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had kept her busy, but it had also kept her mind off the storm, still raging above their heads. It rumbled away finally in the small hours, but by the time she had cleared up the supper things and prepared the breakfast table, she was too tired to notice.
She was up early, but so was Dr Fforde. He accepted the tea she offered him before he wandered out of the door into the yard and the orchard beyond, accompanied by Cyril. He presently strolled back to stand in the doorway and watch her getting their breakfast.
Amabel, conscious of his steady gaze, said briskly, ‘Would Mrs Fforde like breakfast in bed? It’s no extra trouble.’
‘I believe she would like that very much. I’ll have mine with you here.’
‘Oh, you can’t do that.’ She was taken aback. ‘I mean, your breakfast is laid in the sitting room. I’ll bring it to you whenever you’re ready.’
‘I dislike eating alone. If you put everything for Mother on a tray I’ll carry it up.’
He was friendly in a casual way, but she guessed that he was a man who disliked arguing. She got a tray ready, and when he came downstairs again and sat down at the kitchen table she put a plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms in front of him, adding toast and marmalade before pouring the tea.
‘Come and sit down and eat your breakfast and tell me why you live here alone,’ he invited. He sounded so like an elder brother or a kind uncle that she did so, watching him demolish his breakfast with evident enjoyment before loading a slice of toast with butter and marmalade.
She had poured herself a cup of tea, but whatever he said she wasn’t going to eat her breakfast with him…
He passed her the slice of toast. ‘Eat that up and tell me why you live alone.’
‘Well, really!’ began Amabel and then, meeting his kindly look, added, ‘It’s only for a month or so. My mother’s gone to Canada,’ she told him. ‘My married sister lives there and she’s just had a baby. It was such a good opportunity for her to go. You see, in the summer we get quite a lot of people coming just for bed and breakfast, like you, so I’m not really alone. It’s different in the winter, of course.’
He asked, ‘You don’t mind being here by yourself? What of the days—and nights—when no one wants bed and breakfast?’
She said defiantly, ‘I have Cyril, and Oscar’s splendid company. Besides, there’s the phone.’
‘And your nearest neighbour?’ he asked idly.
‘Old Mrs Drew, round the bend in the lane going to the village. Also, it’s only half a mile to the village.’ She still sounded defiant.
He passed his cup for more tea. Despite her brave words he suspected that she wasn’t as self-assured as she would have him believe. A plain girl, he considered, but nice eyes, nice voice and apparently not much interest in clothes; the denim skirt and cotton blouse were crisp and spotless, but could hardly be called fashionable. He glanced at her hands, which were small and well shaped, bearing signs of housework.
He said, ‘A lovely morning after the storm. That’s a pleasant orchard you have beyond the yard. And a splendid view…’
‘Yes, it’s splendid all the year round.’
‘Do you get cut off in the winter?’
‘Yes, sometimes. Would you like more tea?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll see if my mother is getting ready to leave.’ He smiled at her. ‘That was a delicious meal.’ But not, he reflected, a very friendly one. Amabel Parsons had given him the strong impression that she wished him out of the house.
Within the hour he and his mother had gone, driving away in the dark blue Rolls Royce. Amabel stood in the open doorway, watching it disappear round the bend in the lane. It had been providential, she told herself, that they should have stopped at the house at the height of the storm; they had kept her busy and she hadn’t had the time to be frightened. They had been no trouble—and she needed the money.
It would be nice, she thought wistfully, to have someone like Dr Fforde as a friend. Sitting at breakfast with him, she’d had an urgent desire to talk to him, tell him how lonely she was, and sometimes a bit scared, how tired she was of making up beds and getting breakfast for a succession of strangers, keeping the place going until her mother returned, and all the while keeping up the façade of an independent and competent young woman perfectly able to manage on her own.
That was necessary, otherwise well-meaning people in the village would have made it their business to dissuade her mother from her trip and even suggest that Amabel should shut up the house and go and stay with a great-aunt she hardly knew, who lived in Yorkshire and who certainly wouldn’t want her.
Amabel went back into the house, collected up the bedlinen and made up the beds again; hopefully there would be more guests later in the day…
She readied the rooms, inspected the contents of the fridge and the deep freeze, hung out the washing and made herself a sandwich before going into the orchard with Cyril and Oscar. They sat, the three of them, on an old wooden bench, nicely secluded from the lane but near enough to hear if anyone called.
Which they did, just as she was on the point of going indoors for her tea.
The man on the doorstep turned round impatiently as she reached him.
‘I rang twice. I want bed and breakfast for my wife, son and daughter.’
Amabel turned to look at the car. There was a young man in the driver’s seat, and a middle-aged woman and a girl sitting in the back.
‘Three rooms? Certainly. But I must tell you that there is only one bathroom, although there are handbasins in the rooms.’
He said rudely, ‘I suppose that’s all we can expect in this part of the world. We took a wrong turning and landed ourselves here, at the back of beyond. What do you charge? And we do get a decent breakfast?’
Amabel told him, ‘Yes.’ As her mother frequently reminded her, it took all sorts to make the world.
The three people in the car got out: a bossy woman, the girl pretty but sulky, and the young man looking at her in a way she didn’t like…
They inspected their rooms with loud-voiced comments about old-fashioned furniture and no more than one bathroom—and that laughably old-fashioned. And they wanted tea: sandwiches and scones and cake. ‘And plenty of jam,’ the young man shouted after her as she left the room.
After tea they wanted to know where the TV was.
‘I haven’t got a television.’
They didn’t believe her. ‘Everyone has a TV set,’ complained the girl. ‘Whatever are we going to do this evening?’
‘The village is half a mile down the lane,’ said Amabel. ‘There’s a pub there, and you can get a meal, if you wish.’
‘Better than hanging around here.’
It was a relief to see them climb back into the car and drive off presently. She laid the table for their breakfast and put everything ready in the kitchen before getting herself some supper. 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