‘There’s the chance of a Ford Prefect,’ he told Isabel, with a quirking smile that hid his pride. ‘But how can we afford it?’ asked Isabel. ‘It’s ancient. It belonged to one of Dr Ingoldby’s patients.’ ‘Is he going to let you have it cheaply?’ ‘The old chap’s dead, and his wife doesn’t drive. I went out to see the car yesterday. It’s in wonderful condition, Is! I shouldn’t think they’ve had it out of the garage for years. It’ll need new tyres and a complete overhaul, but then it’ll go like a bird.’ Isabel did not drive. Perhaps she would learn, but even then, Philip would need the car every day. Once morning surgery in town was over, he would drive miles and miles between scattered villages and isolated farms. It was bare, lonely, rich country. Dr Ingoldby said that Philip had the right stuff in him. He would bat through evening surgery, and then go out on night calls without a murmur. The long hours seemed to stimulate rather than exhaust him. He could get up fresh from four or five hours’ sleep, while Isabel blundered around the stove, barely able to speak.
