Season Of Mists

‘Give me a moment,’ she said, not yet prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of telling him, and Matthew shrugged and studied the white laces in his black boots.

Dear Abby, she read again, drawing a deep breath, You will probably not be entirely surprised to learn that I have decided to divorce you.

Divorce! Abby found she was not just surprised, she was stunned. Somehow, foolishly she now realised, she had begun to believe Piers was never going to seek a divorce. Perhaps, in the back of her mind, she had even nurtured the hope that one day this whole awful mess would be resolved and Piers would believe her story. But now, it seemed that she was wrong, and the words he had used stung her unpleasantly.

She read on:

I realise I had no need to inform you of my intentions in the circumstances, but I wanted you to know that I no longer feel any hostility towards you. What’s done is done. You were too young to be tied down to matrimony, and I was old enough to know better.

Abby’s teeth were digging into her lower lip now, but she forced herself to finish reading.

I trust you and the boy are both well. You will be hearing from my solicitors within the next few days. Yours, etc. Roth.

Just Roth, thought Abby bitterly, folding the page. Not Piers, or even Piers Roth; just Roth: as if he was writing to some business acquaintance. Her jaw quivered, but just for a moment. Then she steeled her emotions. So what? she asked herself severely. What difference would it make to her? She would still call herself Mrs Roth. Nothing could alter that. So why did she feel so abysmally shattered?

‘Well?’

She had forgotten Matthew for a moment, but now she glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, pushing the letter back in its envelope. ‘Nothing important, that is. Oh—and this one’s from Aunt Hannah.’

‘If she’s my aunt, how come I never meet her?’ Matthew countered, swinging his feet to the floor. Then he pulled a face. ‘Oh, don’t tell me, I know. She lives in Northumberland, and we can’t afford to go all that way to see her.’ He grimaced. ‘What you really mean is, that’s where my father lives, too, and that’s why we never visit her. Because you’re afraid I’ll meet him!’

‘No!’

Abby’s cheeks flushed, but she knew he didn’t believe her. Matthew would never believe the truth, even if she told it to him. He was firmly convinced she had deprived him of his father by running away to London.

Turning back to Aunt Hannah’s letter, Abby scanned the unsteady print with smarting eyes. The letter was shorter than usual. Just one page, instead of the half dozen or so Aunt Hannah usually wrote. Her letters tended to be epistles, describing every small incident that happened in Rothside, with an attention to detail born of loneliness; and although Abby told herself she only read the letters to please the old lady, secretly she devoured every word.

Hannah Caldwell was not in fact her aunt, but her mother’s, but when Abby’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn child, she had brought the little girl to Rothside to stay with her. Abby’s father had been terribly distraught over his wife’s death, and after selling their house in Newcastle, had moved to Scotland, to work in Aberdeen. It had been arranged between him and Aunt Hannah that Abby should join him when he had found a house and obtained a housekeeper. But it never came off. Laurence Charlton was drowned in a sailing accident only a few weeks later, and Abby’s visit with Aunt Hannah became permanent.

Now she viewed the old lady’s letter with growing concern. It appeared that Aunt Hannah had had a heart attack only ten days ago. Nothing serious, you understand, she wrote, with endearing understatement, just a reminder that I’m not as young as I used to be.

Abby shook her head. How old was Aunt Hannah now? Eighty-two, eighty-three? She frowned. Too old to be living alone in the cottage, she thought anxiously, particularly if her heart was not strong.

Doctor Willis is talking of moving me into Rosemount, the letter continued, but I told him he’d have to carry me out of here on a stretcher. That’s all these young doctors can think about these days—herding old people into homes, so that they can be lumped together like cattle. I don’t want to live with a lot of old fogies. I like young people around me. I just wish you and Matthew lived a little nearer. I do miss you, Abby.

Abby’s conscience smote her. It had been hard on Aunt Hannah, she knew that. Her marriage to Piers, when she was only eighteen, had been hard enough for the old lady to bear, but at least she had believed Abby would be happy. Then, Abby’s leaving Rothside less than a year later had changed all that, and Aunt Hannah had blamed herself for allowing it to happen. Of course, in the beginning, when Matthew was just a baby, she had made an occasional trip to London to see her great-great-nephew, but inevitably the cost—and her advancing age—had made the journey impossible. It was almost ten years since they had met, and although Abby corresponded regularly, she knew it was not the same.

And now this—Aunt Hannah having a heart attack, and Abby not learning about it until the old lady was able to write and tell her. She was her only relative, after all. And she owed her a lot for the way she had looked after her all those years ago.

Sighing, she turned to the last few lines of the letter:

You’ll have heard, no doubt, that Piers is planning on marrying again.

Abby blinked. The divorce!

He called to see me a few days ago, her aunt went on. I expect Doctor Willis had told him about my little bit of trouble, and he walked in, large as life, with a basket of fruit and some lovely brown eggs from the home farm. I said he shouldn’t have bothered, but he insisted it was no trouble, and I suspect he wanted to warn me, before I heard the news officially. It’s Valerie Langton, of course. You remember, I told you the Langtons bought Manor Farm, after Ben Armstrong retired. She’s a pretty thing, not much more than twenty-three or four, and she should suit Mrs Roth, seeing that she’s fond of hunting and charity work.

Well, my dear, I haven’t the strength to write any more now. Do write soon. You know how much I look forward to your letters. All my love….

Abby found she was breathing rather heavily as she replaced her aunt’s letter in its envelope. So Piers wanted a divorce so that he could get married again. She couldn’t help the sudden surge of resentment that gripped her. How could he? she asked herself, how could he?

Aware that Matthew was still watching her, she forced herself to behave normally. ‘Aunt Hannah’s had a heart attack,’ she declared, taking off the jacket of the suit she had worn to work. ‘The doctor thinks she shouldn’t be living alone at her age, and I’m inclined to agree with him.’

Matthew shrugged. ‘So why doesn’t she come and live with us?’ he asked practically.

Abby sighed. ‘Because she wouldn’t want to leave her home. And besides,’ she took a deep breath, ‘I couldn’t afford to offer her a home. Bourne Electronics is closing down. I’m going to be out of a job in less than a month.’

Matthew’s eyes widened. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Abby hadn’t had time to think of her own troubles yet. What with being summoned to Matthew’s school, and Piers’ letter, not to mention Aunt Hannah’s heart attack, she had been diverted from what was arguably the most serious problem of all.

What was she going to do? This flat was small, but the rent was exorbitant, and any reduction in their weekly income was bound to create difficulties. They lived a hand-to-mouth existence as it was, each week’s pay spoken for, almost as soon as it was handed over. What with gas and fuel bills, Matthew’s clothes, which were a continual drain on her resources, and the need to keep herself as smart as the secretary to the managing director should be, food came way down on their list; and in spite of the cost, she was glad to pay for Matthew’s school dinners, which at least ensured that one of them had a decent meal every day. Abby herself ate little. She was lucky enough not to need a lot of food, and her tall slim figure had scarcely altered since her schooldays. Indeed, Trevor said she did not look old enough to have a son of Matthew’s age, but Abby took his compliments with a generous measure of salt. Trevor was biased, and no matter what he said, Abby was convinced she had aged considerably over the past two years.

But now she faced her son with real anxiety. What would they do? What could they do? And how would Matthew react if there wasn’t even enough money to allow him his weekly pocket money?

‘Will you get another job?’

Matthew was evidently concerned, and Abby strove to reassure him. ‘I hope so,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘I’ll have to, won’t I, as I’m the breadwinner.’

Matthew scuffed his boot against the rug. ‘I wish I was old enough to get a job,’ he muttered. ‘Another four years! It’s not fair!’

Abby did not answer him, but walked determinedly into the tiny kitchen that opened off the living room. She had yet to face the prospect of Matthew leaving school at sixteen. Once, she had had confidence in his doing well in his exams and earning a place at a university. Now, she held out no such hopes, even if she had been able to save the money to afford it. Matthew was simply not interested in learning anything. The gang he ran around with only just avoided contact with the law, and she dreaded to think what would happen when he left school. She didn’t want a tearaway for a son. She wanted a simple, ordinary boy; one who respected her as she respected him, and did not spend his days blaming her for ruining his chance in life.

She was filing some letters a few days later, when the phone started to ring in her office. Leaving the filing room, she hurried back to her desk to pick up the phone, and knew a moment’s foreboding when the telephonist said the call was for her. Not Matthew’s form-master again, she prayed silently, closing her eyes, and then opened them again when a strange masculine voice said: ‘Mrs Roth? Sean Willis here, Mrs Roth—Miss Caldwell’s doctor.’

Abby’s mouth went dry. ‘She’s not——’

‘No, no, nothing to worry about, Mrs Roth. At least, not immediately, that is.’

‘Not immediately?’ Abby was confused.

‘I’m explaining myself badly, Mrs Roth. Actually, why I’m ringing is because Miss Caldwell tells me you’re her only relative. Is that right?’

‘Her only relative.’ Abby was endeavouring to regain her composure. For one awful moment she thought Dr Willis had been about to tell her that Aunt Hannah was dead, and that would have been the last straw. ‘I—yes. Yes, I believe I am,’ she agreed now. ‘Why? Is something wrong? What can I do?’

‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to persuade her to leave Ivy Cottage,’ replied Dr Willis heavily. ‘She lives alone, as you know, and just recently she suffered a mild heart attack.’

‘I know. She wrote and told me.’

‘Good. Then you’ll realise how foolish it is of her to insist on staying at the cottage. Good heavens, she’s over eighty! Anything could happen.’

‘What are you saying, Dr Willis? That Aunt Hannah is ill? That she should be in hospital?’

‘In hospital, no. Rosemount, yes. I don’t know whether you know this, but Rosemount is a rather pleasant residential home——’

‘—for old people,’ Abby finished dryly. ‘Yes, she told me that, too. But I’m afraid she doesn’t want to leave her home.’

Dr Willis sighed. ‘If you care about your aunt, Mrs Roth, you’ll understand how important it is for her to have constant supervision. If she had another attack—if she fell——’