from mentioning that there were daffodils running riot in the garden. It’s the thought that counts, she reminded herself as she took off her pinny. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Father has had his.’
‘I’ll go and see him presently.’ Gregory added carefully, ‘Henry tells me that you want to go on holiday.’
She was filling the kettle. ‘Yes. Don’t you think I deserve one? Can you think of somewhere I might go? I might meet people and have fun?’
Gregory said severely, ‘You are being facetious, Serena. I cannot see why you should need to go away. You have a lovely home here, with every comfort, and you can please yourself as to how you organise your days.’
She turned to look at him. He was quite serious, she decided, and if she had expected him to back her up she was to be disappointed.
‘You make it sound as though I spend my days sitting in the drawing room doing nothing, but you must know that that isn’t true.’
‘My dear Serena, would you be happy doing that? You are a born housewife and a splendid housekeeper; you will make a good wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘And now how about that coffee?’
He went to see her father presently, and she began to get lunch ready. Her father had demanded devilled kidneys on toast and a glass of the claret he kept in the dining room sideboard under lock and key. If Gregory intended to stay for lunch, he would have to have scrambled eggs and soup. Perhaps he would take her out? Down to the pub in the village where one could get delicious pasties…
Wishful thinking. He came into the kitchen, saying importantly that he needed to go to the office.
‘But it’s Saturday…’
He gave her a tolerant look. ‘Serena, I take my job seriously; if it means a few hours’ extra work even on a Saturday, I do not begrudge it. I will do my best to see you next Saturday.’
‘Why not tomorrow?’
His hesitation was so slight that she didn’t notice it. ‘I promised mother that I would go and see her—sort out her affairs for her—she finds these things puzzling.’
His mother, reflected Serena, was one of the toughest old ladies she had ever encountered, perfectly capable of arranging her affairs to suit herself. But she said nothing; she was sure that Gregory was a good son.
On Sunday, with the half-hope that she might see the stranger again, she walked up to the top of Barrow Hill, but there was no one there. Moreover, the early-morning brightness had clouded over and it began to rain. She went back to roast the pheasant her father had fancied for his lunch, and then spent the afternoon with Puss, listening to the radio.
While she listened she thought about her future. She couldn’t alter it for the moment, for she had given her word to her mother, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t try and learn some skill, something she could do at home. She was handy with her needle, but she didn’t think there was much future in that; maybe she could learn how to use a computer—it seemed that was vital for any job. There were courses she could take at home, but how to get hold of a computer?
Even if she found something, where would she get the money to pay for it? She had to account for every penny of the housekeeping money her father gave her each month, and when she had asked him for an allowance so that she might buy anything she needed for herself, he had told her to buy what she needed and have the bill sent to him. But to buy toothpaste and soap and expect the shopkeeper to send a bill for such a trivial purchase really wasn’t possible, so she managed to add these items to the household bills from the village shop.
Since she hardly ever went out socially, she contrived to manage with her small wardrobe. She had on one occasion actually gone to Yeovil and bought a dress and had the bill sent to her father, but it had caused such an outcry that she had never done it since. She had never been sure if the heart attack he had assured her she had given him had been genuine or not, for he had refused to have the doctor. Instead he had lain in his bed, heaping reproaches on her head every time she had entered the room. By no means a meek girl, Serena had nonetheless felt forced to believe him.
Ten days later, on a bright May morning, Mr Perkins the family solicitor called. He was a nice old man, for when her mother had died, and he had been summoned by Mr Lightfoot, he had come upon Serena in the kitchen, crying her eyes out. He had patted her on the arm and told her not to be too unhappy.
‘At least your father has provided for your future,’ he had reassured her. ‘You need never have that worry. I should not be telling you this, but it may help a little.’
She had thanked him and thought little of it at the time, but over the years she had come to assume that at least her future was secure.
Now Mr Perkins, older and greyer, was back again, and was closeted for a long time with her father. When he came downstairs at length he looked upset, refused the coffee she offered him and drove away with no more than a brief goodbye. He had remonstrated against Mr Lightfoot’s new will, but to no avail.
Serena’s brothers had mentioned her wish to have a holiday to their father. They had been well meaning, but Mr Lightfoot, incensed by what he deemed to be gross ingratitude and flightiness on the part of Serena, had, in a fit of quite uncalled for rage, altered his will.
Mr Perkins came with his clerk the next day and witnessed its signature, and on the following day Mr Lightfoot had a stroke.
CHAPTER TWO
MR LIGHTFOOT’S stroke was only to be expected; a petulant man, and a bully by nature, his intolerance had led him to believe that he was always right and everyone else either wrong or stupid. High blood pressure and an unhealthy lifestyle did nothing to help this, nor did his liking for rich food. He lay in his bed for long periods, imagining that he was suffering from some serious condition and being neglected by Serena, and now the last straw, as it were, was to be laid on the camel’s back: he had ordered sweetbreads for his lunch, with a rich sauce, asparagus, and baby new potatoes, to be followed by a trifle.
Serena pointed out in her usual sensible manner that the sweetbreads would be just as tasty without the sauce, and wouldn’t an egg custard be better than trifle? ‘And I shall have to go to the village—the butcher may not have sweetbreads. What else would you like?’
Mr Lightfoot sat up in bed, casting the newspaper from him. ‘I’ve told you what I wish to eat. Are you so stupid that you cannot understand me?’
‘Don’t get excited, Father,’ said Serena. ‘Mrs Pike will be here presently, and I’ll go to the village. She will bring your coffee…’
While she was in the village he refused the coffee, and then, when Mrs Pike was working in the kitchen, he went downstairs and unlocked the cupboard where he kept the whisky.
Serena, back home, bade Mrs Pike goodbye and set about getting her father’s lunch. She did it reluctantly, for she considered that he ate the wrong food and was wasting his life in bed, or sitting in his chair doing nothing.
‘A good walk in the fresh air,’ said Serena, unwrapping the sweetbreads, ‘and meeting friends, playing golf or something.’ Only fresh air was contrary to Mr Lightfoot’s ideas of healthy living and he had no friends now.
At exactly one o’clock she bore the tray up to his room. He was sitting up in bed, propped up on his pillows reading the Financial Times, but he cast the
