Touch of Autumn Gold

Beverley Hansford

Description

Beverley Hansford's latest novel, A Touch of Autumn Gold, is a light-hearted insight into the older generation; how they view life in later years and how they deal with the challenges which suddenly descend upon them. The story will resonate with readers in the later phases of life, who will identify with many of the subjects raised in this delightful story. Widowed Debbie Patterson is happy with her life. She has a nice house, a garden to potter about in and a grandson to entertain her. Even her two daughters' regular attempts to influence their mother on what is best for her, she takes in her stride. Until, that is, she goes on holiday and meets widower John Hammond. Suddenly she sees how dull her life really is. When John contacts her again after the holiday, a warm relationship develops. Debbie enjoys every minute of the attention, but when she eventually lets her daughters into her secret, she receives two very different reactions - neither quite what she expected.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 05 juillet 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785896033
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A Touch of Autumn Gold
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
“Julie”
A captivating novel
With Rucksack and Bus Pass
Walking the Thames Path
Roots in Three Counties
Family history
A Touch of Autumn Gold
Beverley Hansford
Copyright © 2013 Beverley Hansford
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, locations and the events described are for the use of the story and there is no intention to describe actual places or procedures.
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ISBN 978 1785896 033
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Edited by Helen Banks

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
This book is dedicated
to all those people in their later years
who are young in heart
and live their lives to the full.
Contents
Cover
By The Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 1
Old Bill Bellows leaned on his stick and gazed at the scene in front of him. It was a routine he carried out every morning. After buying his daily newspaper he would take a stroll along the short seafront before returning home, occasionally stopping to chat to anybody he met on the way who might be inclined to linger with him.
On this particular morning the beach in front of him was almost deserted. Just after breakfast and in mid-May, it was too early in the season for many beach-lovers to appear. Not that the little West Country town of Brillport received many visitors; not like when he had been a lad and the town had enjoyed its own railway station. In those days, crowds of holidaymakers from the Midlands had descended on the town each week. Now there was a supermarket where the station had once stood, and the crowds went to Spain for their holidays. Even the Grand Hotel relied on past glories. Business conferences and pensioners staying overnight on coach trips provided its main income these days.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds that had brought the overnight rain were quickly disappearing and the sun was beginning to dry things up. It was going to be a good day , he thought; perhaps he would do some gardening later on, his main interest since retirement.
As he pondered the idea, his attention was once again drawn to the beach. It was the woman walking alone who interested him. Not a young woman , he thought, but still quite sprightly. She walked with a moderate pace as if enjoying the feel of the sand beneath her bare feet. He guessed that she had joined the beach from one of the houses away to his right, once stately Victorian family homes, but now converted into holiday flats. He had observed her taking careful steps across the strip of shingle and stones to reach the firm sand left by the receding tide and then starting to walk towards the rocks at the far end of the beach. He assumed she was a holidaymaker going for an early morning stroll. He watched her stop and hesitate for an instant. He guessed the sand must be cold to walk on so early in the morning. Strange, he thought, the notions visitors had. See a beach, and they had to walk on it, never thinking of the temperature beneath their feet. But the woman obviously decided to continue with the punishment, because she immediately resumed walking.
Next, a man appeared who also intrigued Bill. He assumed from the man’s sudden arrival that he had come from the Grand Hotel, which was just behind them. He passed quite close by. He’s hardly dressed for the beach, thought Bill. The stranger’s outfit consisted of a pair of crumpled cord trousers, an old tweed jacket and sturdy boots, making him look more like a walker than a beach-lover. Bill eyed him up. Like the woman, he was not a youngster: certainly retired, but a few years younger, Bill reckoned, than his own ripe age of eighty-four.
The stranger looked at Bill and issued a brisk but pleasant ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ The reply was polite and cautious, but optimistic that there might be a chat in the making.
The man glanced at the brightening sky. ‘It’s going to be a good day,’ he observed as he continued walking. Clearly he was not one to stop and chat.
‘I reckon so,’ said Bill.
The stranger passed beyond a comfortable talking distance and Bill watched as he walked across the sand in the same direction as the woman. Although she was a little distance in front, with his quicker pace the man would soon be overtaking her. Each of them left a clear set of footprints in the wet sand. Then he saw the space between the lines of prints begin to widen. The woman was now walking towards the sea, while the man was making for the steps in the rocky outcrop that led to the cliff footpath. Bill decided he had been correct. The woman was out for a morning stroll, while the man was a walker. Satisfied with his conclusions, Bill turned to continue on his way. As he took one last look at the beach, he saw the woman appear to stumble and then do a kind of hop to a nearby rock and sit down. The man abruptly changed his direction and went over to her.
‘I say, are you all right?’ The words were spoken with a tone of concern.
The woman looked up, slightly startled. She gave a small smile of reassurance.
‘Oh yes, quite all right, thank you. It’s just that I trod on something sharp.’
The man looked down at her foot, to which she was holding a tissue, and then turned his attention to where she had come from. He traced her steps for a few yards. It was easy to see where the pattern of footprints changed. He examined the sand for a few seconds.
‘Ah, that’s the culprit: a broken bottle almost hidden in the sand. Fortunately quite clean,’ he announced, as he pulled the offending object loose and held it up.
She made a face. ‘Oh dear. I never saw it. I just felt it. It was quite sharp and it’s made my foot bleed a little.’ She removed the tissue from her heel. It was stained red in places.
The man put his rucksack down on the rock beside her. ‘Hold on a minute, I’ve got a first aid kit here somewhere.’ He undid the straps of his rucksack and rummaged in its depths. ‘Ah, got it. There are some plasters in there and some antiseptic wipes as well.’ He placed the small green wallet on the rock beside her.
She smiled at him appreciatively. ‘You’re very well prepared. Were you in the Boy Scouts?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘No. I learned my first aid in the army.’
‘The army?’
‘Yes, the Medical Corps… National Service… You know.’ He grinned.
She smiled again. ‘Oh yes, of course. My husband was in the Service Corps.’
He opened the first aid kit. ‘There we are,’ he announced.
The woman scanned the contents and then looked again at her foot. ‘Well, if I could beg a plaster off you, I would very much appreciate that.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘Help yourself to anything you want.’ He glanced at her foot again. ‘I think I would wash off any sand that might be around the wound first,’ he advised.
‘Do you think this water is clean?’ she asked, looking at the pool of water at the base of the rock she was sitting on.
‘Oh yes, it’s only seawater left by the tide a few hours ago. This part of the beach will be covered at high tide.’
She dipped her foot in the water and splashed the sole. ‘Ow! It’s cold!’ she exclaimed.
The task she was engaged in gave the man a few moments to study her. She was, he guessed, somewhere around his own age of sixty-nine – perhaps a bit younger. Her blonde hair was tinged with grey, but it rather suited her, he thought. Though casually dressed, she had an air of elegance about her, and her toenails were painted a delicate shade of pink. He liked to see an older woman well groomed.
‘A good thing I had a tetanus injection quite recently,’ she remarked thoughtfully as she swung herself back into a more comfortable position and started to dry her foot with another tissue. She glanced up at him. ‘I do a bit of gardening, and I cut myself a few months back,’ she explained.
‘It’s always a good idea to have a tetanus injection after a garden cut,’ he said.
She turned her attention to the first aid kit. ‘Now, perhaps a wipe and a plaster. It looks worse than it is, I think.’
‘Of course. Here we are.’ He sorted out the two required items and held them out. ‘Can I help?’
‘Oh, I think I can manage.’ She looked up at him and smiled again, a rather pleasant little smile, as she took the wipe and the plaster. It only took a few minutes for her to dress her foot, and she did so in silence, intent on the job in hand. As she smoothed the plaster, she spoke again. ‘That’s it, almost as good as new, thanks to your help.’ She stood up, carefully testing her weight on the damaged foot.
‘I’d put my shoes on again if I were you,’ he suggested, ‘just in case th