A Is for Abigail by Victoria Twead Page B

the only job he could think of that was easier than Stan’s was being a weather forecaster in the Sahara Desert. It was probably a good thing that Sixpenny Cross wasn’t gripped by a crime wave. Although Stan was a well-liked and diligent policeman, his clumsiness was legendary.
    “Did you find Daisy and Simon’s lawnmower?” she called after him.
    “Yes, they forgot they lent it out to Frank Jones.”
    “Not stolen then?”
    “No!” Stan shouted over his shoulder, wobbled dangerously, righted himself and pedalled away.
    Abigail and Aiden’s house was half a mile from the village green. They’d found it in the glossy pages of Country Estates, a magazine they subscribed to when they lived in London. Abigail had fallen in love with the house even before they viewed it. It had a hefty price tag, but for such a beautiful house, with its extensive grounds and separate guest cottage, what did one expect?
    And they could afford it. They could also afford to pay for a cleaning lady and gardener. Abigail’s plan was that she’d soon fill the house with children who would play in the grounds and attend the village school. But the house remained scarcely lived in. With Aiden away so much, Abigail used only the kitchen, sunroom, bedroom and bathroom.
    Higgledy-piggledy cottages, some thatched, some with red roof-tiles, lined the approach to the village. Yellow daffodils swayed in the spring sunshine and bees were already busy visiting the flowers, one by one. Here the road was better, and there was a pavement to walk on.
    The Dew Drop Inn was quiet. Angus McDonald, the landlord, was busy sweeping the floor and didn’t see Abigail pass.
    Abigail passed the little school, listening to the hum of learning. She glanced at her Tiffany watch. Soon the bell would ring and the children would spill out into the yard. One day, maybe, her own children would be among them.
    At the centre of Sixpenny Cross was the large village green. In summer, cricket matches took place against rival village teams. There was a pond fringed by reeds, and a willow tree that trailed branches into the water and shaded a bench where old folks liked to sit.
    Today the green was empty apart from a pair of mallard ducks guarding an untidy nest. Cars were slowly arriving and mothers were beginning to migrate towards the school, preparing to collect their youngsters. Abigail greeted a few that she knew by sight.
    At the village shop, which was also the Post Office, Jayne Fairweather, the postmistress, waved to her as she passed.
    “Hello, Abigail!” she called. “Is your husband coming home soon?”
    “Yes, this weekend!”
    It was good to be known and to exchange friendly words with fellow villagers, but Abigail had never felt wholly accepted. She was very aware that many of the villagers’ families went back generations. The headstones in the churchyard were proof of that. Abigail and Aiden would always be ‘newcomers’. However friendly people seemed to be, they’d still give her sidelong glances when they thought she wasn’t looking.
    When she’d mentioned it to Aiden, he’d shrugged.
    “They’re just jealous,” he said.
    “Jealous of what?”
    “Our money, probably.”
    The irony of it was that Abigail would have exchanged all her money, her Audi car, her jewellery, and the house for a baby.
    “Once round the green, and then home,” Abigail told Sam, who was already panting. “And I’m keeping you on the lead, I don’t want you chasing Mr and Mrs Duck.”
    Two figures sat on the bench, an adult and a child. They seemed familiar. Abigail had no intention of walking anywhere near them until a movement caught her eye. For the first time, she looked directly at the pair. A blackbird sang in the willow tree.
    Was the woman beckoning to her? Surely not!
    The old lady wore something shapeless that almost reached the floor. Her feet, encased in ancient suede brogues, sat side by side on the ground, peeping out from under the hemline of her