Serena quickly discovers that inheriting a cottage in the English Lake District is just the beginning of an adventure that leads her right into Paul Benson’s arms.
Paul, a naturalistic painter, finds himself accompanying Serina into a dangerous situation in pursuit of picture thieves. The trail leads to Venice but back in the Lake District Serina is in peril from one of the gang. She is rescued by Paul at the last minute when he proposes marriage on a rickety bridge over a waterfall.
I could feel Terry’s hardness as he pressed against me. His hands caressed my body. In another moment I would have led him to my bed.
The door opened with a bang. It was Angela, my roommate.
"So that’s where the two of you are." She flung her books down on her bed.
Terry moved away from me.
"It's all very well skipping a life class." Angela smiled. "From the look of it, you were about to have your own life class."
I could feel my cheeks going red. We were all at Brookshire Art College. Terry was my boyfriend, and until now the arrangement with Angela had worked well. I stayed out of her way when she was entertaining, and she stayed out of mine.
This afternoon was different. Terry had persuaded me to miss a class and we were about to have an afternoon in bed as Angela was safely in class until teatime, or so we thought.
She sat down on her own bed.
"I came back to tell you that the principal is looking for you."
"The Principal, what does he want?" I asked.
"No idea. He looked pretty serious. He wants you to go to his office."
Now what have I done? Has he found out that Terry and I have been cutting classes to have sex? Who would have told him? Not Angela.
"I suppose I’d better go and see what he wants." I shot Terry a look.
We went out of my room leaving Angela stretching out on her bed.
"What can this be about?" I asked Terry as we walked along the corridor.
He squeezed my hand. "It can’t be anything serious. Probably just wants a chat about your grades. They’ve been pretty good so far, haven’t they?"
I squeezed his hand back as we reached the door to the Principal’s office.
"See you." He swung away down the corridor as I knocked lightly on the door.
"Come in," a voice called.
As I walked into Dr Peters’ oak panelled room, he got up from behind his large mahogany desk looking serious.
I wondered what on earth was wrong. What was this all about?
He looked so stern, it was obviously something pretty important.
"Ah, Miss Spelton. Please sit down, Serina."
I sat in the chair facing him as he remained standing.
"I'm sorry to tell you," he said. "I have just received a telephone call to say that your parents have been involved in a car crash."
I could feel my heart beating quickly. "Are they…" I began.
Dr Peters came round the desk and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Your mother died instantly, but your father survived."
I stared at him not taking in what he had said, then tears came to my eyes. I must have fainted, for the next thing I knew I was sprawled in a chair and the College nurse was standing over me.
“I’m all right,” I muttered, getting up unsteadily. The nurse guided me to the door. Dr Peters looked on with concern.
“Shall I come with you to your room?” the nurse asked.
“I will be fine,” I shook off her hand and walked unsteadily into the corridor. When I reached my room, Angela had gone. I collapsed onto the bed and lay there for a long time.
*
The rest of the day was a nightmare. I remember saying goodbye to Angela. Terry saw me to the train station, but beyond that everything was a blur.
I arrived in Ormskirk, took a taxi to No. 2, Sinden Gardens. The front door was open, unusual in these times. As I walked into the front hall. I was met by our neighbour, Mrs Benson.
"He's in the bedroom, my dear. Best prepare yourself for a shock. Doctor has just left him. He looks frail, and I'm so sorry about your mother."
Mrs Benson was a good soul, but just at that moment all I wanted to do was rush upstairs to my father.
I stumbled up the stairs. His bedroom door was open. I hardly recognised the pale, wan figure in the bed.
He stretched out his hands to me as I entered the room.
It was a familiar room. The wallpaper I had helped put up years ago, now looking worse for wear, the text above the bed, Peace in this house, my mother’s nightgown still on the chair beside the bed. Tears came to my eyes.
"Dad," I cried, rushing towards him. I held his hand, so frail, so fragile. There was nothing I could say. I felt his grip tighten, then he lay back on the pillows exhausted.
*
The days that followed were like a dream. I dealt with my mother’s funeral, for which I needed to do everything for my father. There was no way I could go back to my art course. I stayed at home to look after him, my ambition to become an artist fading into the distance.
My father seemed to have given up on life and lay all day huddled up in a chair, head down. I looked after him as best I could, but one morning three years later, while taking him a cup of tea in bed, I found him apparently asleep and couldn't wake him. I sent for the doctor. When he came, he shook his head and gave me the bad news.
