She propped this against the telephone, and then gently turned the key in the front door and let herself out.

  * * *

  Despite the sunshine, the wind was keen. She made her way around to the old shed behind the garage and collected her bicycle. The wind was behind her and she free-wheeled down the lane, and then turned into the road which led through the still slumbering early-morning village. She passed the church, set back from the road, the grassy churchyard filled with lichened, leaning gravestones. Yesterday they had spent the day filling the church with flowers, white roses and lilies and huge white daisies. Alongside it, behind a screen of trees, stood the rectory. She imagined the Reverend Davies, with his homely wife alongside him, asleep in their double bed.

  She came to the gates of the manor, which used to be a real manor but was now a rather grand hotel, and where the reception after the wedding was to be held in something called a Function Room. The wedding cake, delivered the day before, would already be in position on an immense silver platter provided by the baker. Amelia and David, man and wife, would cut the first slice with her grandfather’s old Naval sword. Amelia’s mother had dug it out of some old chest, and her father had cleaned it of rust and oiled it with salad oil. Amelia hoped it would be sharp enough to get through that layer of delicious hard icing.

  She cycled on. Past Miss Curtice’s house – the general store – the butcher’s. The butcher’s blinds were still down, and the butcher’s cat sat on the pavement in the sun and attended to his ablutions.

  And then, at the end of the village, the little pub. The Clipper, whitewashed and thatched, with a grassy patch before it where, in the summer evenings, old men sat with their mugs of beer and ruminated peacefully on all aspects of life. This was where David, bowing to convention, had been banished for the night before his wedding. The night before that, after driving down from London, he had stayed with the Bentleys, and they had had a big family dinner party. But tradition seemed to insist that his last night of freedom should be spent apart from his bride-to-be.

  Mrs Rodgers, who kept the pub, didn’t – as she put it – take residents in the normal course of events but had been only too delighted to bend her rule for the important occasion and David had been given the best front room.

  Cycling past the quiet inn, Amelia thought of him, asleep with his precious head on one of Mrs Rodgers’ finest embroidered pillow-cases, his dark hair tousled, his face peaceful in sleep. She sent him a silent message, her heart filled with tender love. She wished, above everything, that he could wake up as instinctively happy as she had been, but she knew that he couldn’t. It was such a little thing that had happened, but it was enough to cloud his day.

  At that moment, appropriately enough, a cloud passed over the sun. The road ran downhill, beneath a dark tunnel of oak trees and, despite herself, Amelia’s own bright spirits were dimmed. It wasn’t any good telling herself that it didn’t matter because it mattered so much to David, and so it mattered to Amelia. Right up to yesterday night, she knew that he had been hoping that at the last moment there would be a message from his Uncle Douglas to say that he had changed his mind, that he was flying home from New York and would be at their wedding. But there had been no word. Nothing had been said, but last night, when she kissed him goodbye, they both knew in their hearts that his uncle would not be there.

  Quite often uncles and nephews aren’t all that close, but in David’s case it was different. He was an only child. His father had died when he was a small boy and his mother when he was twelve. Since then there had been only Uncle Douglas. It was he who had seen David through school, sent him off to Australia for a couple of years, and then arranged for him to be articled to a firm of chartered accountants in order to qualify, and, in the fullness of time, join the investment company of which Uncle Douglas was chairman.

  But he was, and had been for the past six months, on a mammoth business trip abroad. From Hong Kong he had gone to Tokyo, and was now in New York, deeply involved in the setting up of some new trust company, and Amelia – because the romance had all been such a blissful, whirlwind affair – had never met him.

  So delighted were they with each other, so pleased were Amelia’s family, so perfect was everything, that Uncle Douglas’s reaction to David’s news had the effect of a douche of cold water. It came in the form of a long and typewritten letter which in itself was chilling. Amelia imagined him dictating it to some heartless secretary, sandwiched between an annual balance sheet and a takeover bid.

  It was unenthusiastic and strictly to the point. David was far too young. Twenty-two was no age to take on all the responsibilities of marriage. As well, David was still learning his trade, was not yet qualified, was scarcely earning enough to keep himself, let alone a wife. When – in two years’ time – he had taken and passed his final examinations, the situation would be different. Until then, David was strongly advised to hold his horses, think again, and behave like a rational human being.

  * * *

  Amelia, depressed and discouraged by this, had rung her mother to pass on the gloomy news. ‘How can he be so mean? If he’s fond of David as he makes out, why doesn’t he want him to be happy?’

  Mrs Bentley, distressed for her daughter but determined to be fair, had tried to comfort her without taking sides. ‘Well, darling, you are both a little young.’

  ‘Heaps of people get married when they’re young. And we know it’s right. As for money, I can go on working. Between us we’ll be able to manage. I know we will.’

  ‘Yes, you know that, but David’s uncle doesn’t.’

  ‘But David told him.’

  ‘Perhaps he feels that being married will interfere with David’s studies.’

  ‘Well, I think not being married would be much worse. I mean, he’d always be ringing me up or wanting to be with me instead of doing his beastly accounts.’

  Her mother had sighed. ‘Well, it’s up to you. You and David. Nobody can decide but yourselves.’

  Amelia had thought this over. Later: ‘If you want,’ she had told David, ‘if you think we should … I’d wait two years. I mean, I’d never fall in love with anybody else. I couldn’t bear there to be any sort of ill-feeling between you and Uncle Douglas. In a way, he’s your father, and I want him to like me. Not to think I’ve spoiled everything for you.’

  ‘I couldn’t wait two years,’ David had said. ‘Even if I thought we should. I couldn’t.’ He kissed her. ‘He’ll come round. He’s never been a man to bear a grudge. And once he’s met you, he’ll understand. Everything will be different.’

  For a man so young he had great determination and a mind of his own. He had written back to his uncle, telling him that the wedding date was fixed for July. A month before this, Amelia gave in her notice, left London, and went home to help her mother with the many arrangements. A dress was chosen, a list of guests made out. Invitations were printed and Amelia helped her mother to write them out, including one for Uncle Douglas. With this Mrs Bentley sent a little letter in which she said that she and her husband were looking forward to meeting him.

  The reply to this missive was polite, but very formal. Pressure of work was considerable, and he regretted very much that he would not be able to be present. A day or two later, David received from him a hefty cheque – enough, and more, to pay for their honeymoon. For some reason this, as far as Amelia was concerned, only made everything worse.

  ‘I wish he hadn’t,’ she told David. ‘It makes me feel guilty.’

  ‘Do you want me to send it back?’

  ‘No, you can’t do that. That would be really ungracious. It’s just that I’d rather he came to the wedding than gave us a cheque. And it’s horrid for you having nobody of your own there.’

  ‘I shall have you,’ David told her. ‘I’d rather have you than a thousand relatives.’

  * * *

  By now, the village was left behind. The trees thinned out, the road leaned and twisted up towards the moor. The sun, freed once more of cloud, shone down upon the farmland. There were stone-walled fields; pastures filled with grazing cows; farm buildings with lichened roofs.

  Then there was only moorland and heather and the whining of the wind. Gorse splashed the hedgerows with yellow flame, and above the road, and now quite close, lay the little hill, with its crown of massive rock. It became too steep to cycle any longer, and Amelia had to get off her bicycle and push it for the last half-mile. She reached the granite stile set in the wall, parked her bicycle, crossed the stile and set off up the last long ascent, following the path between bramble and bracken.

  The wind was against her, drumming in her ears and rich with the scent of moss and the saltiness of the ocean. The gargantuan carn towered above her, hiding the sun. The path circled this immense, and possibly man-made fortress – and ended at last at the very top of the hill. Amelia scrambled up the rocks, and finally was there. The top of the world, she used to call it when she was a child. The view, on all sides, spread to the sea. She saw the distant beaches and the coastline curving away to the north. She saw the inlet of the estuary, the village, the tower of the church just visible through the trees.

  There was a sheltered hollow in the rocks, out of the wind and good for sitting on.

  A voice said, ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ and Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘And now I’ve given you a fright, so I shall have to beg your pardon all over again.’

  He had come from behind her, having climbed the rock just as she had climbed it, but he was wearing thick rubber-soled shoes which made no sound. He stood there, only a few feet away, and looked just as surprised and upset as Amelia felt.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Her heart was hammering, but he was so obviously distressed that the least she could do was to put him out of his misery. ‘I never heard you coming.’

  ‘And I had no idea you were here. At seven in the morning one doesn’t expect company in such an out-of-the-way spot.’

  For a second, Amelia had been truly frightened, but only for a second. There was nothing to be frightened of. Just an elderly gentleman, countrified and shabby, in a threadbare knickerbocker suit, a tweed hat, and carrying a pair of binoculars slung around his neck on a leather strap. In one hand he held a stout stick, and the band of his hat was decorated with a colourful fishing fly or two. All this she found totally reassuring. He was probably on a walking holiday, taking brass rubbings in the old churches, or watching for birds. Beneath bushy eyebrows was a pair of very bright blue eyes, and these disappeared into slits when he smiled, which he did now.

  ‘If you like, I’ll go away and leave you alone.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. I don’t mind. Besides, this is the only spot where you can look at the view and be out of the wind.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’ He looked about him, chose a handy spur of rock and settled himself down, laying his stick carefully beside him. ‘It’s quite a walk.’

  ‘Are you staying nearby?’

  ‘Yes. At The Castle Hotel. Just for the weekend. It’s the first time I’ve been in this part of the world. The porter told me this would be a good walk and a rewarding view.’

  ‘It’s one of my favourite places.’

  ‘You sound as though you might be a native of these parts.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I live in that village down there in the trees. I cycled up, but I had to leave my bike at the stile.’

  ‘The gorse is particularly beautiful. It smells of almonds.’

  ‘And in spring there are thousands of primroses. When we were children we used to come up here every Easter. And when we’d picked great bunches of primroses we used to have a picnic and light a bonfire. It was a sort of tradition.’

  ‘Traditions are good things, provided you don’t let them get the upper hand. Are you on your holidays now?’

  ‘Well, not actually. I mean I’m not working at the moment, but I suppose you can’t call it a holiday. I did have a job in London, but I’ve given it up for the time being.’ It sounded too confusing for words, and Amelia decided to tell him. ‘The thing is, I’m getting married.’

  This abrupt announcement was met with silence. After a little she added, ‘Today,’ like somebody putting a full stop to the end of a sentence. As soon as she had said it, she wished that she hadn’t. He would say something courtly and embarrassing.

  But he only remarked gravely, ‘You astonish me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You look too young to be getting married.’

  ‘I’m twenty. David’s uncle says it’s too young.’

  ‘David, I take it, is the young man you’re marrying.’

  ‘Yes. He’s twenty-two.’

  ‘But does it really matter what his uncle thinks? Uncles aren’t, after all, that important in the normal structure of affairs.’

  ‘David’s uncle is different.’

  * * *

  And suddenly, without thinking very much about it, Amelia began to talk. It was an enormous relief to bring it all out into the open. Like talking to some unknown but tremendously sympathetic stranger one had met on a train, and knew that one would never meet again.

  It all came out: about meeting David and falling in love, and deciding they wanted to get married. She told him about Uncle Douglas’s letter, and the letter he had written to her mother.

  ‘He said he was too busy to come to the wedding. Right up to last night, I think David thought he’d relent and that he’d come, but he obviously isn’t going to. It’s so sad, really. I’m sure if we’d been able to talk things over with him, face to face, he’d have given us his blessing. It won’t be easy financially, but we realise that. And I’ll get another job, and if we save up we might even be able to make a down payment on a little flat.’

  She added gloomily, ‘It’s awful starting your normal married life feeling the way I do about David’s only relative. I can’t even think about him as a person. Just a robot, sitting behind a desk with a face like an adding machine, and an electronic calculator for a heart.’

  ‘You’re getting on dangerous ground here. Preconceived ideas of people can be extraordinarily wrong.’

  ‘I don’t mind for me, but I do mind for David.’

  ‘If you ask me, this uncle sounds a very proud and stubborn man. But if he has any sense at all, he’ll swallow his pride and get into an aeroplane and be in the church today to see his nephew married.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Amelia sadly.

  ‘Don’t be too sure. And don’t have any regret or second thoughts about what you and your young man have decided to do. If you don’t know your own mind, you’re never going to know anybody else’s. And now –’ he smiled – ‘I must be on my way. I’ve a long walk ahead of me and I don’t want to miss my breakfast.’ He got to his feet. ‘So I’ll leave you. I’m sorry to have disturbed your solitude. I shall be thinking of you this morning, and I wish you and your young man a very happy life.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He turned and left her. Amelia watched him make his way over the crest of the rock, and then the steep incline sloped away and he dropped out of sight. He was gone, headed back across the moor, with five miles to cover before he could sit down to his breakfast. The very thought of sitting down to breakfast made Amelia realise that she was ravenously hungry. It was time to go home.

  She got to her feet. The sun was now quite high in the sky, the ocean blue as ink and crested with white horses. She had a last lingering look, and then turned and started the long walk to where she had left her bicycle.

  On the way down the hill, she searched for her new friend, but he had already disappeared, swallowed up into the undulations of the moor. It was as though he had never existed, as though she had created him out of her own imagination, simply because she needed a sympathetic person to talk to, someone to reassure her that they had made the right decision.

  * * *

  And now it was time to leave for the church. Her three brothers were already there, ushering guests into their pews. Her mother and the bridesmaids had departed in the first of the hired cars, her mother looking suitably festive and only a little tearful about the eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mother, you mustn’t cry. Your mascara will run.’

  ‘Well, you are my only daughter. This is an emotional day.’

  They kissed and hugged, cautiously, so as not to crush their dresses. When they had gone there was another five minutes to wait (time for a quick glass of sherry, said her father, so they had a private drink together, with nobody watching) and then it was time for them to leave.

  With her father’s hand beneath her elbow, Amelia emerged once more from the house, into the sunshine and the wind. And there, waiting for her, was Mr Potter’s taxi, adorned with white ribbons. And Mr Potter – who, in bygone days used to drive Amelia to dancing class – standing with a grin on his face like a slice of melon. They got into the car, and then, because the house was only about a hundred yards from the church, almost immediately got out of it again, and there were all sorts of interested and friendly village faces lined up, smiling at her from the roadside and the tops of walls.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely bride …’

  The wind caught her veil and sent it billowing as they passed beneath the lych-gate and started up the path towards the church. High above, the tower bells clanged and pealed, sending their cheerful message out across the countryside. And there, at the church door, the vicar waited, windblown in his white starched surplice. And the bridesmaids were there, and …

  One of Amelia’s brothers suddenly burst from the interior of the church and through the door, and came down the path towards them. Amelia supposed that he intended to help her father control her wayward veil, but he wore the expression of a man with important news to impart.

  ‘Amelia – gosh, you look pretty – I’ve got a message for you from David. And he said I was to tell you before you set foot in church, and I had to be tactful otherwise you’d faint.’