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 Her winter coat was out of date and shabby, and for once she blessed the rain, for it meant that she could wear her mac.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
