Always and Forever

She collected the windfalls from the orchard, picked the last of the beans for the freezer, saw to beetroots, carrots and winter cabbage and dug the rest of the potatoes. She went to the rickety old greenhouse to pick tomatoes. She supposed that when her stepfather came he would build a new one; she and her mother had made do with it, and the quite large plot they used for vegetables grew just enough to keep them supplied throughout the year, but he was bound to make improvements.

It took her most of the week to get the garden in some sort of order, and at the weekend a party of six stayed for two nights, so on Monday morning she walked to the villager to stock up on groceries, post a letter to her mother and, on an impulse, bought the local paper again.

Back home, studying the jobs page, she saw with regret that the likely offers of work were no longer in it. There would be others, she told herself stoutly, and she must remember what Dr Fforde had told her—not to rush into anything. She must be patient; her mother had said that they hoped to be home before Christmas, but that was still weeks away, and even so he had advised her to do nothing hastily…

It was two days later, while she was putting away sheets and pillowcases in the landing cupboard, when she heard Cyril barking. He sounded excited, and she hurried downstairs; she had left the front door unlocked and someone might have walked in…

Her mother was standing in the hall, and there was a tall thickset man beside her. She was laughing and stooping to pat Cyril, then she looked up and saw Amabel.

‘Darling, aren’t we a lovely surprise? Keith sold the business, so there was no reason why we shouldn’t come back here.’

She embraced Amabel, and Amabel, hugging her back, said, ‘Oh, Mother—how lovely to see you.’

She looked at the man and smiled—and knew immediately that she didn’t like him and that he didn’t like her. But she held out a hand and said, ‘How nice to meet you. It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?’

Cyril had pushed his nose into Keith’s hand and she saw his impatient hand push it away. Her heart sank.

Her mother was talking and laughing, looking into the rooms, exclaiming how delightful everything looked. ‘And there’s Oscar.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Our cat, Keith. I know you don’t like cats, but he’s one of the family.’

He made some non-committal remark and went to fetch the luggage. Mrs Parsons, now Mrs Graham, ran upstairs to her room, and Amabel went to the kitchen to get tea. Cyril and Oscar went with her and arranged themselves tidily in a corner of the kitchen, aware that this man with the heavy tread didn’t like them.

They had tea in the sitting room and the talk was of Canada and their journey and their plans to establish a market garden.

‘No more bed and breakfast,’ said Mrs Graham. ‘Keith wants to get the place going as soon as possible. If we can get a glasshouse up quickly we could pick up some of the Christmas trade.’

‘Where will you put it?’ asked Amabel. ‘There’s plenty of ground beyond the orchard.’

Keith had been out to look around before tea, and now he observed, ‘I’ll get that ploughed and dug over for spring crops, and I’ll put the glasshouse in the orchard. There’s no money in apples, and some of the trees look past it. We’ll finish picking and then get rid of them. There’s plenty of ground there—fine for peas and beans.’

He glanced at Amabel. ‘Your mother tells me you’re pretty handy around the house and garden. The two of us ought to be able to manage to get something started— I’ll hire a man with a rotavator who’ll do the rough digging; the lighter jobs you’ll be able to manage.’

Amabel didn’t say anything. For one thing she was too surprised and shocked; for another, it was early days to be making such sweeping plans. And what about her mother’s suggestion that she might like to train for something? If her stepfather might be certain of his plans, but why was he so sure that she would agree to them? And she didn’t agree with them. The orchard had always been there, long before she was born. It still produced a good crop of apples and in the spring it was so beautiful with the blossom…

She glanced at her mother, who looked happy and content and was nodding admiringly at her new husband.

It was later, as she was getting the supper that he came into the kitchen.

‘Have to get rid of that cat,’ he told her briskly. ‘Can’t abide them, and the dog’s getting on a bit, isn’t he? Animals don’t go well with market gardens. Not to my reckoning, anyway.’

‘Oscar is no trouble at all,’ said Amabel, and tried hard to sound friendly. ‘And Cyril is a good guard dog; he never lets anyone near the house.’

She had spoken quietly, but he looked at her face and said quickly, ‘Oh, well, no hurry about them. It’ll take a month or two to get things going how I want them.’

He in his turn essayed friendliness. ‘We’ll make a success of it, too. Your mother can manage the house and you can work full-time in the garden. We might even take on casual labour after a bit—give you time to spend with your young friends.’

He sounded as though he was conferring a favour upon her, and her dislike deepened, but she mustn’t allow it to show. He was a man who liked his own way and intended to have it. Probably he was a good husband to her mother, but he wasn’t going to be a good stepfather…

Nothing much happened for a few days; there was a good deal of unpacking to do, letters to write and trips to the bank. Quite a substantial sum of money had been transferred from Canada and Mr Graham lost no time in making enquiries about local labour. He also went up to London to meet men who had been recommended as likely to give him financial backing, should he require it.

In the meantime Amabel helped her mother around the house, and tried to discover if her mother had meant her to have training of some sort and then changed her mind at her husband’s insistence.

Mrs Graham was a loving parent, but easily dominated by anyone with a stronger will than her own. What was the hurry? she wanted to know. A few more months at home were neither here nor there, and she would be such a help to Keith.

‘He’s such a marvellous man, Amabel, he’s bound to make a success of whatever he does.’

Amabel said cautiously, ‘It’s a pity he doesn’t like Cyril and Oscar…’

Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, darling, he would never be unkind to them.’

Perhaps not unkind, but as the weeks slipped by it was apparent that they were no longer to be regarded as pets around the house. Cyril spent a good deal of time outside, roaming the orchard, puzzled as to why the kitchen door was so often shut. As for Oscar, he only came in for his meals, looking carefully around to make sure that there was no one about.

Amabel did what she could, but her days were full, and it was obvious that Mr Graham was a man who rode roughshod over anyone who stood in his way. For the sake of her mother’s happiness Amabel held her tongue; there was no denying that he was devoted to her mother, and she to him, but there was equally no denying that he found Amabel, Cyril and Oscar superfluous to his life.

It wasn’t until she came upon him hitting Cyril and then turning on an unwary Oscar and kicking him aside that Amabel knew that she would have to do something about it.

She scooped up a trembling Oscar and bent to put an arm round Cyril’s elderly neck. ‘How dare you? Whatever have they done to you? They’re my friends and I love them,’ she added heatedly, ‘and they have lived here all their lives.’

Her stepfather stared at her. ‘Well, they won’t live here much longer if I have my way. I’m the boss here. I don’t like animals around the place so you’d best make up your mind to that.’

He walked off without another word and Amabel, watching his retreating back, knew that she had to do something—and quickly.

She went out to the orchard—there were piles of bricks and bags of cement already heaped near the bench, ready to start building the glasshouse—and with Oscar on her lap and Cyril pressed against her she reviewed and discarded several plans, most of them too far-fetched to be of any use. Finally she had the nucleus of a sensible idea. But first she must have some money, and secondly the right opportunity…

As though a kindly providence approved of her efforts, she was able to have both. That very evening her stepfather declared that he would have to go to London in the morning. A useful acquaintance had phoned to say that he would meet him and introduce him to a wholesaler who would consider doing business with him once he was established. He would go to London early in the morning, and since he had a long day ahead of him he went to bed early.

Presently, alone with her mother, Amabel seized what seemed to be a golden opportunity.

‘I wondered if I might have some money for clothes, Mother. I haven’t bought anything since you went away…’

‘Of course, love. I should have thought of that myself. And you did so well with the bed and breakfast business. Is there any money in the tea caddy? If there is take whatever you want from it. I’ll ask Keith to make you an allowance; he’s so generous…’

‘No, don’t do that, Mother. He has enough to think about without bothering him about that; there’ll be enough in the tea caddy. Don’t bother him.’ She looked across at her mother. ‘You’re very happy with him, aren’t you, Mother?’

‘Oh, yes, Amabel. I never told you, but I hated living here, just the two of us, making ends meet, no man around the place. When I went to your sister’s I realised what I was missing. And I’ve been thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea if you started some sort of training…’

Amabel agreed quietly, reflecting that her mother wouldn’t miss her…

Her mother went to bed presently, and Amabel made Oscar and Cyril comfortable for the night and counted the money in the tea caddy. There was more than enough for her plan.

She went to her room and, quiet as a mouse, got her holdall out of the wardrobe and packed it, including undies and a jersey skirt and a couple of woollies; autumn would soon turn to winter…

She thought over her plan when she was in bed; there seemed no way of improving upon it, so she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

She got up early, to prepare breakfast for her stepfather, having first of all made sure that Oscar and Cyril weren’t in the kitchen. Once he had driven away she got her own breakfast, fed both animals and got dressed. Her mother came down, and over her coffee suggested that she might get the postman to give her a lift to Castle Cary.

‘I’ve time to dress before he comes, and I can get my hair done. You’ll be all right, love?’

It’s as though I’m meant to be leaving, reflected Amabel. And when her mother was ready, and waiting for the postman, reminded her to take a key with her—‘For I might go for a walk.’

Amabel had washed the breakfast dishes, tidied the house, and made the beds by the time her mother got into the post van, and if she gave her mother a sudden warm hug and kiss Mrs Graham didn’t notice.

Half an hour later Amabel, with Oscar in his basket, Cyril on a lead, and encumbered by her holdall and a shoulder bag, was getting into the taxi she had requested. She had written to her mother explaining that it was high time she became independent and that she would write, but that she was not to worry. You will both make a great success of the market garden and it will be easier for you both if Oscar, Cyril and myself aren’t getting under your feet, she had ended.

The taxi took them to Gillingham where—fortune still smiling—they got on the London train and, once there, took a taxi to Victoria bus station. By now Amabel realised her plans, so simple in theory, were fraught with possible disaster. But she had cooked her goose. She bought a ticket to York, had a cup of tea, got water for Cyril and put milk in her saucer for Oscar and then climbed into the long-distance bus.

It was half empty, and the driver was friendly. Amabel perched on a seat with Cyril at her feet and Oscar in his basket on her lap. She was a bit cramped, but at least they were still altogether…

It was three o’clock in the afternoon by now, and it was a hundred and ninety-three miles to York, where they would arrive at about half past eight. The end of the journey was in sight, and it only remained for Great-Aunt Thisbe to offer them a roof over their heads. A moot point since she was unaware of them coming…

‘I should have phoned her,’ muttered Amabel, ‘but there was so much to think about in such a hurry.’

It was only now that the holes in her hare-brained scheme began to show, but it was too late to worry about it. She still had a little money, she was young, she could work and, most important of all, Oscar and Cyril were still alive…

Amabel, a sensible level-headed girl, had thrown her bonnet over the windmill with a vengeance.

She went straight to the nearest phone box at the bus station in York; she was too tired and light-headed from her impetuous journey to worry about Great-Aunt Thisbe’s reaction.

When she heard that lady’s firm, unhurried voice she said without preamble, ‘It’s me— Amabel, Aunt Thisbe. I’m at the bus station in York.’

She had done her best to keep her voice quiet and steady, but it held a squeak of panic. Supposing Aunt Thisbe put down the phone…

Miss Parsons did no such thing. When she had been told of her dead nephew’s wife’s remarriage she had disapproved, strongly but silently. Such an upheaval: a strange man taking over from her nephew’s loved memory, and what about Amabel? She hadn’t seen the girl for some years—what of her? Had her mother considered her?

She said now, ‘Go and sit down on the nearest seat, Amabel. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘I’ve got Oscar and Cyril with me.’

‘You are all welcome,’ said Aunt Thisbe, and rang off.

Much heartened by these words, Amabel found a bench and, with a patient Cyril crouching beside her and Oscar eyeing her miserably from the little window in his basket, sat down to wait.

Half an hour, when you’re not very happy, can seem a very long time, but Amabel forgot that when she saw Great-Aunt Thisbe walking briskly towards her, clad in a coat and skirt which hadn’t altered in style for the last few decades, her white hair crowned by what could best be described as a sensible hat. There was a youngish man with her, short and sturdy with weatherbeaten features.

Great-Aunt Thisbe kissed Amabel briskly. ‘I am so glad you have come to visit me, my dear. Now we will go home and you shall tell me all about it. This is Josh, my right hand. He’ll take your luggage to the car and drive us home.’

Amabel had got to her feet. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t need a long explanation, so she held out a hand for Josh to shake, picked up Oscar’s basket and Cyril’s lead and walked obediently out into the street and got into the back of the car while Aunt Thisbe settled herself beside Josh.

It was dark now, and the road was almost empty of traffic. There was nothing to see from the car’s window but Amabel remembered Bolton Percy was where her aunt lived, a medieval village some fifteen miles from York and tucked away from the main roads. It must be ten years since she was last here, she reflected; she had been sixteen and her father had died a few months earlier…

The village, when they reached it, was in darkness, but her aunt’s house, standing a little apart from the row of brick and plaster cottages near the church, welcomed them with lighted windows.

Josh got out and helped her with the animals and she followed him up the path to the front door, which Great-Aunt Thisbe had opened.

‘Welcome to my home, child,’ she said. ‘And yours for as long as you need it.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE next hour or two were a blur to Amabel; her coat was taken from her and she was sat in a chair in Aunt Thisbe’s kitchen, bidden to sit there, drink the tea she was given and say nothing—something she was only too glad to do while Josh and her aunt dealt with Cyril and Oscar. In fact, quite worn out, she dozed off, to wake and find Oscar curled up on her lap, washing himself, and Cyril’s head pressed against her knee.

Great-Aunt Thisbe spoke before she could utter a word.

‘Stay there for a few minutes. Your room’s ready, but you must have something to eat first.’

‘Aunt Thisbe—’ began Amabel.

‘Later, child. Supper and a good night’s sleep first. Do you want your mother to know you are here?’

‘No, no. I’ll explain…’

‘Tomorrow.’ Great-Aunt Thisbe, still wearing her hat, put a bowl of fragrant stew into Amabel’s hands. ‘Now eat your supper.’

Presently Amabel was ushered upstairs to a small room with a sloping ceiling and a lattice window. She didn’t remember getting undressed, nor did she feel surprised to find both Oscar and Cyril with her. It had been a day like no other and she was beyond surprise or questioning; it seemed quite right that Cyril and Oscar should share her bed. They were still all together, she thought with satisfaction. It was like waking up after a particularly nasty nightmare.

When she woke in the morning she lay for a moment, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, but in seconds memory came flooding back and she sat up in bed, hampered by Cyril’s weight on her feet and Oscar curled up near him. In the light of early morning yesterday’s journey was something unbelievably foolhardy—and she would have to explain to Great-Aunt Thisbe.

The sooner the better.

She got up, went quietly to the bathroom, dressed and the three of them crept downstairs.

The house wasn’t large, but it was solidly built, and had been added to over the years, and its small garden had a high stone wall. Amabel opened the stout door and went outside. Oscar and Cyril, old and wise enough to know what was wanted of them, followed her cautiously.

It was a fine morning but there was a nip in the air, and the three of them went back indoors just as Great-Aunt Thisbe came into the kitchen.

Her good morning was brisk and kind. ‘You slept well? Good. Now, my dear, there’s porridge on the Aga; I dare say these two will eat it. Josh will bring suitable food when he comes presently. And you and I will have a cup of tea before I get our breakfast.

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