About the Author

The author of this book started writing late in life taking

inspiration from the countryside around where she lived.
Having a farming background helped in creating the
general atmosphere for her stories. Her journey through life
is used to create images, word pictures, situations and the
fictional characters.

Dedication

Thanks to my late aunt, Jane, whose house was the

inspiration.

Elizabeth Love

WHIRLWIND

Copyright Elizabeth Love (2015)

The right of Elizabeth Love to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77
and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil
claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the
British Library.

ISBN 9781785540073
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Chapter 1

That was the beginning of it all. Eighteen-year-old Rose

from Kendal was staying with her Grandma for a few
days. Ormsby, in the Appleby area of Cumbria, is a
remote little village where there is no bus service to
speak of. A local bus company comes every Friday
morning to take shoppers the five and a half miles to
Appleby and to bring them back at midday.
On a Thursday night in April she had told her
Grandma she intended going on the bus which meant
they would be getting up at eight oclock.
It is a fine morning for you, Ellen said to her
favourite granddaughter as they were sitting at the
breakfast table. From the east facing window of the
bedroom Rose had observed the clear, pale blue expanse
of the morning sky as she was getting dressed a sky
that seemed to hold the promise of a fine day.
Rose went to the bedroom to get her coat and on
opening the front door to the bungalow she saw that the
concrete forecourt was dappled with spots of rain. The
fine morning had disappeared and had been replaced by
a thin mist which shrouded the landscape.
It might only be a shower. Take my umbrella.
Times up now and you only have ten minutes.

So with Ta ra, see you later. Rose hurried down

the steps and into the drive.
The last time Rose had been to Appleby on the bus
was six months ago. She was setting off to walk down to
the bus shelter by the church for nine-o-clock but in fact
the mini bus was not due until a quarter past nine. She
was going to have a long wait there in the cold. It was a
very adequate shelter, and a relic of former days when
the village had been served by a regular bus. A
collection point for daily newspapers where the villagers
came to pick up their individual journals was how it was
currently made use of. Seeing the newspapers there
reminded Rose about being told to collect her
Grandmas on her return to the bungalow.
It had been an idea that evolved when an elderly
neighbour, living further up the road, had kindly offered
to collect Ellens daily paper from the shelter each
morning and to deliver it. To circumvent the climb up
the drive and up the eight stone steps to the front door of
the bungalow, a purpose-made wooden box with a lid
was devised to hold the paper. It had a hiding place in
the corner of the perimeter wall where the paper could be
collected by Ellen. It was there that Rose was to look for
it.
At the shelter a young man came with a black dog.
Have you seen a bus at this time? Rose asked him.
No, never, he looked at his watch. If it is
supposed to come at nine, it is only just past the hour. I
wish you luck, and he walked off with his paper tucked
underneath his anorak.
It was still raining and Rose stood shivering under
her umbrella. Another man with a bald head came by.
Have you ever seen a bus at this time?
A post?