They had pitched the tent in a meadow vacated by gypsies, outside a well-to-do town in Hertfordshire. Harry went into a corner shop for five Woodbines and spotted the postcard in the window, advertising for a chauffeur.

'Now, driving I can do,' he reasoned.

Harry and Miriam's rooms were such a long bike-ride away in the East End that he might be thought to live at too great a distance from the job, so Harry and the shopkeeper came to an agreement. Harry would give him a can of petrol and the shopkeeper would allow Harry to use his address. Harry hurried back to the tent, shaved twice - for extra smoothness - cleaned his teeth with forefinger and a pinch of salt, changed into the clean white shirt from his holdall, rubbed his face and hair with a spot of horse liniment to make them shiny and healthy-looking, and borrowed Solly's best blue serge trousers. They were too big for him, so he bunched them up with a belt. He rubbed damp soot from the lorry engine into his threadbare cap and the lapels of his blazer to darken them, and stuffed fresh strips of newspaper into his shoes.

 

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