This didn’t make me unflappable, but I had simmered down a bit which was just as well, since it was time to carry out my third assignment. In stories, agents never receive their instructions on lavatory doors. It felt disrespectful, and I wondered whether the chaps who don’t mess around had chosen this way of showing their displeasure at my blabbing all over Farmer Giles. If so, I suppose I got off lightly. It was a foggy morning, and I’m not talking about mist. Everywhere was clotted with thick yellow stuff you could nearly gather by the armful and pile into a barrow. It was like cotton wool some giant had cleaned his filthy ears out with. I had to bike at about four miles a fortnight all the way to Myra Shay. It’s a good job I’m familiar with the route, or I’d never have found the place at all. When I did, the grass was cold and sodden. When I stretched out my arm my hand was invisible. If anybody else was barmy enough to be here, I didn’t see ’em. In fact, Hitler could’ve landed three airborne divisions on Myra Shay that morning and nobody would’ve been any the wiser.
