It was a damp, misty day and I felt I wanted to die. Nobody else was about, I was all alone in the fields.

A bit of newspaper was lying on the ground in front of me, so I took it up and began to read. There was a recipe for red cabbage pickle. I thought of it tasting cold and acid on my tongue, and it made me feel sick. I wondered if I would feel better if I had something hot to drink. I got up and walked wearily up the steep hill into the town again.

I saw a small café called the Blue Bird. It was steamy inside, with a smell of vegetables. The waitresses were dressed in flowered pinafores and there were sticky cakes on wire trays. I went upstairs and sat underneath a copper warming-pan. One of the waitresses came up to me and I ordered hot chocolate. I turned my blue plate over and saw that it had “Old Spode” written on the bottom. The people outside were walking up and down the narrow passage that led into the Close. I felt very miserable and the chocolate seemed to weigh me down inside instead of comforting me.

I began to hate Exeter so much that I decided to leave. Standing outside the café I tried to remember the way to Budleigh Salterton where we had once spent a summer.

I would walk to save money. My thoughts were more peaceful when I walked too.

I dodged down the High Street, crossing the road whenever I saw a policeman; I thought that they were all probably searching for me by now.

As I walked I felt the money in my pocket banging against my leg. I had less than a pound now. If only I could get a job! But I felt that I was not good for anything.

Passing a farm-yard I tried to go in and ask for work, but knew that I could not. A young labourer came out sitting high up on a cartload of steaming manure. The sun just caught him and I thought how splendid he looked. I wanted to help him fork the stinking manure out of the cart, but instead I just walked on.

       

I was so tired when I at last reached Budleigh Salterton that I went into the first inn I saw. I waited under the gas-light in the hall until a maid led me up narrow stairs and down a long corridor to a little room. It was high-ceilinged and the wallpaper was old, with a big green pattern of scrolls on it.

I pulled off my clothes and got into bed. The feel of the dirty rug on my bare feet was horrible. I had eaten nothing since lunch-time, but I was not hungry.

Soon I realized that my room was over the bar. The sound of talking and of glasses being knocked came up through the floor. It maddened me, I could not go to sleep. I lay awake long after the noises had stopped, watching the faint square of light from the window and listening to the sea rustling the stones on the beach.

       

The next morning I hurried through my breakfast, leaving the thick rashers and the remains of the egg on my plate.

Outside the sun was strong, and I walked along trying to decide what to do.

As I thought, I turned down a narrow lane and found myself in front of a comfortable thatched house. There swam into my mind the words of some people I had known in Switzerland:

“We live in the thatched house at Budleigh Salterton.”

A car was waiting outside the gate and I suddenly felt bold. I walked up the stone path between the neat flowerbeds and rang the bell. Mrs. Brandon herself came to the door.