Always and Forever. Бетти Нилс
‘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 which had belonged to her father by the front door, and a rolling pin handy in the kitchen, and there was always 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