You’d be good.’ Lindy had been explaining, with the greatest of good-humour, exactly why it was that she had changed gear on this hill but not on the previous one. Why couldn’t she lose her temper, like other drivers, thought Rosamund crossly. Why must she remain bright and serene in the midst of this chaos of Sunday traffic inching its way out of London, and at the same time answer fully and sympathetically all Geoffrey’s eager, amateurish questions? For after all these years of anti-car prejudice, Geoffrey had overnight become as excited as a schoolboy over the idea of learning to drive. Excited as schoolboys were supposed to be, that is to say, thought Rosamund wryly, from her corner of the back seat. Not like the two schoolboys she had left sitting side by side on the kitchen table, slowly finishing an entire tin of rock cakes while they discussed the gloomy future of the world: just like a pair of vultures, Rosamund thought, hovering arrogantly over the entire decaying universe as if it were their rightful prey.
