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