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"I'm afraid not, Miss, not unless you go to the village."

"And how far's that?"

"Close on six miles."

Everything seemed to be six miles away from this god-awful hole. "I'd been hoping," she said, "there might be some place that sold tea and postcards. I want to send a postcard to my boy."

"No, Miss, there ain't nothing like that till you get to Doleham. Then you might find something at the post office."

Not if I'm on the bus, she thought; it won't stop for me to buy postcards. But I might get out there, of course, and walk the rest of the way.

"How far," she asked, "is Doleham village from the Manor?"

She almost expected him to say six miles, but this time he used another measure: "Maybe half an hour."

She couldn't walk half an hour in this heat, carrying her suitcase. And after all, it wasn't as if Michael had any idea of when she would be arriving at Doleham or anywhere else. The postcard would come to him out of the blue without any connections in time or place. And he would laugh with pleasure and almost talk as he showed his granny the new wonder that had appeared in his life. She would make a point of going to the village tomorrow.