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‘Didn’t know you were interested in the Gazette, nothing much in it but births, marriages and deaths.’ He fixed her with a beady eye. ‘And adverts, of course. Now if anyone was looking for a job it’s a paper I’d recommend.’
Amabel said brightly, ‘I dare say it’s widely read, Mr Truscott. While I’m here I’d better have some more air mail letters.’
‘Your ma’s not coming home yet, then? Been gone a long time, I reckon.’
‘She’s staying a week or two longer; she might not get the chance to visit my sister again for a year or two. It’s a long way to go for just a couple of weeks.
Over her lunch she studied the jobs page. There were heartening columns of vacancies for waitresses: the basic wage was fairly low, but if she worked full-time she could manage very well… And Stourhead, the famous National Trust estate, wanted shop assistants, help in the tearooms and suitable applicants for full-time work in the ticket office. And none of them were wanted until the end of September.
It seemed too good to be true, but all the same she cut the ad out and put it with the bed and breakfast money in the tea caddy.
A week went by, and then another. Summer was almost over. The evenings were getting shorter, and, while the mornings were light still, there was the ghost of a nip in the air. There had been more letters from Canada from her mother and future stepfather, and her sister, and during the third week her mother had telephoned; they were married already—now it was just a question of selling Keith’s business.
‘We hadn’t intended to marry so soon but there was no reason why we shouldn’t, and of course I’ve moved in with him,’ she said. ‘So if he can sell his business soon we shall be home before long. We have such plans…!’
There weren’t as many people knocking on the door now; Amabel cleaned and polished the house, picked the last of the soft fruit to put in the freezer and cast an eye over the contents of the cupboards.
With a prudent eye to her future she inspected her wardrobe—a meagre collection of garments, bought with an eye to their long-lasting qualities, in good taste but which did nothing to enhance her appearance.
Only a handful of people came during the week, and no one at all on Saturday. She felt low-spirited—owing to the damp and gloomy weather, she told herself—and even a brisk walk with Cyril didn’t make her feel any better. It was still only early afternoon and she sat down in the kitchen, with Oscar on her lap, disinclined to do anything.
She would make herself a pot of tea, write to her mother, have an early supper and go to bed. Soon it would be the beginning of another week; if the weather was better there might be a satisfying number of tourists—and besides, there were plenty of jobs to do in the garden. So she wrote her letter, very bright and cheerful, skimming over the lack of guests, making much of the splendid apple crop and how successful the soft fruit had been. That done, she went on sitting at the kitchen table, telling herself that she would make the tea.
Instead of that she sat, a small sad figure, contemplating a future which held problems. Amabel wasn’t a girl given to self-pity, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, but she cried now, quietly and without fuss, a damp Oscar on her lap, Cyril’s head pressed against her legs. She made no attempt to stop; there was no one there to see, and now that the rain was coming down in earnest no one would want to stop for the night.
Dr Fforde had a free weekend, but he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. He had lunched on Saturday with friends, amongst whom had been Miriam Potter-Stokes, an elegant young widow who was appearing more and more frequently in his circle of friends. He felt vaguely sorry for her, admired her for the apparently brave face she was showing to the world, and what had been a casual friendship now bid fair to become something more serious—on her part at least.
He had found himself agreeing to drive her down to Henley after lunch, and once there had been forced by good manners to stay at her friend’s home for tea. On the way back to London she had suggested that they might have dinner together.
He had pleaded a prior engagement and gone back to his home feeling that his day had been wasted. She was an amusing companion, pretty and well dressed, but he had wondered once or twice what she was really like. Certainly he enjoyed her company from time to time, but that was all…
He took Tiger for a long walk on Sunday morning and after lunch got into his car. It was no day for a drive into the country, and Bates looked his disapproval.
‘Not going to Glastonbury in this weather, I hope, sir?’ he observed.
‘No, no. Just a drive. Leave something cold for my supper, will you?’
Bates looked offended. When had he ever forgotten to leave everything ready before he left the house?
‘As always, sir,’ he said reprovingly.
It wasn’t until he was driving west through the quiet city streets that Dr Fforde admitted to himself that he knew where he was going. Watching the carefully nurtured beauty of Miriam Potter-Stokes had reminded him of Amabel. He had supposed, in some amusement, because the difference in the two of them was so marked. It would be interesting to see her again. Her mother would be back home by now, and he doubted if there were many people wanting bed and breakfast now that summer had slipped into a wet autumn.
He enjoyed driving, and the roads, once he was clear of the suburbs, were almost empty. Tiger was an undemanding companion, and the countryside was restful after the bustle of London streets.
The house, when he reached it, looked forlorn; there were no open windows, no signs of life. He got out of the car with Tiger and walked round the side of the house; he found the back door open.
Amabel looked up as he paused at the door. He thought that she looked like a small bedraggled brown hen. He said, ‘Hello, may we come in?’ and bent to fondle the two dogs, giving her time to wipe her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Tiger’s quite safe with Cyril, and he likes cats.’
Amabel stood up, found a handkerchief and blew her nose. She said in a social kind of voice, ‘Do come in. Isn’t it an awful day? I expect you’re on your way to Glastonbury. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to make one.’
‘Thank you, that would be nice.’ He had come into the kitchen now, reaching up to tickle a belligerent Oscar under the chin. ‘I’m sorry Tiger’s frightened your cat. I don’t suppose there are many people about on a day like this—and your mother isn’t back yet?’
She said in a bleak little voice, ‘No…’ and then to her shame and horror burst into floods of tears.
Dr Fforde sat her down in the chair again. He said comfortably, ‘I’ll make the tea and you shall tell me all about it. Have a good cry; you’ll feel better. Is there any cake?’
Amabel said in a small wailing voice, ‘But I’ve been crying and I don’t feel any better.’ She gave a hiccough before adding, ‘And now I’ve started again.’ She took the large white handkerchief he offered her. ‘The cake’s in a tin in the cupboard in the corner.’
He put the tea things on the table and cut the cake, found biscuits for the dogs and spooned cat food onto a saucer for Oscar, who was still on top of a cupboard. Then he sat down opposite Amabel and put a cup of tea before her.
‘Drink some of that and then tell me why you are crying. Don’t leave anything out, for I’m merely a ship which is passing in the night, so you can say what you like and it will be forgotten—rather like having a bag of rubbish and finding an empty dustbin…’
She smiled then. ‘You make it sound so—so normal…’ She sipped her tea. ‘I’m sorry I’m behaving so badly.’
He cut the cake and gave her a piece, before saying matter-of-factly, ‘Is your mother’s absence the reason? Is she ill?’
‘Ill? No, no. She’s married someone in Canada…’
It was such a relief to talk to someone about it. It all came tumbling out: a hotch-potch of market gardens, plans for coming back and the need for her to be independent as soon as possible.
He listened quietly, refilling their cups, his eyes on her blotched face, and when she had at last finished her muddled story, he said, ‘And now you have told me you feel better about it, don’t you? It has all been bottled up inside you, hasn’t it? Going round inside your head like butter in a churn. It has been a great shock to you, and shocks should be shared. I won’t offer you advice, but I will suggest that you do nothing—make no plans, ignore your future—until your mother is home. I think that you may well find that you have been included in their plans and that you need no worries about your future. I can see that you might like to become independent, but don’t rush into it. You’re young enough to stay at home while they settle in, and that will give you time to decide what you want to do.’
When she nodded, he added, ‘Now, go and put your hair up and wash your face. We’re going to Castle Cary for supper.’
She gaped at him. ‘I can’t possibly…’
‘Fifteen minutes should be time enough.’
She did her best with her face, and piled her hair neatly, then got into a jersey dress, which was an off the peg model, but of a pleasing shade of cranberry-red, stuck her feet into her best shoes and went back into the kitchen. Her winter coat was out of date and shabby, and for once she blessed the rain, for it meant that she could wear her mac.
Their stomachs nicely filled, Cyril and Oscar were already half asleep, and Tiger was standing by his master, eager to be off.
‘I’ve locked everything up,’ observed the doctor, and ushered Amabel out of the kitchen, turned the key in the lock and put it in his pocket, and urged her into the car. He hadn’t appeared to look at her at all, but all the same he saw that she had done her best with her appearance. And the restaurant he had in mind had shaded rose lamps on its tables, if he remembered aright…
There weren’t many people there on a wet Sunday evening, but the place was welcoming, and the rosy shades were kind to Amabel’s still faintly blotchy face. Moreover, the food was good. He watched the pink come back into her cheeks as they ate their mushrooms in garlic sauce, local trout and a salad fit for the Queen. And the puddings were satisfyingly shrouded in thick clotted cream…
The doctor kept up a gentle stream of undemanding talk, and Amabel, soothed by it, was unaware of time passing until she caught sight of the clock.
She said in a shocked voice, ‘It’s almost nine. You will be so late at Glastonbury…’
‘I’m going back to town,’ he told her easily, but he made no effort to keep her, driving her back without more ado, seeing her safely into the house and driving off again with a friendly if casual goodbye.
The house, when he had gone, was empty—and too quiet. Amabel settled Cyril and Oscar for the night and went to bed.
It had been a lovely evening, and it had been such a relief to talk to someone about her worries, but now she had the uneasy feeling that she had made a fool of herself, crying and pouring out her problems like a hysterical woman. Because he was a doctor, and was used to dealing with awkward patients, he had listened to her, given her a splendid meal and offered sensible suggestions as to her future. Probably he dealt with dozens like her…
She woke to a bright morning, and around noon a party of four knocked on the door and asked for rooms for the night, so Amabel was kept busy. By the end of the day she was tired enough to fall into bed and sleep at once.
There was no one for the next few days but there was plenty for her to do. The long summer days were over, and a cold wet autumn was predicted.
She collected the windfalls from the orchard, picked the last of the beans for the freezer, saw to beetroots, carrots and winter cabbage and dug the rest of the potatoes. She went to the rickety old greenhouse to pick tomatoes. She supposed that when her stepfather came he would build a new one; she and her mother had made do with it, and the quite large plot they used for vegetables grew just enough to keep them supplied throughout the year, but he was bound to make improvements.
It took her most of the week to get the garden in some sort of order, and at the weekend a party of six stayed for two nights, so on Monday morning she walked to the villager to stock up on groceries, post a letter to her mother and, on an impulse, bought the local paper again.
Back home, studying the jobs page, she saw with regret that the likely offers of work were no longer in it. There would be others, she told herself stoutly, and she must remember what Dr Fforde had told her—not to rush into anything. She must be patient; her mother had said that they hoped to be home before Christmas, but that was still weeks away, and even so he had advised her to do nothing hastily…
It was two days later, while she was putting away sheets and pillowcases in the landing cupboard, when she heard Cyril barking. He sounded excited, and she hurried downstairs; she had left the front door unlocked and someone might have walked in…
Her mother was standing in the hall, and there was a tall thickset man beside her. She was laughing and stooping to pat Cyril, then she looked up and saw Amabel.
‘Darling, aren’t we a lovely surprise? Keith sold the business, so there was no reason why we shouldn’t come back here.’
She embraced Amabel, and Amabel, hugging her back, said, ‘Oh, Mother—how lovely to see you.’
She looked at the man and smiled—and knew immediately that she didn’t like him and that he didn’t like her. But she held out a hand and said, ‘How nice to meet you. It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?’
Cyril had pushed his nose into Keith’s hand and she saw his impatient hand push it away. Her heart sank.
Her mother was talking and laughing, looking into the rooms, exclaiming how delightful everything looked. ‘And there’s Oscar.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Our cat, Keith. I know you don’t like cats, but he’s one of the family.’
He made some non-committal remark and went to fetch the luggage. Mrs Parsons, now Mrs Graham, ran upstairs to her room, and Amabel went to the kitchen to get tea. Cyril and Oscar went with her and arranged themselves tidily in a corner of the kitchen, aware that this man with the heavy tread didn’t like them.
They had tea in the sitting room and the talk was of Canada and their journey and their plans to establish a market garden.
‘No more bed and breakfast,’ said Mrs Graham. ‘Keith wants to get the place going as soon as possible. If we can get a glasshouse up quickly we could pick up some of the Christmas trade.’
‘Where will you put it?’ asked Amabel. ‘There’s plenty of ground beyond the orchard.’
Keith had been out to look around before tea, and now he observed, ‘I’ll get that ploughed and dug over for spring crops, and I’ll put the glasshouse in the orchard. There’s no money in apples, and some of the trees look past it. We’ll finish picking and then get rid of them. There’s plenty of ground there—fine for peas and beans.’
He glanced at Amabel. ‘Your mother tells me you’re pretty handy around the house and garden. The two of us ought to be able to manage to get something started— I’ll hire a man with a rotavator who’ll do the rough digging; the lighter jobs you’ll be able to manage.’
Amabel didn’t say anything. For one thing she was too surprised and shocked; for another, it was early days to be making such sweeping plans. And what about her mother’s suggestion that she might like to train for something? If her stepfather might be certain of his plans, but why was he so sure that she would agree to them? And she didn’t agree with them. The orchard had always been there, long before she was born. It still produced a good crop of apples and in the spring it was so beautiful with the blossom…
She glanced at her mother, who looked happy and content and was nodding admiringly at her new husband.
It was later, as she was getting the supper that he came into the kitchen.
‘Have to get rid of that cat,’ he told her briskly. ‘Can’t abide them, and the dog’s getting on a bit, isn’t he? Animals don’t go well with market gardens. Not to my reckoning, anyway.’
‘Oscar is no trouble at all,’ said Amabel, and tried hard to sound friendly. ‘And Cyril is a good guard dog; he never lets anyone near the house.’
She had spoken quietly, but he looked at her face and said quickly, ‘Oh, well, no hurry about them. It’ll take a month or two to get things going how I want them.’
He in his turn essayed friendliness. ‘We’ll make a success of it, too. Your mother can manage the house and you can work full-time in the garden. We might even take on casual labour after a bit—give you time to spend with your young friends.’
He sounded as though he was conferring a favour upon her, and her dislike deepened, but she mustn’t allow it to show. He was a man who liked his own way and intended to have it. Probably he was a good husband to her mother, but he wasn’t going to be a good stepfather…
Nothing much happened for a few days; there was a good deal of unpacking to do, letters to write and trips to the bank. Quite a substantial sum of money had been transferred from Canada and Mr Graham lost no time in making enquiries about local labour. He also went up to London to meet men who had been recommended as likely to give him financial backing, should he require it.
In the meantime Amabel helped her mother around the house, and tried to discover if her mother had meant her to have training of some sort and then changed her mind at her husband’s insistence.
Mrs Graham was a loving parent, but easily dominated by anyone with a stronger will than her own. What was the hurry? she wanted to know. A few more months at home were neither here nor there, and she would be such a help to Keith.
‘He’s such a marvellous man, Amabel, he’s bound to make a success of whatever he does.’
Amabel said cautiously, ‘It’s a pity he doesn’t like Cyril and Oscar…’
Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, darling, he would never be unkind to them.’
Perhaps not unkind, but as the weeks slipped by it was apparent that they were no longer to be regarded as pets around the house. Cyril spent a good deal of time outside, roaming the orchard, puzzled as to why the kitchen door was so often shut. As for Oscar, he only came in for his meals, looking carefully around to make sure that there was no one about.
Amabel did what she could, but her days were full, and it was obvious that Mr Graham was a man who rode roughshod over anyone who stood in his way. For the sake of her mother’s happiness Amabel held her tongue; there was no denying that he was devoted to her mother, and she to him, but there was equally no denying that he found Amabel, Cyril and Oscar superfluous to his life.
It wasn’t until she came upon him hitting Cyril and then turning on an unwary Oscar and kicking him aside that Amabel knew that she would have to do something about it.
She scooped up a trembling Oscar and bent to put an arm round Cyril’s elderly neck. ‘How dare you? Whatever have they done to you? They’re my friends and I love them,’ she added heatedly, ‘and they have lived here all their lives.’
Her stepfather stared at her. ‘Well, they won’t live here much longer if I have my way. I’m the boss here. I don’t like animals around the place so you’d best make up your mind to that.’
He walked off without another word and Amabel, watching his retreating back, knew that she had to do something—and quickly.
She went out to the orchard—there were piles of bricks and bags of cement already heaped near the bench, ready to start building the glasshouse—and with Oscar on her lap and Cyril pressed against her she reviewed and discarded several plans, most of them too far-fetched to be of any use. Finally she had the nucleus of a sensible idea. But first she must have some money, and secondly the right opportunity…
As though a kindly providence approved of her efforts, she was able to have both. That very evening her stepfather declared that he would have to go to London in the morning. A useful acquaintance had phoned to say that he would meet him and introduce him to a wholesaler who would consider doing business with him once he was established. He would go to London early in the morning, and since he had a long day ahead of him he went to bed early.
Presently, alone with her mother, Amabel seized what seemed to be a golden opportunity.
‘I wondered if I might have some money for clothes, Mother. I haven’t bought anything since you went away…’
‘Of course, love. I should have thought of that myself. And you did so well with the bed and breakfast business. Is there any money in the tea caddy? If there is take whatever you want from it. I’ll ask Keith to make you an allowance; he’s so generous…’
‘No, don’t do that, Mother. He has enough to think about without bothering him about that; there’ll be enough in the tea caddy. Don’t bother him.’ She looked across at her mother. ‘You’re very happy with him, aren’t you, Mother?’
‘Oh, yes, Amabel. I never told you, but I hated living here, just the two of us, making ends meet, no man around the place. When I went to your sister’s I realised what I was missing. And I’ve been thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea if you started some sort of training…’
Amabel agreed quietly, reflecting that her mother wouldn’t miss her…
Her mother went to bed presently, and Amabel made Oscar and Cyril comfortable for the night and counted the money in the tea caddy. There was more than enough for her plan.
She went to her room and, quiet as a mouse, got her holdall out of the wardrobe and packed it, including undies and a jersey skirt and a couple of woollies; autumn would soon turn to winter…
She thought over her plan when she was in bed; there seemed no way of improving upon it, so she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
She got up early, to prepare breakfast for her stepfather, having first of all made sure that Oscar and Cyril weren’t in the kitchen. Once he had driven away she got her own breakfast, fed both animals and got dressed. Her mother came down, and over her coffee suggested that she might get the postman to give her a lift to Castle Cary.
‘I’ve time to dress before he comes, and I can get my hair done. You’ll be all right, love?’
