Devil's Peak. Brian Ball

about the prospect. But Jerry’s belly was full, and his mind was drowsily filled with a mild curiosity about the caff. The building could be old, but not seven or eight hundred years old like the other crumbling relics of Henry Plantagenet’s troubled reign. It was too much of an effort to ask any more questions, though. He was amazingly tired.

      The door swung open, causing a huge draught that brought a surly belch of flame and smoke into the room. Jerry looked round bewildered and saw the snow-covered slight figure trying to shut the door.

      “Oh no,” said Mrs. Raybould.

      “Well wheer else could we come!” Brenda yelled. “He’s stuck in a sodding drift miles down the Hagthorpe road. I came on. I weren’t staying to freeze out there!”

      She made for the fire and stood with the snow turning to big drops of water that fell on to Jerry’s bare feet.

      “She’ll have to stay,” said Sam Raybould.

      Mrs. Raybould glared and collected the dirty plates. Sam Raybould’s watery eyes were on the girl’s flushed face. There was an intent, feral look on his face.

      “I’ll get off to bed, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Raybould,” Jerry said. He hated confrontations, which was why Debbie had gone. She had said as much. Often. He was an intellectual, which meant that when he had to make decisions on ordinary everyday matters like rows, marriage, money, and where to live, he got confused. Debbie didn’t admire this trait. He knew it but refused to admit it to himself; when there were difficulties, he evaded them. She was a girl who took life head on. “All right, Mrs. Raybould?”

      She led the way, silently loathing the lorry-girl.