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      Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE COTTAGE STOOD sideways on to the lane, its wicket gate opening on to a narrow brick path between flower beds, the path ending at an old-fashioned door with a round brass knob and a great knocker. Its thatched roof above cob walls was much patched, although picturesque, and doubtless in the summer it presented a charming picture, but just now, on a dripping November afternoon, it looked forlorn, as forlorn as the girl opening the gate.

      She was wrapped in a rather elderly raincoat with a scarf wound round her neck and a woolly cap pulled well down on to a pale face, quite unremarkable save for a pair of fine dark eyes, and despite the bulky coat, she was too thin. She closed the gate carefully, hurried up the path and let herself into the cottage, casting off her outdoor things in the hall and going straight into the sitting room.

      It was a pleasant enough room with some nice pieces furnishing it and a scattering of shabby armchairs. The girl switched on the light, scooped up the sleek cat sitting in one of the chairs and with him on her lap, sat down. The room was untidy and across the hall the dining room table was still littered with cups and saucers and plates and the remains of cake and sandwiches consumed by friends who had attended the funeral and returned for tea afterwards. But that would have to wait. The girl had too much on her mind to bother about washing up for the moment; she’d had a shock and she needed to go over every word Mr Banks the solicitor had said to her before she could face up to it.

      The funeral had been well attended. Granny had no family except herself left, but many friends, and they had all come; it had been a busy day, and it was only when the last of them had gone and only Mr Banks was left that she had felt a pang of loneliness. At his suggestion that they should sit and have a talk for a while she had felt better and she had sat down opposite him, not surprised when he had said kindly: ‘Sadie, there is the will…’

      She had nodded, not over interested; she had lived with her grandmother since she was a very small girl and although there had never been much money she knew that the cottage would be hers. Her grandmother’s pension died with her, but there was always a living to be earned. She had wanted to get a job after she had left school, but her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, so although at twenty-three she was a skilled housewife, a splendid cook and a clever needlewoman, she wasn’t trained for anything else, and she had never thought about it much, especially during the last two years when Granny had been so crippled with arthritis that she had been forced to give up active life and depend entirely on Sadie.

      Mr Banks unfolded the will and cleared his throat. Mrs Gillard had left all that she possessed to her granddaughter. But there was more to it than that; he folded the will up tidily and blew his nose, reluctant to speak. When he did, Sadie didn’t believe him at first. The cottage was mortgaged up to the hilt—Granny had been living on the money for some years, for her pension hadn’t gone up as wages had, and what had been a respectable income thirty years ago had dwindled to a mockery of itself… ‘So I am very afraid,’ said Mr Banks apologetically, ‘that there is no money at all, Sadie, and the cottage will have to be sold in order to pay off the mortgage.’

      She had looked at him in vague disbelief and he hastened to add: ‘Your grandmother had a few pounds in some shares. I’ll see that they are sold later, in the meantime I’ll advance you their value.’

      She had thanked him politely. ‘I don’t think I could bear to leave here,’ she had told him, and then at his pitying look: ‘But of course I must, mustn’t I? I’ll get some sort of job.’

      Mr Banks had looked uneasy. ‘Can you type? Do shorthand? I might know of someone…’

      ‘I can’t do anything like that. I can cook and sew and do the housework. I’ll find something.’ She had made a great effort and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Banks, I’ll get a job as a housekeeper or mother’s help, then I’ll have a home and a job.’ And before he could protest: ‘I’ll walk down to the village with you—you left the car at the Bull and Judge, didn’t you?’

      So she had seen him safely away and now she was back in the cottage which was no longer her house. She had a little time, Mr Banks had assured her, she would be given a week or two to make her plans and move out before the mortgage was fore-closed; and Mr Banks had pointed out that there was the chance that a buyer might be found for the cottage and the mortgage paid off, leaving her a little money besides.

      She sat stroking the cat, searching her mind for a likely buyer, but there was no one in the village who would want it; it was a fair-sized place as cottages went, with good-sized rooms, an old-fashioned but adequate kitchen, four bedrooms and an attic as well as a bathroom, as out of date as the kitchen but still functioning, and besides there were a number of pantries and cupboards and a fair-sized garden. But it needed a new thatch and new paint, and the wall-paper had been on the walls ever since she could remember.

      She got up presently and started on the washing up and when that was done, tidied the rooms, raked out the fire and took herself off to bed, with Tom the cat for company. The cottage was dreadfully empty without Granny. She hadn’t got used to that yet, and her grief went deep, for she had loved the old lady dearly, but she had plenty of good sense; life had to go on and she must make the most of it. She closed her eyes on the thought, but not before a few tears had trickled from under their lids.

      Nothing seemed so bad in the morning. It was a cold grey day, but once the fire was lighted and she had had her breakfast and fed Tom, she set about cleaning the cottage. She wasn’t sure, but presumably someone would come to look at it. Whoever held the mortgage would want to know its value and they would send someone from a house agents.

      There was no telephone in the cottage, so she would have no warning. Charlie Beard the postman came soon after breakfast, propping his bike against the old may tree by the gate and accepting a cup of tea while she looked through