“Will you spend the evening with me?” Oliver asked.

Amabel said uncertainly, “Well…”

“You’re glad to see me, Amabel?”

When she said without hesitating, “Oh, yes I am,” he replied, “Then don’t dither.”

He came closer and, looking down into her face, took her hands in his and said, “There is a Nigerian proverb which says, ‘Hold a true friend with both your hands.’”

He smiled and added gently, “I’m your true friend, Amabel.”

About the Author

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Always and Forever
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was going to be a storm; the blue sky of a summer evening was slowly being swallowed by black clouds, heavy with rain and thunder, flashing warning signals of flickering lightning over the peaceful Dorset countryside, casting gloom over the village. The girl gathering a line of washing from the small orchard behind the house standing on the village outskirts paused to study the sky before lugging the washing basket through the open door at the back of the house.

She was a small girl, nicely plump, with a face which, while not pretty, was redeemed by fine brown eyes. Her pale brown hair was gathered in an untidy bunch on the top of her head and she was wearing a cotton dress which had seen better days.

She put the basket down, closed the door and went in search of candles and matches, then put two old-fashioned oil lamps on the wooden table. If the storm was bad there would be a power cut before the evening was far advanced.

This done to her satisfaction, she poked up the elderly Aga, set a kettle to boil and turned her attention to the elderly dog and battle-scarred old tomcat, waiting patiently for their suppers.

She got their food, talking while she did so because the eerie quiet before the storm broke was a little unnerving, and then made tea and sat down to drink it as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

With the rain came a sudden wind which sent her round the house shutting windows against the deluge. Back in the kitchen, she addressed the dog.

‘Well, there won’t be anyone coming now,’ she told him, and gave a small shriek as lightning flashed and thunder drowned out any other sound. She sat down at the table and he came and sat beside her, and, after a moment, the cat got onto her lap.

The wind died down as suddenly as it had arisen but the storm was almost overhead. It had become very dark and the almost continuous flashes made it seem even darker. Presently the light over the table began to flicker; she prudently lit a candle before it went out.

She got up then, lighted the lamps and took one into the hall before sitting down again. There was nothing to do but to wait until the storm had passed.

The lull was shattered by a peal on the doorbell, so unexpected that she sat for a moment, not quite believing it. But a second prolonged peal sent her to the door, lamp in hand.

A man stood in the porch. She held the lamp high in order to get a good look at him; he was a very large man, towering over her.

‘I saw your sign. Can you put us up for the night? I don’t care to drive further in this weather.’

He had a quiet voice and he looked genuine. ‘Who’s we?’ she asked.

‘My mother and myself.’

She slipped the chain off the door. ‘Come in.’ She peered round him. ‘Is that your car?’

‘Yes—is there a garage?’

‘Go round the side of the house; there’s a barn—the door’s open. There’s plenty of room there.’

He nodded and turned back to the car to open its door and help his mother out. Ushering them into the hall, the girl said, ‘Come back in through the kitchen door; I’ll leave it unlocked. It’s across the yard from the barn.’

He nodded again, a man of few words, she supposed, and he went outside. She turned to look at her second guest. The woman was tall, good-looking, in her late fifties, she supposed, and dressed with understated elegance.

‘Would you like to see your room? And would you like a meal? It’s a bit late to cook dinner but you could have an omelette or scrambled eggs and bacon with tea or coffee?’

The older woman put out a hand. ‘Mrs Fforde—spelt with two ffs, I’m afraid. My son’s a doctor; he was driving me to the other side of Glastonbury, taking a shortcut, but driving had become impossible. Your sign was like something from heaven.’ She had to raise her voice against the heavenly din.

The girl offered a hand. ‘Amabel Parsons. I’m sorry you had such a horrid journey.’

‘I hate storms, don’t you? You’re not alone in the house?’

‘Well, yes, I am, but I have Cyril—that’s my dog—and Oscar the cat.’ Amabel hesitated. ‘Would you like to come into the sitting room until Dr Fforde comes? Then you can decide if you would like something to eat. I’m afraid you will have to go to bed by candlelight…’

She led the way down the hall and into a small room, comfortably furnished with easy chairs and a small round table. There were shelves of books on either side of the fireplace and a large window across which Amabel drew the curtains before setting the lamp on the table.

‘I’ll unlock the kitchen door,’ she said and hurried back to the kitchen just in time to admit the doctor.

He was carrying two cases. ‘Shall I take these up?’

‘Yes, please. I’ll ask Mrs Fforde if she would like to go to her room now. I asked if you would like anything to eat…’

‘Most emphatically yes. That’s if it’s not putting you to too much trouble. Anything will do—sandwiches…’

‘Omelettes, scrambled eggs, bacon and eggs? I did explain to Mrs Fforde that it’s too late to cook a full meal.’

He smiled down at her. ‘I’m sure Mother is longing for a cup of tea, and omelettes sound fine.’ He glanced round him. ‘You’re not alone?’

‘Yes,’ said Amabel. ‘I’ll take you upstairs.’

She gave them the two rooms at the front of the house and pointed out the bathroom. ‘Plenty of hot water,’ she added, before going back to the kitchen.

When they came downstairs presently she had the table laid in the small room and offered them omelettes, cooked to perfection, toast and butter and a large pot of tea. This had kept her busy, but it had also kept her mind off the storm, still raging above their heads. It rumbled away finally in the small hours, but by the time she had cleared up the supper things and prepared the breakfast table, she was too tired to notice.

She was up early, but so was Dr Fforde. He accepted the tea she offered him before he wandered out of the door into the yard and the orchard beyond, accompanied by Cyril. He presently strolled back to stand in the doorway and watch her getting their breakfast.

Amabel, conscious of his steady gaze, said briskly, ‘Would Mrs Fforde like breakfast in bed? It’s no extra trouble.’

‘I believe she would like that very much. I’ll have mine with you here.’

‘Oh, you can’t do that.’ She was taken aback. ‘I mean, your breakfast is laid in the sitting room. I’ll bring it to you whenever you’re ready.’

‘I dislike eating alone. If you put everything for Mother on a tray I’ll carry it up.’

He was friendly in a casual way, but she guessed that he was a man who disliked arguing. She got a tray ready, and when he came downstairs again and sat down at the kitchen table she put a plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms in front of him, adding toast and marmalade before pouring the tea.

‘Come and sit down and eat your breakfast and tell me why you live here alone,’ he invited. He sounded so like an elder brother or a kind uncle that she did so, watching him demolish his breakfast with evident enjoyment before loading a slice of toast with butter and marmalade.

She had poured herself a cup of tea, but whatever he said she wasn’t going to eat her breakfast with him…

He passed her the slice of toast. ‘Eat that up and tell me why you live alone.’

‘Well, really!’ began Amabel and then, meeting his kindly look, added, ‘It’s only for a month or so. My mother’s gone to Canada,’ she told him. ‘My married sister lives there and she’s just had a baby. It was such a good opportunity for her to go. You see, in the summer we get quite a lot of people coming just for bed and breakfast, like you, so I’m not really alone. It’s different in the winter, of course.’

He asked, ‘You don’t mind being here by yourself? What of the days—and nights—when no one wants bed and breakfast?’

She said defiantly, ‘I have Cyril, and Oscar’s splendid company. Besides, there’s the phone.’

‘And your nearest neighbour?’ he asked idly.

‘Old Mrs Drew, round the bend in the lane going to the village. Also, it’s only half a mile to the village.’ She still sounded defiant.

He passed his cup for more tea. Despite her brave words he suspected that she wasn’t as self-assured as she would have him believe. A plain girl, he considered, but nice eyes, nice voice and apparently not much interest in clothes; the denim skirt and cotton blouse were crisp and spotless, but could hardly be called fashionable. He glanced at her hands, which were small and well shaped, bearing signs of housework.

He said, ‘A lovely morning after the storm. That’s a pleasant orchard you have beyond the yard. And a splendid view…’

‘Yes, it’s splendid all the year round.’

‘Do you get cut off in the winter?’

‘Yes, sometimes. Would you like more tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll see if my mother is getting ready to leave.’ He smiled at her. ‘That was a delicious meal.’ But not, he reflected, a very friendly one. Amabel Parsons had given him the strong impression that she wished him out of the house.

Within the hour he and his mother had gone, driving away in the dark blue Rolls Royce. Amabel stood in the open doorway, watching it disappear round the bend in the lane. It had been providential, she told herself, that they should have stopped at the house at the height of the storm; they had kept her busy and she hadn’t had the time to be frightened. They had been no trouble—and she needed the money.

It would be nice, she thought wistfully, to have someone like Dr Fforde as a friend. Sitting at breakfast with him, she’d had an urgent desire to talk to him, tell him how lonely she was, and sometimes a bit scared, how tired she was of making up beds and getting breakfast for a succession of strangers, keeping the place going until her mother returned, and all the while keeping up the façade of an independent and competent young woman perfectly able to manage on her own.

That was necessary, otherwise well-meaning people in the village would have made it their business to dissuade her mother from her trip and even suggest that Amabel should shut up the house and go and stay with a great-aunt she hardly knew, who lived in Yorkshire and who certainly wouldn’t want her.

Amabel went back into the house, collected up the bedlinen and made up the beds again; hopefully there would be more guests later in the day…

She readied the rooms, inspected the contents of the fridge and the deep freeze, hung out the washing and made herself a sandwich before going into the orchard with Cyril and Oscar. They sat, the three of them, on an old wooden bench, nicely secluded from the lane but near enough to hear if anyone called.

Which they did, just as she was on the point of going indoors for her tea.

The man on the doorstep turned round impatiently as she reached him.

‘I rang twice. I want bed and breakfast for my wife, son and daughter.’

Amabel turned to look at the car. There was a young man in the driver’s seat, and a middle-aged woman and a girl sitting in the back.

‘Three rooms? Certainly. But I must tell you that there is only one bathroom, although there are handbasins in the rooms.’

He said rudely, ‘I suppose that’s all we can expect in this part of the world. We took a wrong turning and landed ourselves here, at the back of beyond. What do you charge? And we do get a decent breakfast?’

Amabel told him, ‘Yes.’ As her mother frequently reminded her, it took all sorts to make the world.

The three people in the car got out: a bossy woman, the girl pretty but sulky, and the young man looking at her in a way she didn’t like…

They inspected their rooms with loud-voiced comments about old-fashioned furniture and no more than one bathroom—and that laughably old-fashioned. And they wanted tea: sandwiches and scones and cake. ‘And plenty of jam,’ the young man shouted after her as she left the room.

After tea they wanted to know where the TV was.

‘I haven’t got a television.’

They didn’t believe her. ‘Everyone has a TV set,’ complained the girl. ‘Whatever are we going to do this evening?’

‘The village is half a mile down the lane,’ said Amabel. ‘There’s a pub there, and you can get a meal, if you wish.’

‘Better than hanging around here.’

It was a relief to see them climb back into the car and drive off presently. She laid the table for their breakfast and put everything ready in the kitchen before getting herself some supper. It was a fine light evening, so she strolled into the orchard and sat down on the bench. Dr Fforde and his mother would be at Glastonbury, she supposed, staying with family or friends. He would be married, of course, to a pretty girl with lovely clothes—there would be a small boy and a smaller girl, and they would live in a large and comfortable house; he was successful, for he drove a Rolls Royce…

Conscious that she was feeling sad, as well as wasting her time, she went back indoors and made out the bill; there might not be time in the morning.

She was up early the next morning; breakfast was to be ready by eight o’clock, she had been told on the previous evening—a decision she’d welcomed with relief. Breakfast was eaten, the bill paid—but only after double-checking everything on it and some scathing comments about the lack of modern amenities.

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.

‘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?’

It’s as though I’m meant to be leaving, reflected Amabel. And when her mother was ready, and waiting for the postman, reminded her to take a key with her—‘For I might go for a walk.’

Amabel had washed the breakfast dishes, tidied the house, and made the beds by the time her mother got into the post van, and if she gave her mother a sudden warm hug and kiss Mrs Graham didn’t notice.

Half an hour later Amabel, with Oscar in his basket, Cyril on a lead, and encumbered by her holdall and a shoulder bag, was getting into the taxi she had requested. She had written to her mother explaining that it was high time she became independent and that she would write, but that she was not to worry. You will both make a great success of the market garden and it will be easier for you both if Oscar, Cyril and myself aren’t getting under your feet, she had ended.

The taxi took them to Gillingham where—fortune still smiling—they got on the London train and, once there, took a taxi to Victoria bus station. By now Amabel realised her plans, so simple in theory, were fraught with possible disaster. But she had cooked her goose. She bought a ticket to York, had a cup of tea, got water for Cyril and put milk in her saucer for Oscar and then climbed into the long-distance bus.

It was half empty, and the driver was friendly. Amabel perched on a seat with Cyril at her feet and Oscar in his basket on her lap. She was a bit cramped, but at least they were still altogether…

It was three o’clock in the afternoon by now, and it was a hundred and ninety-three miles to York, where they would arrive at about half past eight. The end of the journey was in sight, and it only remained for Great-Aunt Thisbe to offer them a roof over their heads. A moot point since she was unaware of them coming…

‘I should have phoned her,’ muttered Amabel, ‘but there was so much to think about in such a hurry.’

It was only now that the holes in her hare-brained scheme began to show, but it was too late to worry about it. She still had a little money, she was young, she could work and, most important of all, Oscar and Cyril were still alive…

Amabel, a sensible level-headed girl, had thrown her bonnet over the windmill with a vengeance.

She went straight to the nearest phone box at the bus station in York; she was too tired and light-headed from her impetuous journey to worry about Great-Aunt Thisbe’s reaction.

When she heard that lady’s firm, unhurried voice she said without preamble, ‘It’s me— Amabel, Aunt Thisbe. I’m at the bus station in York.’

She had done her best to keep her voice quiet and steady, but it held a squeak of panic. Supposing Aunt Thisbe put down the phone…

Miss Parsons did no such thing. When she had been told of her dead nephew’s wife’s remarriage she had disapproved, strongly but silently. Such an upheaval: a strange man taking over from her nephew’s loved memory, and what about Amabel? She hadn’t seen the girl for some years—what of her? Had her mother considered her?

She said now, ‘Go and sit down on the nearest seat, Amabel. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘I’ve got Oscar and Cyril with me.’

‘You are all welcome,’ said Aunt Thisbe, and rang off.

Much heartened by these words, Amabel found a bench and, with a patient Cyril crouching beside her and Oscar eyeing her miserably from the little window in his basket, sat down to wait.

Half an hour, when you’re not very happy, can seem a very long time, but Amabel forgot that when she saw Great-Aunt Thisbe walking briskly towards her, clad in a coat and skirt which hadn’t altered in style for the last few decades, her white hair crowned by what could best be described as a sensible hat. There was a youngish man with her, short and sturdy with weatherbeaten features.

Great-Aunt Thisbe kissed Amabel briskly. ‘I am so glad you have come to visit me, my dear. Now we will go home and you shall tell me all about it. This is Josh, my right hand. He’ll take your luggage to the car and drive us home.’

Amabel had got to her feet. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t need a long explanation, so she held out a hand for Josh to shake, picked up Oscar’s basket and Cyril’s lead and walked obediently out into the street and got into the back of the car while Aunt Thisbe settled herself beside Josh.

It was dark now, and the road was almost empty of traffic. There was nothing to see from the car’s window but Amabel remembered Bolton Percy was where her aunt lived, a medieval village some fifteen miles from York and tucked away from the main roads. It must be ten years since she was last here, she reflected; she had been sixteen and her father had died a few months earlier…

The village, when they reached it, was in darkness, but her aunt’s house, standing a little apart from the row of brick and plaster cottages near the church, welcomed them with lighted windows.

Josh got out and helped her with the animals and she followed him up the path to the front door, which Great-Aunt Thisbe had opened.

‘Welcome to my home, child,’ she said. ‘And yours for as long as you need it.’

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