CHAPTER THREE

      NOTHING, as it turned out, except fate, and an old lady’s heartbreak.

      The first nail in Abby’s coffin came the next day, when she quit her waitressing job after the boss pawed at her bottom one time too many. Then, on that same Saturday night, some rotten thug broke in and burgled Miss Blanchford’s room. The poor old thing was so distressed that Abby spent the whole of Sunday trying to comfort her.

      ‘It’ll be all right, Miss Blanchford,’ Abby soothed, after the police had finally left at around four in the afternoon. They were sitting in Miss Blanchford’s room, which was the biggest and best in the ancient old boarding bouse, its large window overlooking the rather ramshackle front garden. Unfortunately, it had been this same window which had given the thief easy entry into the downstairs room.

      Miss Blanchford shook her head as two big tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘All gone,’ she said with a strangled sob. ‘Five years’ savings. All gone.’

      Abby bit her bottom lip to stop herself from crying as well. The poor old thing. But, oh...if only she’d put her money in the bank, instead of in a biscuit tin under her bed.

      The police thought the thief was probably someone who’d once lived in the same boarding house and had learnt about Miss Blanchford’s distrust of banks—not an uncommon thing with survivors of the great Depression. Unfortunately, the police also thought there was little hope of finding the perpetrator and recovering the money, although they hadn’t said as much to Miss Blanchford. Abby had insisted on that. The poor old love was upset enough as it was.

      The real tragedy was that the money had been to buy an electric wheelchair. Miss Blanchford was suffering a degenerative muscular disease which was making it harder and harder for her to get around in her handpropelled chair.

      ‘What am I going to do, Abby?’ the old lady cried. ‘I don’t want to go into one of those government nursing homes. But soon I won’t be able to manage on my own. If I don’t have my independence, I’d rather be dead.’

      ‘Now you stop talking like that,’ Abby reprimanded, but gently. ‘The police’ll get your money back for you; don’t you worry.’

      ‘No, they won’t. It’s gone. I’m a silly old fool for keeping it in that tin.’

      ‘Now stop that. It won’t help, crying over spilt milk. I have this gut feeling your money will show up. Give them a few days.’ Abby had a gut feeling all right. Her stomach was already churning with the acceptance of what she was going to do to get Miss Blanchford that money.

      ‘The man was coming to show me a chair next Wednesday. He said it was one of the best second-hand electric chairs he’d come across. And only three thousand dollars. New ones cost a lot more, you know.’

      ‘Yes, I know,’ Abby said, her thoughts whirling along with her stomach. If Ethan Grant was willing to pay two thousand for her company, might he pay more? Three thousand, perhaps? ‘Up front and in advance’, he’d promised. If he agreed to her counter-proposal, she’d be able to give Miss Blanchford the money before Wednesday.

      Of course, she would tell her that the police had recovered the money. Her old ballet teacher was very proud and would never accept charity. On top of that, she might ask Abby some sticky questions about where the money had come from.

      ‘Come now, Miss Blanchford,’ Abby urged. ‘Dry your tears. The woman who put me through my paces at the bar would not succumb to self-pity. Neither would she despair so quickly. Give the police a chance. And promise me you won’t cancel that man coming on Wednesday.’

      ‘All right, Abby.’ The old lady found a watery smile from somewhere. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’

      ‘You’d do just fine, like always,’ Abby reassured her old friend. Privately, however, she wasn’t so sure. The once seemingly indestructible old lady was looking very frail today.

      ‘I still can’t get over my good fortune in your coming to live here. You’re so good to me, Abby. Reading to me and playing cards with me. You’re not going to move out after you get a full-time job, are you? I know this is not the nicest place in the world...’

      Nice! It was a dump—the old house crumbling around them. But it was cheap, and only a short train ride from the city centre. She’d been given the address by a cellmate, and had hoped that she wouldn’t need it. She’d hoped to be able to live at home.

      But when she’d arrived at the house the day she’d been let out of prison six months earlier, there had been a message from her father saying that she was not welcome there, though he’d magnanimously said that she could take her personal belongings. She’d been so upset, however, that she’d left the house without taking anything, relying instead on the clothes she’d brought from prison.

      The decrepit old boarding house had come as a bit of a shock to begin with, but not as much of a shock as the inhabitant of the downstairs front room.

      Miss Blanchford had taught Abby ballet from the age of three till Abby had been shipped off to a private boarding school during her twelfth year. She hadn’t seen her dance teacher since then, but had never forgotten her, having always admired her staunch sense of selfdiscipline. She probably had Miss Blanchford to thank for instilling in her enough strength of character to sustain her during her dark days in prison.

      It seemed that Miss Blanchford had never forgotten Abby either, her face lighting up with pleasure once she recognised her old pupil. She and Abby had talked for ages, and Abby had told her everything that had happened to her in the intervening years. It had been wonderful to find a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on.

      Miss Blanchford’s friendship meant the world to Abby, and she could not bear to see the old lady so unhappy. She vowed to do whatever was necessary to get her the money