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
