The woman heads up to the counter. “Excuse me, I want to get to Bromwood Station.” She addresses the boss-man, in a middle-class, refined, accent.
“Well, there’s only one bus on a Sunday,” he replies, while polishing the pint-glass, he is holding, with a cloth, “and it left ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, I know,” she says, already resigned to this. “Can I get a cab?”
“Not from around here, I’m afraid.” He pauses. “Hang on a minute …”
The boss-man walks over to Jim, the trucker, who is sitting at the other end of the counter. Jim’s had a few by now. “You’re heading for Bromwood, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” the trucker replies, with slurred speech, “but no passengers.”
The young blond guy is quietly keeping an eye on things, from a distance. He walks over to the counter to settle up his bill with Doris, the waitress, and also to get within earshot of the posh lady, who is waiting expectantly for the boss-man to come back over.
The blond guy looks presentable enough, wearing grey flannel trousers, a dark-brown open jacket, and a light-blue casual shirt. The girl is wearing a lightish-coloured coat, with pockets, over a dark open-neck top with buttons on it, and a loose-fitting skirt. The pair would probably make a good match, judging by their style, manner, and attire.
“Aw, c’mon,” says the boss-man, persuasively, to Jim, the trucker, “you can’t let her walk... what, with a maniac on the loose…”
Jim looks over towards the innocent-looking girl, standing by the counter, but with lecherous thoughts on his drunken mind.
