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
