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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 milkin 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…
    â€˜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 toldof 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.’
    â€˜I’ve got Oscar and Cyril with me.’
    â€˜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