Last Walk Home. Emma Page

rosy visions of expansion had come to nothing, there was no industrial estate, no blossoming of new houses. Already the parish had been amalgamated with that of Stanbourne, there was no resident vicar now at Longmead.

      At one time when Henry thought of retirement he had looked forward to it as an exciting, fertile time of life. He saw himself active and energetic, speaking at conferences, lecturing to interested groups up and down the country, writing on educational matters for the national press, being interviewed on television and radio. Now he knew he would simply be stranded here in this tiny backwater, isolated, growing old; nobody would give a damn what he thought about anything.

      It was a struggle every morning now to rouse himself to tackle the day’s work. He dreaded to think what his state would be when there was no longer even that regular stimulus to spur him up out of the dark pit.

      He threw back the covers and got out of bed, thrust his feet into slippers. When he and Rachel returned from their honeymoon Rachel had firmly indicated that at Parkwood they would occupy separate rooms. ‘In case Mother needs attention in the night,’ she told him. ‘It will mean less disturbance for you.’ Now, as he went silently down the wide staircase, he was deeply thankful that he had his own room and could wander about when restless­ness woke him, could read or listen to the radio.