hill beneath an avenue of giant trees. Above our heads their branches arched like a bridge of fingers across the narrow road and formed a dark tunnel that shut out the sky. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
Soon we were following an ancient tractor down the main street of Little Chawton. The bright amber lights of the Cricketer public house pierced the gloom and I pulled up alongside an old cast-iron hand pump at the edge of the village green. Ahead was a church with a square Norman tower and a row of neat thatched cottages fronted with red brick and Hampshire flint.
Beth pointed ahead. ‘Turn left at the church, Jack, and drive to the top of the rise.’
A few spots of rain had begun to fall as we parked outside the last cottage. It was a mellow brick-and-beam building, expertly thatched, with sloping window frames and not a right angle in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had arrived safely.
‘This is it, Jack: Austen Cottage,’ said Beth excitedly. ‘Drive down to the far end of the driveway next to Dad’s shed.’
Lights appeared at the front door and a tall, athletic man with steel-grey hair and a relaxed smile strode out to meet us. It was John Henderson, Beth’s father, dressed in a country-checked shirt, warm woollen waistcoat and thick cord trousers. He was fifty-seven years old but looked much younger.
Beth opened the passenger door, jumped out and gave her father a big hug. ‘Good to be home, Dad,’ she said.
‘Thank God you’re here, Beth,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your mother’s been stirring her precious watercress soup for the past hour.’
Beth gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘She doesn’t change, then!’
He grabbed Beth’s overnight bag and stretched out his hand to me in greeting. ‘Good journey, Jack?’
‘Fine, thank you … Mr Henderson,’ I replied hesitantly.
He grinned. ‘Call me John. No formalities here, Jack … particularly for my future son-in-law.’ His handshake was firm. At six feet tall his eyes were on a level with mine and he gave me a warm smile.
In the warmth of a huge terracotta-tiled kitchen, Diane Henderson looked less relaxed. She glanced up from stirring a large pan of soup and, in a blue-striped apron that emphasized her slim figure, she pushed a strand of soft blonde hair behind her ear. Her high cheekbones, clear skin and green eyes reminded me of Beth …
and Laura
.
Next to me, on an old Welsh dresser, was a small television set. Alan Titchmarsh was happily presenting his gardening guide and, on the shelf above, alongside a collection of the novels of Jane Austen, were many framed photographs. One was dated 1958 when the twelve-year-old Beth and ten-year-old Laura had waited excitedly outside the Salisbury Gaumont to see Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Others showed the two sisters riding ponies, dressed as girl guides, playing college hockey and enjoying skiing holidays.
Beth saw me looking at the photographs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘These are
so
embarrassing.’
Diane took the soup off the hob, walked over to Beth and gave her a hug, and I thought that, side by side, they looked more like sisters.
‘Welcome home, Beth,’ she said, holding her elder daughter’s hands and then taking a step back to appraise her. ‘Come and sit down, you must be tired.’
Then she turned down the sound on the television set and looked up at me with a small smile. Her steady gaze appeared cautious. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron, stretched up and gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Jack … I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made enough soup for an army.’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Henderson. It certainly smells appetizing,’ I said.
‘Jack …
do
call me Diane.’ She surveyed me with a calm gaze again and I wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind.
On the table was a veritable feast: a cured ham, boiled potatoes, large red tomatoes, fresh beetroot, a towering sponge cake and a
Soon we were following an ancient tractor down the main street of Little Chawton. The bright amber lights of the Cricketer public house pierced the gloom and I pulled up alongside an old cast-iron hand pump at the edge of the village green. Ahead was a church with a square Norman tower and a row of neat thatched cottages fronted with red brick and Hampshire flint.
Beth pointed ahead. ‘Turn left at the church, Jack, and drive to the top of the rise.’
A few spots of rain had begun to fall as we parked outside the last cottage. It was a mellow brick-and-beam building, expertly thatched, with sloping window frames and not a right angle in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had arrived safely.
‘This is it, Jack: Austen Cottage,’ said Beth excitedly. ‘Drive down to the far end of the driveway next to Dad’s shed.’
Lights appeared at the front door and a tall, athletic man with steel-grey hair and a relaxed smile strode out to meet us. It was John Henderson, Beth’s father, dressed in a country-checked shirt, warm woollen waistcoat and thick cord trousers. He was fifty-seven years old but looked much younger.
Beth opened the passenger door, jumped out and gave her father a big hug. ‘Good to be home, Dad,’ she said.
‘Thank God you’re here, Beth,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your mother’s been stirring her precious watercress soup for the past hour.’
Beth gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘She doesn’t change, then!’
He grabbed Beth’s overnight bag and stretched out his hand to me in greeting. ‘Good journey, Jack?’
‘Fine, thank you … Mr Henderson,’ I replied hesitantly.
He grinned. ‘Call me John. No formalities here, Jack … particularly for my future son-in-law.’ His handshake was firm. At six feet tall his eyes were on a level with mine and he gave me a warm smile.
In the warmth of a huge terracotta-tiled kitchen, Diane Henderson looked less relaxed. She glanced up from stirring a large pan of soup and, in a blue-striped apron that emphasized her slim figure, she pushed a strand of soft blonde hair behind her ear. Her high cheekbones, clear skin and green eyes reminded me of Beth …
and Laura
.
Next to me, on an old Welsh dresser, was a small television set. Alan Titchmarsh was happily presenting his gardening guide and, on the shelf above, alongside a collection of the novels of Jane Austen, were many framed photographs. One was dated 1958 when the twelve-year-old Beth and ten-year-old Laura had waited excitedly outside the Salisbury Gaumont to see Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Others showed the two sisters riding ponies, dressed as girl guides, playing college hockey and enjoying skiing holidays.
Beth saw me looking at the photographs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘These are
so
embarrassing.’
Diane took the soup off the hob, walked over to Beth and gave her a hug, and I thought that, side by side, they looked more like sisters.
‘Welcome home, Beth,’ she said, holding her elder daughter’s hands and then taking a step back to appraise her. ‘Come and sit down, you must be tired.’
Then she turned down the sound on the television set and looked up at me with a small smile. Her steady gaze appeared cautious. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron, stretched up and gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Jack … I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made enough soup for an army.’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Henderson. It certainly smells appetizing,’ I said.
‘Jack …
do
call me Diane.’ She surveyed me with a calm gaze again and I wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind.
On the table was a veritable feast: a cured ham, boiled potatoes, large red tomatoes, fresh beetroot, a towering sponge cake and a
Similar Books
