Always and Forever

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 any. She could get a job and save enough to train…

She sat up suddenly, struck by a sudden thought. 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 against her legs. She made no attempt to stop; there was no one there to see, and now that the rain was coming down in earnest no one would want to stop for the night.

Dr Fforde had a free weekend, but he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. He had lunched on Saturday with friends, amongst whom had been Miriam Potter-Stokes, an elegant young widow who was appearing more and more frequently in his circle of friends. He felt vaguely sorry for her, admired her for the apparently brave face she was showing to the world, and what had been a casual friendship now bid fair to become something more serious—on her part at least.

He had found himself agreeing to drive her down to Henley after lunch, and once there had been forced by good manners to stay at her friend’s home for tea. On the way back to London she had suggested that they might have dinner together.

He had pleaded a prior engagement and gone back to his home feeling that his day had been wasted. She was an amusing companion, pretty and well dressed, but he had wondered once or twice what she was really like. Certainly he enjoyed her company from time to time, but that was all…

He took Tiger for a long walk on Sunday morning and after lunch got into his car. It was no day for a drive into the country, and Bates looked his disapproval.

‘Not going to Glastonbury in this weather, I hope, sir?’ he observed.

‘No, no. Just a drive. Leave something cold for my supper, will you?’

Bates looked offended. When had he ever forgotten to leave everything ready before he left the house?

‘As always, sir,’ he said reprovingly.

It wasn’t until he was driving west through the quiet city streets that Dr Fforde admitted to himself that he knew where he was going. Watching the carefully nurtured beauty of Miriam Potter-Stokes had reminded him of Amabel. He had supposed, in some amusement, because the difference in the two of them was so marked. It would be interesting to see her again. Her mother would be back home by now, and he doubted if there were many people wanting bed and breakfast now that summer had slipped into a wet autumn.

He enjoyed driving, and the roads, once he was clear of the suburbs, were almost empty. Tiger was an undemanding companion, and the countryside was restful after the bustle of London streets.

The house, when he reached it, looked forlorn; there were no open windows, no signs of life. He got out of the car with Tiger and walked round the side of the house; he found the back door open.

Amabel looked up as he paused at the door. He thought that she looked like a small bedraggled brown hen. He said, ‘Hello, may we come in?’ and bent to fondle the two dogs, giving her time to wipe her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Tiger’s quite safe with Cyril, and he likes cats.’

Amabel stood up, found a handkerchief and blew her nose. She said in a social kind of voice, ‘Do come in. Isn’t it an awful day? I expect you’re on your way to Glastonbury. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to make one.’

‘Thank you, that would be nice.’ He had come into the kitchen now, reaching up to tickle a belligerent Oscar under the chin. ‘I’m sorry Tiger’s frightened your cat. I don’t suppose there are many people about on a day like this—and your mother isn’t back yet?’

She said in a bleak little voice, ‘No…’ and then to her shame and horror burst into floods of tears.

Dr Fforde sat her down in the chair again. He said comfortably, ‘I’ll make the tea and you shall tell me all about it. Have a good cry; you’ll feel better. Is there any cake?’

Amabel said in a small wailing voice, ‘But I’ve been crying and I don’t feel any better.’ She gave a hiccough before adding, ‘And now I’ve started again.’ She took the large white handkerchief he offered her. ‘The cake’s in a tin in the cupboard in the corner.’

He put the tea things on the table and cut the cake, found biscuits for the dogs and spooned cat food onto a saucer for Oscar, who was still on top of a cupboard. Then he sat down opposite Amabel and put a cup of tea before her.

‘Drink some of that and then tell me why you are crying. Don’t leave anything out, for I’m merely a ship which is passing in the night, so you can say what you like and it will be forgotten—rather like having a bag of rubbish and finding an empty dustbin…’

She smiled then. ‘You make it sound so—so normal…’ She sipped her tea. ‘I’m sorry I’m behaving so badly.’

He cut the cake and gave her a piece, before saying matter-of-factly, ‘Is your mother’s absence the reason? Is she ill?’

‘Ill? No, no. She’s married someone in Canada…’

It was such a relief to talk to someone about it. It all came tumbling out: a hotch-potch of market gardens, plans for coming back and the need for her to be independent as soon as possible.

He listened quietly, refilling their cups, his eyes on her blotched face, and when she had at last finished her muddled story, he said, ‘And now you have told me you feel better about it, don’t you? It has all been bottled up inside you, hasn’t it? Going round inside your head like butter in a churn. It has been a great shock to you, and shocks should be shared. I won’t offer you advice, but I will suggest that you do nothing—make no plans, ignore your future—until your mother is home. I think that you may well find that you have been included in their plans and that you need no worries about your future. I can see that you might like to become independent, but don’t rush into it. You’re young enough to stay at home while they settle in, and that will give you time to decide what you want to do.’

When she nodded, he added, ‘Now, go and put your hair up and wash your face. We’re going to Castle Cary for supper.’

She gaped at him. ‘I can’t possibly…’

‘Fifteen minutes should be time enough.’

She did her best with her face, and piled her hair neatly, then got into a jersey dress, which was an off the peg model, but of a pleasing shade of cranberry-red, stuck her feet into her best shoes and went back into the kitchen. Her winter coat was out of date and shabby, and for once she blessed the rain, for it meant that she could wear her mac.

Their stomachs nicely filled, Cyril and Oscar were already half asleep, and Tiger was standing by his master, eager to be off.

‘I’ve locked everything up,’ observed the doctor, and ushered Amabel out of the kitchen, turned the key in the lock and put it in his pocket, and urged her into the car. He hadn’t appeared to look at her at all, but all the same he saw that she had done her best with her appearance. And the restaurant he had in mind had shaded rose lamps on its tables, if he remembered aright…

There weren’t many people there on a wet Sunday evening, but the place was welcoming, and the rosy shades were kind to Amabel’s still faintly blotchy face. Moreover, the food was good. He watched the pink come back into her cheeks as they ate their mushrooms in garlic sauce, local trout and a salad fit for the Queen. And the puddings were satisfyingly shrouded in thick clotted cream…

The doctor kept up a gentle stream of undemanding talk, and Amabel, soothed by it, was unaware of time passing until she caught sight of the clock.

She said in a shocked voice, ‘It’s almost nine. You will be so late at Glastonbury…’

‘I’m going back to town,’ he told her easily, but he made no effort to keep her, driving her back without more ado, seeing her safely into the house and driving off again with a friendly if casual goodbye.

The house, when he had gone, was empty—and too quiet. Amabel settled Cyril and Oscar for the night and went to bed.

It had been a lovely evening, and it had been such a relief to talk to someone about her worries, but now she had the uneasy feeling that she had made a fool of herself, crying and pouring out her problems like a hysterical woman. Because he was a doctor, and was used to dealing with awkward patients, he had listened to her, given her a splendid meal and offered sensible suggestions as to her future. Probably he dealt with dozens like her…

She woke to a bright morning, and around noon a party of four knocked on the door and asked for rooms for the night, so Amabel was kept busy. By the end of the day she was tired enough to fall into bed and sleep at once.

There was no one for the next few days but there was plenty for her to do. The long summer days were over, and a cold wet autumn was predicted.