Season Of Mists. Anne Mather
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about the trip, Abby reflected, as she rode the bus to work. Perhaps he had decided to turn over a new leaf, she thought, but she wasn’t optimistic.
Her own boss, Trevor Bourne, had agreed to her leaving early without objection. ‘I just wish it was a job interview you were attending, Abby,’ he declared ruefully. ‘I know how much your independence means to you, don’t I?’
Abby smiled. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, then yes, my independence is important to me,’ she averred firmly. ‘It wouldn’t work, Trevor. You’ve been a bachelor too long.’
To her relief, Trevor let it go at that. Periodically, he tried to introduce a more personal note to their relationship, but so far Abby had resisted his attempts. She liked him. She liked working for him. But anything else was totally unacceptable. It wasn’t that she was frigid. On the contrary, there were times when the underlying needs of her own body drove her to consider any alternative. But there was always Matthew to apply the brake, Matthew’s opinion of her to care about, and the reluctant betrayal of her own self-respect if she indulged in a merely physical assuagement.
Matthew was waiting for her when she arrived at his comprehensive school a few minutes after four. His blazer was a little dusty, as if it had suffered from contact with the tarmaced playground, but at least the day was fine, and there was no mud to worry about. His boots she was less impressed with. But the only shoes he possessed were track shoes, and as he had refused to consider regular schoolwear, she had been obliged to humour him.
Now he took the suitcase she was carrying from her as they hurried to catch the bus, and Abby knew an unexpected feeling of being cared for. Matthew could be so sweet when he chose, she thought, giving him a warm smile as he took his seat beside her. If only he chose more often, how much easier her life would be.
The train left on time. It was full of business men, returning to the north after a day’s outing in London. Briefcases were the order of the day, and there was plenty of room for their bags and belongings between the seats.
Dinner was served on the train, but Abby had brought sandwiches, and Matthew munched happily as they plunged through the rolling downs surrounding London, and on to the flatter countryside bordering East Anglia. It was still light as they swept through Peterborough and Grantham, but by the time they reached their first stopping place at York, lights were springing up around the train, and dusk had deepened the shadows.
Matthew was growing restless now. With their meal over, and over an hour still ahead of them, he asked if he could go for a walk along the train, and realising she was as nervous as he was, she let him go.
In his absence, she pulled out her compact and examined her pale features with some trepidation. Had she changed so much? she asked herself anxiously. Twelve years was a long time. She was no longer eighteen, she was almost thirty, and the innocence of youth had given way to a guarded experience. She was different in ways that a mirror could not reveal. Although her eyes were still green between smoky lashes, they seemed to have lost their sparkle, and she was probably lucky her hair was that streaky shade of ash blonde. At least no one could see the grey hairs that must be there among the silver strands. Her skin was still good, and she seldom wore a lot of make-up, but nothing could alter the fact that she was a woman now, not a girl, and certainly not the girl who had married Piers Roth.
Matthew came back, his lean face glowing in the dim light. On occasions like this, she thought he did resemble his father, but mostly he took after her, with his fair hair and pale colouring. ‘I opened the window on the door and looked out for a bit,’ he explained, appalling her anew by his casual announcement. They could have passed a signal box, a bridge, anything, and the terrifying pictures these images created caused her to shake her head in horror. ‘It’s okay,’ he added, noticing her reaction. ‘I didn’t do anything dangerous. I just wanted to see the engine, but the door into the driver’s section was locked.’
‘Oh, Matt!’ Abby gazed at him in helpless fascination, and he shrugged his wide shoulders.
‘Well …’ he grimaced, ‘I’ve never been on a diesel train before, and I wanted to get to know all about it, so I could tell the guys.’
‘The guys!’ Abby shook her head. ‘Don’t you mean—the boys?’
Matthew grinned. ‘Okay, the boys,’ he mimicked her humorously, and she thought again how likeable he was when he wasn’t continually trying to score points.
‘You look pale,’ he continued, surveying her with steady consideration. ‘You’re not still worrying about Aunt Hannah, are you?’
‘Well, I am worried, of course, but I didn’t realise it showed so badly,’ she responded dryly. ‘What’s the matter? Do I look a hag? I must admit, I’ve been wondering if she’ll recognise me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Abby shook her head. ‘It is ten years since she’s seen me, Matt.’
‘So what? You don’t look old.’
‘Thank you.’
‘As a matter of fact, one of the fifth-formers asked if you were my sister the other day,’ he told her, with some reluctance. ‘I said you were my mother, and he said you must have been a schoolgirl when you had me. I socked him!’
‘Oh, Matt!’ Abby was disturbed, but touched that he should care what people said of her.
‘Well…’ Matt hunched his shoulders, ‘he was implying I didn’t have a father. Rotten bastard!’
‘Matt!’ Abby’s lips parted. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you use that word again!’
‘Well, it’s true. Nobody believes me when I say my parents are separated. They think you were never married.’
‘But you and I know, Matt.’
‘Do we?’ Momentarily, his expression darkened, but then, as if determined not to let what other people thought cloud his enjoyment of the trip, he forced a smile and glanced out the window. ‘Where are we? Is this Newcastle?’
Taking her cue from him, Abby forced her own sense of apprehension aside, and looked about her. ‘No, this is Darlington,’ she said, as they slowed to approach the station. ‘Then there’s Durham, and after that, Newcastle.’
‘Good.’ Matthew rested his elbows on the table in front of him and watched the activity on the platform. ‘What time will we get to Alnbury? Does Aunt Hannah know we’re coming?’
‘I hope so.’ Abby answered his second question first. ‘I wrote to her yesterday, so she should have received the letter this morning. I would have sent a telegram, but I was afraid she might be alarmed at its arrival. Old people are funny. They associate telegrams with bad news.’ She sighed. ‘We received a telegram when my father was drowned.’
‘Grandfather Charlton?’
‘That’s right,’ Abby nodded reminiscently. ‘Aunt Hannah was so kind to me. I’ll never be able to repay her.’
Matthew was silent for a while, but then, as the train gathered speed again, he said: ‘How will we get to Rothside? You said we could catch a bus to Alnbury.’
‘Yes, we can.’ Abby frowned. ‘I’m not sure now where the bus station is, in relation to the railway station, I mean. But we can always ask someone. If we get into Newcastle on time, we should be able to catch the nine o’clock bus to Alnbury. That will get us there about ten.’
‘Isn’t that late for an old lady?’ asked Matthew, with his usual pragmatism, and Abby had to concede that it was.
‘Let’s hope she appreciates the effort,’ she said, with enforced lightness, but as the train neared Newcastle, her nerves were sharpening.
The train ran into the station at Newcastle at a little after ten minutes to nine, and by the time Abby had extracted them and their luggage, it was five to. The chances of them catching the nine o’clock bus were growing slimmer by the