Always and Forever. Бетти Нилс

Waitresses needed no training, and there would be tips. In one of the larger towns, of course. Taunton or Yeovil? Or what about one of the great estates run by the National Trust? They had shops and tearooms and house guides. The more she thought about it, the better she liked it.

      She went to bed with her decision made. Now it was just a question of waiting until her mother and her stepfather came home.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS almost a week later when she had the next letter, but before that her mother had phoned. She was so happy, she’d said excitedly; they planned to marry in October— Amabel didn’t mind staying at home until they returned? Probably in November?

      ‘It’s only a few months, Amabel, and just as soon as we’re home Keith says you must tell us what you want to do and we’ll help you do it. He’s so kind and generous. Of course if he sells his business quickly we shall come home as soon as we can arrange it.’

      Amabel had heard her mother’s happy little laugh. ‘I’ve written you a long letter about the wedding. Joyce and Tom are giving a small reception for us, and I’ve planned such a pretty outfit—it’s all in the letter…’

      The long letter when it arrived was bursting with excitement and happiness.

      You have no idea how delightful it is not to have to worry about the future, to have someone to look after me—you too, of course. Have you decided what you want to do when we get home? You must be so excited at the idea of being independent; you have had such a dull life since you left school…

      But a contented one, reflected Amabel. Helping to turn their bed and breakfast business into a success, knowing that she was wanted, feeling that she and her mother were making something of their lives. And now she must start all over again.

      It would be nice to wallow in self-pity, but there were two people at the door asking if she could put them up for the night…

      Because she was tired she slept all night, although the moment she woke thoughts came tumbling into her head which were better ignored, so she got up earlier than usual and went outside in her dressing gown with a mug of tea and Cyril and Oscar for company.

      It was pleasant sitting on the bench in the orchard in the early-morning sun, and in its cheerful light it was impossible to be gloomy. It would be nice, though, to be able to talk to someone about her future…

      Dr Fforde’s large, calm person came into her mind’s eye; he would have listened and told her what she should do. She wondered what he was doing…

      Dr Fforde was sitting on the table in the kitchen of his house, the end one in a short terrace of Regency houses in a narrow street tucked away behind Wimpole Street in London. He was wearing a tee shirt and elderly trousers and badly needed a shave; he had the appearance of a ruffian—a handsome ruffian. There was a half-eaten apple on the table beside him and he was taking great bites from a thick slice of bread and butter. He had been called out just after two o’clock that morning to operate on a patient with a perforated duodenal ulcer; there had been complications which had kept him from his bed and now he was on his way to shower and get ready for his day.

      He finished his bread and butter, bent to fondle the sleek head of the black Labrador sitting beside him, and went to the door. It opened as he reached it. The youngish man who came in was already dressed, immaculate in a black alpaca jacket and striped trousers. He had a sharp-nosed foxy face, and dark hair brushed to a satin smoothness.

      He stood aside for the doctor and wished him a severe good morning.

      ‘Out again, sir?’ His eye fell on the apple core. ‘You had only to call me. I’d have got you a nice hot drink and a sandwich…’

      The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I know you would, Bates. I’ll be down in half an hour for one of your special breakfasts. I disturbed Tiger; would you let him out into the garden?’

      He went up the graceful little staircase to his room, his head already filled with thoughts of the day ahead of him. Amabel certainly had no place in them.

      Half an hour later he was eating the splendid breakfast Bates had carried through to the small sitting room at the back of the house. Its French windows opened onto a small patio and a garden beyond where Tiger was meandering round. Presently he came to sit by his master, to crunch bacon rinds and then accompany him on a brisk walk through the still quiet streets before the doctor got into his car and drove the short distance to the hospital.

      Amabel saw her two guests on their way, got the room ready for the next occupants and then on a sudden impulse went to the village and bought the regional weekly paper at the post office. Old Mr Truscott, who ran it and knew everyone’s business, took his time giving her her change.

      ‘Didn’t know you were interested in the Gazette, nothing much in it but births, marriages and deaths.’ He fixed her with a beady eye. ‘And adverts, of course. Now if anyone was looking for a job it’s a paper I’d recommend.’

      Amabel said brightly, ‘I dare say it’s widely read, Mr Truscott. While I’m here I’d better have some more air mail letters.’

      ‘Your ma’s not coming home yet, then? Been gone a long time, I reckon.’

      ‘She’s staying a week or two longer; she might not get the chance to visit my sister again for a year or two. It’s a long way to go for just a couple of weeks.

      Over her lunch she studied the jobs page. There were heartening columns of vacancies for waitresses: the basic wage was fairly low, but if she worked full-time she could manage very well… And Stourhead, the famous National Trust estate, wanted shop assistants, help in the tearooms and suitable applicants for full-time work in the ticket office. And none of them were wanted until the end of September.

      It seemed too good to be true, but all the same she cut the ad out and put it with the bed and breakfast money in the tea caddy.

      A week went by, and then another. Summer was almost over. The evenings were getting shorter, and, while the mornings were light still, there was the ghost of a nip in the air. There had been more letters from Canada from her mother and future stepfather, and her sister, and during the third week her mother had telephoned; they were married already—now it was just a question of selling Keith’s business.

      ‘We hadn’t intended to marry so soon but there was no reason why we shouldn’t, and of course I’ve moved in with him,’ she said. ‘So if he can sell his business soon we shall be home before long. We have such plans…!’

      There weren’t as many people knocking on the door now; Amabel cleaned and polished the house, picked the last of the soft fruit to put in the freezer and cast an eye over the contents of the cupboards.

      With a prudent eye to her future she inspected her wardrobe—a meagre collection of garments, bought with an eye to their long-lasting qualities, in good taste but which did nothing to enhance her appearance.

      Only a handful of people came during the week, and no one at all on Saturday. She felt low-spirited—owing to the damp and gloomy weather, she told herself—and even a brisk walk with Cyril didn’t make her feel any better. It was still only early afternoon and she sat down in the kitchen, with Oscar on her lap, disinclined to do anything.

      She would make herself a pot of tea, write to her mother, have an early supper and go to bed. Soon it would be the beginning of another week; if the weather was better there might be a satisfying number of tourists—and besides, there were plenty of jobs to do in the garden. So she wrote her letter, very bright and cheerful, skimming over the lack of guests, making much of the splendid apple crop and how successful the soft fruit had been. That done, she went on sitting at the kitchen table, telling herself that she would make the tea.

      Instead of that she sat, a small sad figure, contemplating a future which held problems. Amabel wasn’t a girl given to self-pity, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, but she cried now, quietly and without fuss, a damp Oscar on her lap, Cyril’s head pressed