Bloody Good. Georgia Evans

sergeant.

      “Any time, son. Any time.”

      “Don’t leave it too late,” Gloria said. “The buses are dreadful on a Sunday.”

      That was putting it mildly. Half the time they never ran at all. Lack of fuel was the excuse. And it might possibly be true.

      “That’s right,” the sergeant agreed, “and you’ll have bags with you. Listen, lad, if the conductor gives you any guff, you tell him that you’ve been assigned here and you need to report.”

      Fat lot of difference that would make. Last week one of them refused to let Doris on with her toddler’s pushchair.

      “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.” Alice all but christened herself with tea. What in the name of heaven made her say that? She remembered to close her gaping mouth but the look on his face showed he was as thunderstruck as she was. He managed to close his mouth pretty fast, too.

      “Are you sure?”

      Not in the least. Or rather she was definitely sure she didn’t mean the offer.

      “It’s awfully nice of you, but what about the petrol?”

      He was giving her the perfect grounds to withdraw her idiotic offer. “That’s alright. I’ve a patient to check up on in the hospital in Dorking and I need to go over to the Watson farm and see how Melanie and her twins are doing.”

      Gloria had good reason to stare. Not five minutes before Peter and Sergeant Pendragon arrived, she’d told Alice about her own visit there that morning. Twins seemed to be doing well; the rest of the household was permanently bleary-eyed from lack of sleep.

      Oh well! She’d offered. She was committed. She’d make the best of it. “Can’t guarantee the exact time. Depends on how long my calls take and if there’s an emergency.” Heaven help her it was impossible! “Do you have a phone number?” She could call and cancel, couldn’t she? As long as she gave him time to get a bus.

      He shook his head. “Not in my billet. There’s the phone at the ambulance depot of course.” He sounded as thrilled at the idea of using that as anyone would be at the prospect of that weasly Sid Mosely censoring phone calls.

      “Never mind. I might be late but I’ll be there.” Like the soft-headed twerp she obviously was. “I’ll need directions.”

      “Tell you what, why not meet me at the bus station? If you’re held up, I can sit and read. And if you really get late, I can always try my luck with the buses.”

      If she let him down, he meant. “I’ll try to get there by five. Before dark.”

      That seemed to be it. They both declined Gloria’s offer of a second cup—Peter Watson to catch the bus, and Sergeant Pendragon to “take a stroll.” On a Friday night there was only one possible direction for that stroll: the Pig and Whistle.

      “You don’t like him, do you?” Gloria said after both men were safely down the path and out in the lane.

      “Who?” Playing thick was useless with Gloria. They’d known each other too long for that.

      “I wasn’t talking about Howell Pendragon.”

      No. Alice shrugged. “I don’t know. Just something about him.” It was on the tip of her tongue to spill all Peter Watson’s unsavory past and perfidious present but…

      “Well, if you don’t fancy him, why offer to drive over and pick him up? But if you really don’t, I do. I think he’s dishy. Those gorgeous dark eyes and that smile.” She let out a little sigh. And Alice stifled the utterly irrational spike of…definitely not jealousy.

      “I don’t know what you see in him, Gloria, honestly.”

      “Alice, he’s smashing looking, he’s going to make our lives easier, and…” She paused. “He looks like the sort of man who can always find a taxi when it’s raining.”

      Was she laughing because she agreed or because Gloria’s claims were so preposterous? Peter Watson did have an air of competence. Picked up at Blundells no doubt. Just as her brothers had acquired their polish at Epsom College. Mind you, that was where the resemblance ended. Simon and Alan were doing their bit for King and Country.

      “Something wrong?” Gloria asked. “You’re scowling. Got a headache?”

      Only a big one called Peter Watson. “Just tired. I need an early night.”

      “You’d be better off coming into Leatherhead to the dance hall with June Groves and me. Why don’t you?”

      Now that was a thought. “No. Thank you for asking. I need to do paperwork and really should work out some sort of rota for next week and talk to Mr. Barron up at the plant and decide how to split this Peter Watson between us.”

      Gloria chuckled as she gathered up the cups and plates and piled them in the sink. “Don’t dismember him completely, Alice. We need his body in one piece!”

      Driving the short distance up the hill home, Gloria’s words echoed in Alice’s mind. Half of her would love to dismember Peter Watson limb from limb to let him pay for his refusal to join up, but Gloria was right: He was good looking. Pleasant, intelligent, and yes, his skills as an assistant were welcome as the proverbial flowers in the spring, but that was it. She had far, far better things to do with her time than dwell on the man’s smile and the shameless “come hither” glint of his eyes.

      And she, senseless twit that she was, had freely volunteered to drive over to Dorking and give him a lift. She needed her brains examining.