“It is!” Susan cried excitedly. “Look! Look!”
It was. And bright enough now to banish any doubts, though the glasses showed me no details.
I switched on again, and gave the V sign in Morse—it is the only Morse I know except S O S, so it had to do. While we watched the other light it blinked and then began a series of slow, deliberate longs and shorts which unfortunately meant nothing to me. I gave a couple more Vs for good measure, drew the approximate line of the far light on our map, and switched on the driving lights.
“Is that the lady?” asked Susan.
“It’s got to be,” I said. “It’s got to be.”
That was a poorish trip. To cross the low marshland it was necessary to take a road a little to the west of us and then work back to the east along the foot of the hills. Before we had gone more than a mile something cut off the sight of the light from us altogether, and to add to the difficulty of finding our way in the dark lanes, the rain began again in earnest. With no one to care for the drainage sluices, some fields were already flooded, and the water was over the road in places.
I had to drive with a tedious care when all my urge was to put my foot flat down.
Once we reached the farther side of the valley we were free of floodwater, but we made little better speed, for the lanes were full of primitive wanderings and improbable turns. I had to give the wheel all my attention while the child peered up at the hills beside us, watching for the reappearance of the light. We reached the point where the line on my map intersected with what appeared to be our present road without seeing a sign of it. I tried the next uphill turning.
It took about half an hour to get back to the road again from the chalk pit into which it led us.
We ran on farther along the lower road. Then Susan caught a glimmer between the branches to our right. The next turning was luckier. It took us back at a slant up the side of the hill until we were able to see a small, brilliantly lit square of window half a mile or more along the slope.
Even then, and with the map to help, it was not easy to find the lane that led to it. We lurched along, still climbing in low gear, but each time we caught sight of the window again it was a little closer. The lane had not been designed for ponderous trucks. In the narrower parts we had to push our way along it between bushes and brambles which scrabbled along the sides as though they tried to pull us back.
But at last there was a lantern waving in the road ahead. It moved on, swinging to show us the turn through a gate. Then it was set stationary on the ground. I drove to within a yard or two of it and stopped.
As I opened the door a flashlight shone suddenly into my eyes. I had a glimpse of a figure behind it in a raincoat shining with wetness.
A slight break marred the intended calm of the voice that spoke.
“Hullo, Bill. You’ve been a long time.”
I jumped down.
“Oh, Bill. I can’t——Oh, my dear, I’ve been hoping so much… Oh, Bill…” said Josella.
I had forgotten all about Susan until a voice came from above.
“You are getting wet, you silly. Why don’t you kiss her indoors?” it asked.
SHIRNING
The sense with which I arrived at Shirning Farm—the one that told me that most of my troubles were now over—is interesting only in showing how wide of the mark a sense can be. The sweeping of Josella into my arms went off pretty well, but its corollary of carrying her away forthwith to join the others at Tynsham did not, for several reasons.
Ever since her possible location had occurred to me I had pictured her—in, I must admit, a rather cinematic way—as battling bravely against all the forces of nature, et cetera, et cetera. In a fashion, I suppose she was, but the setup was a lot different from my imaginings. My simple plan of saying: “Jump aboard. We’re off to join Coker and his little gang,” had to go by the board. One might have known that things would not turn out so simply—on the other hand, it is surprising how often the better thing is disguised as the worse…