian carpet in front of the night windows. A fire is banked up in the drawing-room. She’s called Barry Plumb’s number in Dampford, but the phone just rings. She’s left the curtains open in the hope of seeing his headlights on the hill. But there’s been no traffic for hours.
She stops pacing and stares into the blackness.
It’s now 10:14 p.m. Famished Claire and Gloria can wait no longer. They go into the dining room. Cook is not pleased as her soufflé has collapsed. Claire is Gloria’s old school chum all the way from Warmsley some forty-five miles distant, so she’s staying a week. She’s keen to do some striding around the wild country with the dogs.
“Buck up, old girl. He’s probably just gone off,” says Claire.
“But he said he would be here for dinner.”
“Don’t worry, darling, he’s a man. Men just go off.”
“No, they don’t,” says Gloria.
“Nancy Frump is always losing her man. Last week, she took him shopping in Dingle. She left him outside the wool shop, and when she came out, he’d gone.”
“It happens all the time. He came back two days later.”
“Where had he been?”
“Oh! It’s no good asking questions like that! Men mumble incoherent nonsense about meeting a fellow and going off fishing, or they had to fill in for a cricket team, or some such rubbish.”
“Well, he’ll probably show up. They usually do.”
“Let’s hope so. I hope he is not hurt.”
They go off to bed. But Gloria Pettigrew’s mind is racing. Where can Mr. Plumb be? She thinks of Brandon Manley in his riding jacket to distract herself. Eventually, she sleeps, and dreams.