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
