An upward climb, a perilously fast descent, a corner taken a trifle too fine, a sharp flint, a burst front tyre, and at a point where two roads crossed the veteran car almost somersaulted into a ditch, wrecked beyond hope of repair. They were doing forty when it happened and it was a miracle they escaped with their lives.
Flora was first to scramble over the tilted side and survey the ruins of their hopes. Anthony still wrapped in his mother's cloak followed and shook his head over the extent of the damage.
"You hurt?" he asked.
"No. Are you?"
"I'm all right. What happened?"
"Front tyre. Wheel fairly kicked out of my hand."
"It's damn bad luck," said Anthony.
"Brutal." She bent over and switched off her lights. "What are we going to do?"
He looked at a sign-post, knocked crooked by the car when it plunged off the metal into the ditch.
"This road leads from Oxshott—London that way. With any luck we might get a lift."