Chapter 33: Tonbridge - The Golden Hours

‘Yes, I know you’ll drive safely,’ Mrs Tonbridge said. ‘I’m not saying you’ll drive dangerously. It’s just a . . . a good wish.’

‘Well, it sounded as if you thought I’ll drive dangerously,’ said Tonbridge, pained. ‘So I’d thank you not to say it. The length of time I’ve been driving I think you should know that you don’t have to worry about it.’

‘I’m not worrying about it,’ said Mrs Tonbridge. ‘Just saying it.’

‘Well, saying it seems to mean you mean it,’ said Tonbridge.

‘Well, of course I mean it,’ she said. ‘I just don’t mean it as an –’ oh, what was that word? The thing people cast? ‘– an aspersion,’ she said.

‘I don’t always care to be commented on,’ said Mr Tonbridge.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I wasn’t commenting. I wasn’t finding you wanting. It’s more like when a person says Happy Christmas, they’re not saying you’re going to have a sad Christmas.’

Mr Tonbridge felt this, too, was criticism. Now she was saying he was oversensitive. Or insensitive. He wasn’t sure which.

‘As you wish, my dear,’ he said, and let it lie, because he needed to check the tyre pressures before loading Mr Hugh’s bags. Mrs Hugh was coming too, so sadly there wouldn’t be the relaxed conversation about politics that he so enjoyed when driving alone with Mr Hugh. Mrs Hugh had a tendency to join in, poor lady. She had nothing much to say and it set the tone slightly wrong with the men. Mr Hugh was patient with her and pretended to listen, but while that was going on of course it was not Tonbridge’s place to join in. And they might even close the partition, which Mr Hugh never did when he was alone.

It was curious, Tonbridge sometimes thought, how his place remained the same while the world itself changed so drastically. Look at Miss Polly, in and out of the kitchen as if she were still a little girl, and not a grown-up countess. She might just ask Mrs T for a lick of the cake spoon. Are things exactly the same, or mortally different? He gave a rattly little snort of laughter at the thought.

‘What are you laughing about?’ said Mrs Tonbridge, so he could see she was still a bit nettled. He wouldn’t risk further nettling by saying anything more. One thing a day was quite enough. ‘As you wish, my dear,’ he said again, and then she looked sorry, so he patted her arm as he headed off to the garages in the back courtyard. Some things never changed, and on the list was the preparation of GUN 97 for a trip: checking the oil, peering down the partition slot for lolly sticks, putting the town cap on for His Lordship, replacing it with the mascot for Mr Hugh, and allowing the children the honour of doing the unscrewing and screwing up again.

Tonbridge did not refer to the Flying Lady as the Spirit of Ecstasy. He’d heard the stories, about the exotic dancer, Miss Thornton. It was all rather improper if you asked him. Which nobody did.