Season Of Mists. Anne Mather

director should be, food came way down on their list; and in spite of the cost, she was glad to pay for Matthew’s school dinners, which at least ensured that one of them had a decent meal every day. Abby herself ate little. She was lucky enough not to need a lot of food, and her tall slim figure had scarcely altered since her schooldays. Indeed, Trevor said she did not look old enough to have a son of Matthew’s age, but Abby took his compliments with a generous measure of salt. Trevor was biased, and no matter what he said, Abby was convinced she had aged considerably over the past two years.

      But now she faced her son with real anxiety. What would they do? What could they do? And how would Matthew react if there wasn’t even enough money to allow him his weekly pocket money?

      ‘Will you get another job?’

      Matthew was evidently concerned, and Abby strove to reassure him. ‘I hope so,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘I’ll have to, won’t I, as I’m the breadwinner.’

      Matthew scuffed his boot against the rug. ‘I wish I was old enough to get a job,’ he muttered. ‘Another four years! It’s not fair!’

      Abby did not answer him, but walked determinedly into the tiny kitchen that opened off the living room. She had yet to face the prospect of Matthew leaving school at sixteen. Once, she had had confidence in his doing well in his exams and earning a place at a university. Now, she held out no such hopes, even if she had been able to save the money to afford it. Matthew was simply not interested in learning anything. The gang he ran around with only just avoided contact with the law, and she dreaded to think what would happen when he left school. She didn’t want a tearaway for a son. She wanted a simple, ordinary boy; one who respected her as she respected him, and did not spend his days blaming her for ruining his chance in life.

      She was filing some letters a few days later, when the phone started to ring in her office. Leaving the filing room, she hurried back to her desk to pick up the phone, and knew a moment’s foreboding when the telephonist said the call was for her. Not Matthew’s form-master again, she prayed silently, closing her eyes, and then opened them again when a strange masculine voice said: ‘Mrs Roth? Sean Willis here, Mrs Roth—Miss Caldwell’s doctor.’

      Abby’s mouth went dry. ‘She’s not——’

      ‘No, no, nothing to worry about, Mrs Roth. At least, not immediately, that is.’

      ‘Not immediately?’ Abby was confused.

      ‘I’m explaining myself badly, Mrs Roth. Actually, why I’m ringing is because Miss Caldwell tells me you’re her only relative. Is that right?’

      ‘Her only relative.’ Abby was endeavouring to regain her composure. For one awful moment she thought Dr Willis had been about to tell her that Aunt Hannah was dead, and that would have been the last straw. ‘I—yes. Yes, I believe I am,’ she agreed now. ‘Why? Is something wrong? What can I do?’

      ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to persuade her to leave Ivy Cottage,’ replied Dr Willis heavily. ‘She lives alone, as you know, and just recently she suffered a mild heart attack.’

      ‘I know. She wrote and told me.’

      ‘Good. Then you’ll realise how foolish it is of her to insist on staying at the cottage. Good heavens, she’s over eighty! Anything could happen.’

      ‘What are you saying, Dr Willis? That Aunt Hannah is ill? That she should be in hospital?’

      ‘In hospital, no. Rosemount, yes. I don’t know whether you know this, but Rosemount is a rather pleasant residential home——’

      ‘—for old people,’ Abby finished dryly. ‘Yes, she told me that, too. But I’m afraid she doesn’t want to leave her home.’

      Dr Willis sighed. ‘If you care about your aunt, Mrs Roth, you’ll understand how important it is for her to have constant supervision. If she had another attack—if she fell——’

      ‘I do appreciate the situation, Doctor,’ said Abby unhappily, ‘but I don’t see what I can do.’

      ‘Contact her,’ he begged. ‘Try and persuade her that my efforts are for her own good. She might listen to you.’

      Abby shook her head. ‘And she might not.’

      ‘But you will try?’

      ‘Of course.’ Abby hesitated. ‘She’s not in any danger, is she?’

      ‘Only from her own stubbornness,’ retorted Dr Willis shortly. ‘I’ll leave it with you, Mrs Roth. Do your best.’

      The problem of what to do about Aunt Hannah occupied the rest of the day, but by the evening Abby had come to a tentative conclusion. She would have to go to Rothside. She could not trust this to a letter, and perhaps it was time she stopped running away from the past.

      A telephone call to British Rail solicited the information that there were frequent inter-city services between King’s Cross and Newcastle, and from there it should be possible to take a bus to Alnbury. It was a long way to go, just for a weekend, and there was always the chance of hold-ups, but it would have to be done. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to Aunt Hannah, and she had done nothing to help.

      She refused to consider what she would do if she met Piers. There was no earthly reason why they should meet. She was only going to be in Rothside for forty-eight hours. And besides, why should she be apprehensive? The divorce was only a formality, as he had said. They had had no communication for almost twelve years. They were strangers. She doubted he would even recognise her.

      She arrived back at the flat, mentally planning what she ought to take with her. Matthew was in from school, she saw with relief, watching television in the living room. Her words of greeting were answered by a grunt, and she unloaded her shopping in the kitchen before telling him of her arrangements.

      ‘You remember what I was telling you about Aunt Hannah?’ she ventured, when the fish fingers she had brought in for their tea were browning under the grill. ‘About her having a heart attack?’

      ‘Hmm.’ Matthew was engrossed in the antics of the latest group of cartoon detectives, and was only paying her scant attention.

      ‘Matthew!’ Abby spoke his name a little impatiently, and he glanced round.

      ‘I’m listening.’

      ‘Well——’ She paused a moment to marshall her words. ‘I thought we might go up to Rothside this weekend to see her.’

      ‘Hmm—what?’ At last she had his interest. ‘You mean—go to Northumberland?’

      ‘To Rothside, yes.’

      ‘Blimey!’ Matthew gazed up at her with the first trace of genuine enthusiasm she had seen for ages. ‘Do you mean it?’

      ‘Yes,’ Abby nodded, a little surprised at his reaction. She had half expected him to complain because it meant he would miss the first home game of the new football season.

      ‘Hey!’ Matthew actually grinned. ‘Terrific!’

      Abby shook her head. ‘You don’t mind.’

      ‘Mind?’ He snorted. ‘Will we get one of those high-speed trains? You know, the ones that do over a hundred miles an hour?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Abby was relieved. ‘Then we have to take a bus from Newcastle to Alnbury.’

      ‘Alnbury? Where’s that?’

      ‘Oh, it’s about five miles from the village. It’s where I used to go to school.’ She broke off abruptly. ‘Set the table, will you, Matt? The fish fingers smell as if they’re burning.’

      Abby booked seats on the five-forty p.m. train to Newcastle on Friday evening. She arranged to pick Matthew up from school at four o’clock, which gave them plenty of time to get from Greenwich, across London to King’s Cross.

      ‘Try