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Amabel waited politely at the door until they had driven away then went to put the money in the old tea caddy on the kitchen dresser. It added substantially to the contents but it had been hard earned!
The rooms, as she’d expected, had been left in a disgraceful state. She flung open the window, stripped beds and set about turning them back to their usual pristine appearance. It was still early, and it was a splendid morning, so she filled the washing machine and started on the breakfast dishes.
By midday everything was just as it should be. She made sandwiches and took them and a mug of coffee out to the orchard with Cyril and Oscar for company, and sat down to read the letter from her mother the postman had brought. Everything was splendid, she wrote. The baby was thriving and she had decided to stay another few weeks, if Amabel could manage for a little longer—For I don’t suppose I’ll be able to visit here for a year or two, unless something turns up.
Which was true enough, and it made sense too. Her mother had taken out a loan so that she could go to Canada, and even though it was a small one it would have to be paid off before she went again.
Amabel put the letter in her pocket, divided the rest of her sandwich between Cyril and Oscar and went back into the house. There was always the chance that someone would come around teatime and ask for a meal, so she would make a cake and a batch of scones.
It was as well that she did; she had just taken them out of the Aga when the doorbell rang and two elderly ladies enquired if she would give them bed and breakfast.
They had come in an old Morris, and, while well-spoken and tidily dressed, she judged them to be not too free with their money. But they looked nice and she had a kind heart.
‘If you would share a twin-bedded room?’ she suggested. ‘The charge is the same for two people as one.’ She told them how much and added, ‘Two breakfasts, of course, and if you would like tea?’
They glanced at each other. ‘Thank you. Would you serve us a light supper later?’
‘Certainly. If you would fetch your cases? The car can go into the barn at the side of the house.’
Amabel gave them a good tea, and while they went for a short walk, she got supper—salmon fish cakes, of tinned salmon, of course, potatoes whipped to a satiny smoothness, and peas from the garden. She popped an egg custard into the oven by way of afters and was rewarded by their genteel thanks.
She ate her own supper in the kitchen, took them a pot of tea and wished them goodnight. In the morning she gave them boiled eggs, toast and marmalade and a pot of coffee, and all with a generous hand.
She hadn’t made much money, but it had been nice to see their elderly faces light up. And they had left her a tip, discreetly put on one of the bedside tables. As for the bedroom, they had left it so neat it was hard to see that anyone had been in it.
She added the money to the tea caddy and decided that tomorrow she would go to the village and pay it into the post office account, stock up on groceries and get meat from the butcher’s van which called twice a week at the village.
It was a lovely morning again, and her spirits rose despite her disappointment at her mother’s delayed return home. She wasn’t doing too badly with bed and breakfast, and she was adding steadily to their savings. There were the winter months to think of, of course, but she might be able to get a part-time job once her mother was home.
She went into the garden to pick peas, singing cheerfully and slightly off key.
Nobody came that day, and the following day only a solitary woman on a walking holiday came in the early evening; she went straight to bed after a pot of tea and left the next morning after an early breakfast.
After she had gone, Amabel discovered that she had taken the towels with her.
Two disappointing days, reflected Amabel. I wonder what will happen tomorrow?
She was up early again, for there was no point in lying in bed when it was daylight soon after five o’clock. She breakfasted, tidied the house, did a pile of ironing before the day got too hot, and then wandered out to the bench in the orchard. It was far too early for any likely person to want a room, and she would hear if a car stopped in the lane.
But of course one didn’t hear a Rolls Royce, for it made almost no sound.
Dr Fforde got out and stood looking at the house. It was a pleasant place, somewhat in need of small repairs and a lick of paint, but its small windows shone and the brass knocker on its solid front door was burnished to a dazzling brightness. He trod round the side of the house, past the barn, and saw Amabel sitting between Cyril and Oscar. Since she was a girl who couldn’t abide being idle, she was shelling peas.
He stood watching her for a moment, wondering why he had wanted to see her again. True, she had interested him, so small, plain and pot valiant, and so obviously terrified of the storm—and very much at the mercy of undesirable characters who might choose to call. Surely she had an aunt or cousin who could come and stay with her?
It was none of his business, of course, but it had seemed a good idea to call and see her since he was on his way to Glastonbury.
He stepped onto the rough gravel of the yard so that she looked up.
She got to her feet, and her smile left him in no doubt that she was glad to see him.
He said easily, ‘Good morning. I’m on my way to Glastonbury. Have you quite recovered from the storm?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She added honestly, ‘But I was frightened, you know. I was so very glad when you and your mother came.’
She collected up the colander of peas and came towards him. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table and thought how restful she was; she had seemed glad to see him, but she had probably learned to give a welcoming smile to anyone who knocked on the door. Certainly she had displayed no fuss at seeing him.
He said on an impulse, ‘Will you have lunch with me? There’s a pub—the Old Boot in Underthorn—fifteen minutes’ drive from here. I don’t suppose you get any callers before the middle of the afternoon?’
She poured the coffee and fetched a tin of biscuits.
‘But you’re on your way to Glastonbury…’
‘Yes, but not expected until teatime. And it’s such a splendid day.’ When she hesitated he said, ‘We could take Cyril with us.’
She said then, ‘Thank you; I should like that. But I must be back soon after two o’clock; it’s Saturday…’
They went back to the orchard presently, and sat on the bench while Amabel finished shelling the peas. Oscar had got onto the doctor’s knee and Cyril had sprawled under his feet. They talked idly about nothing much and Amabel, quite at her ease, now answered his carefully put questions without realising just how much she was telling him until she stopped in mid-sentence, aware that her tongue was running away with her. He saw that at once and began to talk about something else.
They drove to the Old Boot Inn just before noon and found a table on the rough grass at its back. There was a small river, overshadowed by trees, and since it was early there was no one else there. They ate home-made pork pies with salad, and drank iced lemonade which the landlord’s wife made herself. Cyril sat at their feet with a bowl of water and a biscuit.
The landlord, looking at them from the bar window, observed to his wife, ‘Look happy, don’t they?’
And they were, all three of them, although the doctor hadn’t identified his feeling as happiness, merely pleasant content at the glorious morning and the undemanding company.
He drove Amabel back presently and, rather to her surprise, parked the car in the yard behind the house, got out, took the door key from her and unlocked the back door.
Oscar came to meet them and he stooped to stroke him. ‘May I sit in the orchard for a little while?’ he asked. ‘I seldom get the chance to sit quietly in such peaceful surroundings.’
Amabel stopped herself just in time from saying, ‘You poor man,’ and said instead, ‘Of course you may, for as long as you like. Would you like a cup of tea, or an apple?’
So he sat on the bench chewing an apple, with Oscar on his knee, aware that his reason for sitting there was to cast an eye over any likely guests in the hope that before he went a respectable middle-aged pair would have decided to stay.
He was to have his wish. Before very long a middleaged pair did turn up, with mother-in-law, wishing to stay for two nights. It was absurd, he told himself, that he should feel concern. Amabel was a perfectly capable young woman, and able to look after herself; besides, she had a telephone.
He went to the open kitchen door and found her there, getting tea.
‘I must be off,’ he told her. ‘Don’t stop what you’re doing. I enjoyed my morning.’
She was cutting a large cake into neat slices. ‘So did I. Thank you for my lunch.’ She smiled at him. ‘Go carefully, Dr Fforde.’
She carried the tea tray into the drawing room and went back to the kitchen. They were three nice people—polite, and anxious not to be too much trouble. ‘An evening meal?’ they had asked diffidently, and had accepted her offer of jacket potatoes and salad, fruit tart and coffee with pleased smiles. They would go for a short walk presently, the man told her, and when would she like to serve their supper?
When they had gone she made the tart, put the potatoes in the oven and went to the vegetable patch by the orchard to get a lettuce and radishes. There was no hurry, so she sat down on the bench and thought about the day.
She had been surprised to see the doctor again. She had been pleased too. She had thought about him, but she hadn’t expected to see him again; when she had looked up and seen him standing there it had been like seeing an old friend.
‘Nonsense,’ said Amabel loudly. ‘He came this morning because he wanted a cup of coffee.’ What about taking you out to lunch? asked a persistent voice at the back of her mind.
‘He’s probably a man who doesn’t like to eat alone.’
And, having settled the matter, she went back to the kitchen.
The three guests intended to spend Sunday touring around the countryside. They would return at tea time and could they have supper? They added that they would want to leave early the next morning, which left Amabel with almost all day free to do as she wanted.
There was no need for her to stay at the house; she didn’t intend to let the third room if anyone called. She would go to church and then spend a quiet afternoon with the Sunday paper.
She liked going to church, for she met friends and acquaintances and could have a chat, and at the same time assure anyone who asked that her mother would be coming home soon and that she herself was perfectly content on her own. She was aware that some of the older members of the congregation didn’t approve of her mother’s trip and thought that at the very least some friend or cousin should have moved in with Amabel.
It was something she and her mother had discussed at some length, until her mother had burst into tears, declaring that she wouldn’t be able to go to Canada. Amabel had said at once that she would much rather be on her own, so her mother had gone, and Amabel had written her a letter each week, giving light-hearted and slightly optimistic accounts of the bed and breakfast business.
Her mother had been gone for a month now; she had phoned when she had arrived and since then had written regularly, although she still hadn’t said when she would be returning.
Amabel, considering the matter while Mr Huggett, the church warden, read the first lesson, thought that her mother’s next letter would certainly contain news of her return. Not for the world would she admit, even to herself, that she didn’t much care for living on her own. She was, in fact, uneasy at night, even though the house was locked and securely bolted.
She kept a stout walking stick which had belonged to her father by the front door, and a rolling pin handy in the kitchen, and there was always the phone; she had only to lift it and dial 999!
Leaving the church presently, and shaking hands with the vicar, she told him cheerfully that her mother would be home very soon.
‘You are quite happy living there alone, Amabel? You have friends to visit you, I expect?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘And there’s so much to keep me busy. The garden and the bed and breakfast people keep me occupied.’
He said with vague kindness, ‘Nice people, I hope, my dear?’
‘I’m careful who I take,’ she assured him.
It was seldom that any guests came on a Monday; Amabel cleaned the house, made up beds and checked the fridge, made herself a sandwich and went to the orchard to eat it. It was a pleasant day, cool and breezy, just right for gardening.
She went to bed quite early, tired with the digging, watering and weeding. Before she went to sleep she allowed her thoughts to dwell on Dr Fforde. He seemed like an old friend, but she knew nothing about him. Was he married? Where did he live? Was he a GP, or working at a hospital? He dressed well and drove a Rolls Royce, and he had family or friends somewhere on the other side of Glastonbury. She rolled over in bed and closed her eyes. It was none of her business anyway…
The fine weather held and a steady trickle of tourists knocked on the door. The tea caddy was filling up nicely again; her mother would be delighted. The week slid imperceptibly into the next one, and at the end of it there was a letter from her mother. The postman arrived with it at the same time as a party of four—two couples sharing a car on a brief tour—so that Amabel had to put it in her pocket until they had been shown their rooms and had sat down to tea.
She went into the kitchen, got her own tea and sat down to read it.
It was a long letter, and she read it through to the end—and then read it again. She had gone pale, and drank her cooling tea with the air of someone unaware of what they were doing, but presently she picked up the letter and read it for the third time.
Her mother wasn’t coming home. At least not for several months. She had met someone and they were to be married shortly.
I know you will understand. And you’ll like him. He’s a market gardener, and we plan to set up a garden centre from the house. There’s plenty of room and he will build a large glasshouse at the bottom of the orchard. Only he must sell his own market garden first, which may take some months.
It will mean that we shan’t need to do bed and breakfast any more, although I hope you’ll keep on with it until we get back. You’re doing so well. I know that the tourist season is quickly over but we hope to be back before Christmas.
The rest of the letter was a detailed description of her husband-to-be and news too, of her sister and the baby.
You’re such a sensible girl, her mother concluded, and I’m sure you’re enjoying your independence. Probably when we get back you will want to start a career on your own.
Amabel was surprised, she told herself, but there was no reason for her to feel as though the bottom had dropped out of her world; she was perfectly content to stay at home until her mother and stepfather should return, and it was perfectly natural for her mother to suppose that she would like to make a career for herself.
Amabel drank the rest of the tea, now stewed and cold. She would have plenty of time to decide what kind of career she would like to have.
That evening, her guests in their rooms, she sat down with pen and paper and assessed her accomplishments. She could cook—not quite cordon bleu, perhaps, but to a high standard—she could housekeep, change plugs, cope with basic plumbing. She could tend a garden… Her pen faltered. There was nothing else.
She had her A levels, but circumstances had never allowed her to make use of them. She would have to train for something and she would have to make up her mind what that should be before her mother came home. But training cost money, and she wasn’t sure if there would be any. She could get a job and save enough to train…
She sat up suddenly, struck by a sudden thought. Waitresses needed no training, and there would be tips. In one of the larger towns, of course. Taunton or Yeovil? Or what about one of the great estates run by the National Trust? They had shops and tearooms and house guides. The more she thought about it, the better she liked it.
She went to bed with her decision made. Now it was just a question of waiting until her mother and her stepfather came home.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS almost a week later when she had the next letter, but before that her mother had phoned. She was so happy, she’d said excitedly; they planned to marry in October— Amabel didn’t mind staying at home until they returned? Probably in November?
‘It’s only a few months, Amabel, and just as soon as we’re home Keith says you must tell us what you want to do and we’ll help you do it. He’s so kind and generous. Of course if he sells his business quickly we shall come home as soon as we can arrange it.’
Amabel had heard her mother’s happy little laugh. ‘I’ve written you a long letter about the wedding. Joyce and Tom are giving a small reception for us, and I’ve planned such a pretty outfit—it’s all in the letter…’
The long letter when it arrived was bursting with excitement and happiness.
You have no idea how delightful it is not to have to worry about the future, to have someone to look after me—you too, of course. Have you decided what you want to do when we get home? You must be so excited at the idea of being independent; you have had such a dull life since you left school…
But a contented one, reflected Amabel. Helping to turn their bed and breakfast business into a success, knowing that she was wanted, feeling that she and her mother were making something of their lives. And now she must start all over again.
It would be nice to wallow in self-pity, but there were two people at the door asking if she could put them up for the night…
Because she was tired she slept all night, although the moment she woke thoughts came tumbling into her head which were better ignored, so she got up earlier than usual and went outside in her dressing gown with a mug of tea and Cyril and Oscar for company.
It was pleasant sitting on the bench in the orchard in the early-morning sun, and in its cheerful light it was impossible to be gloomy. It would be nice, though, to be able to talk to someone about her future…
Dr Fforde’s large, calm person came into her mind’s eye; he would have listened and told her what she should do. She wondered what he was doing…
Dr Fforde was sitting on the table in the kitchen of his house, the end one in a short terrace of Regency houses in a narrow street tucked away behind Wimpole Street in London. He was wearing a tee shirt and elderly trousers and badly needed a shave; he had the appearance of a ruffian—a handsome ruffian. There was a half-eaten apple on the table beside him and he was taking great bites from a thick slice of bread and butter. He had been called out just after two o’clock that morning to operate on a patient with a perforated duodenal ulcer; there had been complications which had kept him from his bed and now he was on his way to shower and get ready for his day.
He finished his bread and butter, bent to fondle the sleek head of the black Labrador sitting beside him, and went to the door. It opened as he reached it. The youngish man who came in was already dressed, immaculate in a black alpaca jacket and striped trousers. He had a sharp-nosed foxy face, and dark hair brushed to a satin smoothness.
He stood aside for the doctor and wished him a severe good morning.
‘Out again, sir?’ His eye fell on the apple core. ‘You had only to call me. I’d have got you a nice hot drink and a sandwich…’
The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I know you would, Bates. I’ll be down in half an hour for one of your special breakfasts. I disturbed Tiger; would you let him out into the garden?’
He went up the graceful little staircase to his room, his head already filled with thoughts of the day ahead of him. Amabel certainly had no place in them.
Half an hour later he was eating the splendid breakfast Bates had carried through to the small sitting room at the back of the house. Its French windows opened onto a small patio and a garden beyond where Tiger was meandering round. Presently he came to sit by his master, to crunch bacon rinds and then accompany him on a brisk walk through the still quiet streets before the doctor got into his car and drove the short distance to the hospital.
Amabel saw her two guests on their way, got the room ready for the next occupants and then on a sudden impulse went to the village and bought the regional weekly paper at the post office. Old Mr Truscott, who ran it and knew everyone’s business, took his time giving her her change.
