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Constable’s wagon now on the inn sign, in place of George III, who was too unromantic to attract passing custom. Shunning the tearooms, which seemed exclusively geared up to the tourist trade, Graham picked on The Haywain for his lunch, with a menu of staple English fare such as scampi, baked potato with chili con carne, and lasagne. As he parked the car, Graham realized that he had driven through the village from end to end, but had seen no sign of a garage. Garages, like electric razors and plastic macs, had become things of the past.
    The Haywain, that lunchtime, was populated mainly by locals, by old and new residents. They were dressed casually, even sloppily, but they were yarning to each other, or to the landlord, swapping comments on the weather, the harvest, or the political situation, and—on his entry through the saloon bar door—fixing their eyes on the newcomer. Yes, mainly local: that was ideal.
    â€œI’ll have a pint of Bass…and the lasagne as well. You can dispense with the salad.”
    â€œNo salad? Will you have the chips then?”
    â€œOh, all right. With chips.” Arnold Wesker had been right all those years ago. It was chips with everything for the British. The landlord bustled off to the kitchen with the order, then came back to do his landlordly duties by the newcomer.
    â€œYou a stranger round here?” he asked, as he drew his pint.
    Graham nodded. “I am now, though I’m just over the border in Suffolk. I grew up in Colchester. I’m near Ipswich now, but I’m having a day off to drive round old haunts. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure that I was ever in Bidford as a boy.”
    â€œLots of folk pass through here,” said the landlord.
    â€œI can see that. I had a girlfriend here once, briefly, but I can’t recall that I ever visited her at home. I think her father had a garage here.”
    The all-male customer clientele looked at each other.
    â€œWell,” said the man immediately beside Graham at the bar, “that would have to be either Ted Somers or Wilf Bradby, who bought it off him. Going by your age, that is, which I’d guess as early or midforties.”
    â€œPretty spot-on,” said Graham, swallowing his dislike of people who guessed his age and got it right. “It was Ted Somers. I never met him, so far as I recall—which means I was never ‘taken home to meet the parents.’ ”
    â€œThat would be Peggy you were going with, then,” said the man. “She had one or two boyfriends that she didn’t take home to meet the parents. She was the apple of their eye. She’d want to be very sure before she took anyone home, because they’d have hit the roof if he hadn’t been up to scratch.”
    â€œMeaning nothing personal,” said the landlord hastily. “Where’s your manners, Percy?”
    â€œSorry,” said the man, not noticeably shamefaced. “Nothing personal at all. I’m Percy Sharp. I’ve lived here pretty much all my life, though I worked in Lavenham. We all remember the garage, because it was convenient. But neither Ted nor Wilf could make a go of it. Wilf sold it five years after he took it over. See the new houses next door to this place? That’s where the garage was.”
    Graham nodded. He’d wondered whether that was the case.
    â€œOwning a garage hasn’t been much of a recipe for success for years now,” he said. “Ted must have seen the signs at the beginning of the trend.”
    â€œHappen. But I don’t think he’d have moved if it hadn’t been for Peggy. I’d better not say any more. Nobody really knows the facts. And for all I know you could be the father.”
    There was a sniggering around the bar.
    â€œFor someone who isn’t going to say anything, Percy Sharp, you get your meaning across,” said the landlord.
    â€œIf she was pregnant when she moved away,” lied