LITMIR.BIZ

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It was a fine light evening, so she strolled into the orchard and sat down on the bench. Dr Fforde and his mother would be at Glastonbury, she supposed, staying with family or friends. He would be married, of course, to a pretty girl with lovely clothes—there would be a small boy and a smaller girl, and they would live in a large and comfortable house; he was successful, for he drove a Rolls Royce…

      Conscious that she was feeling sad, as well as wasting her time, she went back indoors and made out the bill; there might not be time in the morning.

      She was up early the next morning; breakfast was to be ready by eight o’clock, she had been told on the previous evening—a decision she’d welcomed with relief. Breakfast was eaten, the bill paid—but only after double-checking everything on it and some scathing comments about the lack of modern amenities.

      Amabel waited politely at the door until they had driven away then went to put the money in the old tea caddy on the kitchen dresser. It added substantially to the contents but it had been hard earned!

      The rooms, as she’d expected, had been left in a disgraceful state. She flung open the window, stripped beds and set about turning them back to their usual pristine appearance. It was still early, and it was a splendid morning, so she filled the washing machine and started on the breakfast dishes.

      By midday everything was just as it should be. She made sandwiches and took them and a mug of coffee out to the orchard with Cyril and Oscar for company, and sat down to read the letter from her mother the postman had brought. Everything was splendid, she wrote. The baby was thriving and she had decided to stay another few weeks, if Amabel could manage for a little longer—For I don’t suppose I’ll be able to visit here for a year or two, unless something turns up.

      Which was true enough, and it made sense too. Her mother had taken out a loan so that she could go to Canada, and even though it was a small one it would have to be paid off before she went again.

      Amabel put the letter in her pocket, divided the rest of her sandwich between Cyril and Oscar and went back into the house. There was always the chance that someone would come around teatime and ask for a meal, so she would make a cake and a batch of scones.

      It was as well that she did; she had just taken them out of the Aga when the doorbell rang and two elderly ladies enquired if she would give them bed and breakfast.

      They had come in an old Morris, and, while well-spoken and tidily dressed, she judged them to be not too free with their money. But they looked nice and she had a kind heart.

      ‘If you would share a twin-bedded room?’ she suggested. ‘The charge is the same for two people as one.’ She told them how much and added, ‘Two breakfasts, of course, and if you would like tea?’

      They glanced at each other. ‘Thank you. Would you serve us a light supper later?’

      ‘Certainly. If you would fetch your cases? The car can go into the barn at the side of the house.’

      Amabel gave them a good tea, and while they went for a short walk, she got supper—salmon fish cakes, of tinned salmon, of course, potatoes whipped to a satiny smoothness, and peas from the garden. She popped an egg custard into the oven by way of afters and was rewarded by their genteel thanks.

      She ate her own supper in the kitchen, took them a pot of tea and wished them goodnight. In the morning she gave them boiled eggs, toast and marmalade and a pot of coffee, and all with a generous hand.

      She hadn’t made much money, but it had been nice to see their elderly faces light up. And they had left her a tip, discreetly put on one of the bedside tables. As for the bedroom, they had left it so neat it was hard to see that anyone had been in it.

      She added the money to the tea caddy and decided that tomorrow she would go to the village and pay it into the post office account, stock up on groceries and get meat from the butcher’s van which called twice a week at the village.

      It was a lovely morning again, and her spirits rose despite her disappointment at her mother’s delayed return home. She wasn’t doing too badly with bed and breakfast, and she was adding steadily to their savings. There were the winter months to think of, of course, but she might be able to get a part-time job once her mother was home.

      She went into the garden to pick peas, singing cheerfully and slightly off key.

      Nobody came that day, and the following day only a solitary woman on a walking holiday came in the early evening; she went straight to bed after a pot of tea and left the next morning after an early breakfast.

      After she had gone, Amabel discovered that she had taken the towels with her.

      Two disappointing days, reflected Amabel. I wonder what will happen tomorrow?

      She was up early again, for there was no point in lying in bed when it was daylight soon after five o’clock. She breakfasted, tidied the house, did a pile of ironing before the day got too hot, and then wandered out to the bench in the orchard. It was far too early for any likely person to want a room, and she would hear if a car stopped in the lane.

      But of course one didn’t hear a Rolls Royce, for it made almost no sound.

      Dr Fforde got out and stood looking at the house. It was a pleasant place, somewhat in need of small repairs and a lick of paint, but its small windows shone and the brass knocker on its solid front door was burnished to a dazzling brightness. He trod round the side of the house, past the barn, and saw Amabel sitting between Cyril and Oscar. Since she was a girl who couldn’t abide being idle, she was shelling peas.

      He stood watching her for a moment, wondering why he had wanted to see her again. True, she 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

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