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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.

      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.