Summer at the Lake (4 page)

Floriana had been told that she was lucky.

She didn’t feel lucky. What she felt was pathetically sorry for herself, lying here all alone in her curtained cubicle with her clothes stained in blood and her body feeling as though it had been put through one of those car crushing machines. No, she didn’t feel as though good fortune had come her way at all.

She also felt anxious about this grandmother business. She hadn’t said anything when the nurse had mentioned her grandmother was waiting to see her in case it set off the medical alarm bells and she was deemed too unwell to be discharged. The thought of being packed off to a ward for the night filled her with dread. All she wanted was to go home and get into bed with a hot water bottle and a cup of tea and a plate of peanut butter and Marmite toast and then sleep until next week.

But the thing was, she was pretty sure she didn’t have a grandmother. Not a living one at any rate. If her memory wasn’t altogether shot, Nanna Tricia died when Floriana was too young to remember her properly and Nanna Betsy had died a lot more recently. She was fairly sure of it because she could distinctly recall going to the funeral and feeling that it had been the saddest day of her life.

Which begged the question, who was the ‘grandmother’ waiting to see her?

Or did she have some sort of amnesia? Was her memory all muddled up? Was she misremembering things? God, what if she’d gone back in time somehow and had turned into a time traveller?

But that was stupid, she was letting her imagination run away with itself; better to focus on the very clear memory she had of walking home after work, her mind meshed in a tangle of thoughts about Sebastian’s card and the news that he was getting married next summer. That was absolutely 100 per cent real, wasn’t it?

It was just all a bit fuzzy from then on, as she’d explained in her statement to the policeman who’d showed up after she’d returned from having her head X-rayed. She still couldn’t remember the actual impact of the car hitting her but the paramedics seemed to think that it must have only clipped her otherwise her injuries would be a lot worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated hard on picturing herself walking home. She could remember walking down North Parade and waving to Joe, and then crossing the road and . . . But no, there was nothing else. No matter how much she willed her brain to remember, it just wouldn’t, and the effort of trying to make sense of those last crucial moments – and the fact that she had a grandmother who was alive and kicking – made her head feel like it was about to burst open like a watermelon dropped from a great height.

She cringed. Where had that awful image come from? Her eyes open, she put a hand tentatively to the side of her head and touched the dressing, beneath which a very nervous trainee doctor called Suzy had spent ages fumbling to put in six stitches. That was when the nurse, standing next to the trainee doctor and observing her closely, had said that Floriana was lucky because the gash was close to her hairline and the scar would eventually be hidden. She’d also had a dressing applied to her chin and her cheek, which had been badly grazed and goodness only knew how horrible that looked.

From the other side of the curtain she heard voices and footsteps, then with a sudden movement the curtain was swished back as if it was part of a magician’s act and the big reveal made –
Ta-daar!
The same nurse who had been keeping an eye on the trainee doctor appeared at the end of the bed. Smiling warmly, she said, ‘Here’s your grandmother and a friend. I’ll leave you to it for a while.’

Floriana stared first at the diminutive elderly woman, then at the tall, rather good-looking man next to her. Her gaze returned to the woman. Trim and neat, she stood ramrod straight with old-school elegance. But she was unquestionably not Nanna Betsy who had been a taller and much more rounded sort of woman.

‘You’re not my grandmother,’ Floriana said at last.

She noticed her words made the man suck in his breath and his face colour, but the woman stepped forward. ‘That’s perfectly true, and I’m sorry for misleading you, but I hope you’ll forgive a little subterfuge on our part. You see, we . . . or rather I, told a minor fib at the desk so we could be sure of learning how you were. I was worried they wouldn’t tell us if we told the truth. By the way, by name is Esme Silcox and I live in Latimer Street, not far from the junction with Church Close where you were knocked over.’

Very slowly, a piece of the jigsaw slotted into place for Floriana. ‘Your voice,’ she said, ‘I remember your voice. You were . . .’

‘That’s right, we were at the scene of the accident. Mr Strong here –’ she indicated her good-looking sidekick – ‘called for the ambulance.’

Floriana turned her attention back to Mr Strong and thought of the Mr Men books she had loved as a child; Mr Tickle had been her favourite. This Mr Strong looked extremely awkward, as if he wished he could be anywhere but here in this stifling heat and small curtained cubicle. You and me too, she thought. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly, ‘I remember you as well now. You talked to me, didn’t you? You said your name was . . .’

‘Adam,’ he said.

‘Mr Strong was wonderful,’ the old lady said. ‘He was most chivalrous and used his coat to keep you warm.’

Floriana smiled gratefully at him, remembering not just his name now, but how calm and reassuring he had been. ‘Thank you. But why are you both here?’

‘We were worried,’ the old lady said, moving closer to the side of the bed. ‘We didn’t want you to be on your own. Is anyone on their way to be with you?’

‘Um . . . actually no.’

‘But you have someone who will come?’ she said.

‘I don’t need anyone, I’m fine,’ Floriana said with more spirit than she really felt. ‘Just as soon as whatever needs to be done, I’ll be out of here.’

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ the old lady said, surveying her patched-up head and face with a long and scrutinising stare.

‘They’ve done X-rays and stuff and nothing’s broken, so there’s no need for me to stay.’

‘What about concussion? Won’t they want you to stay in overnight so they can keep an eye on you?’

Floriana’s heart sank at hearing her fears confirmed.

‘And I dare say they won’t be happy unless they know there’s somebody at home to take care of you. Is there somebody at home?’

What was this? Why was this old lady giving her the third degree? And why did the truthful answer reduce her to a pitifully teary state and make her wish that the one person in the world she wanted to be here with her couldn’t be? Why should she even think of Seb that way when for the last two years he had been so resolutely absent from her life? One bloody card from him and she was a mess!

Anger. That was better. Better to be angry with Seb than turn into a snivelling fool. After all, it was his fault she was here. His fault entirely that she stepped into the road and . . .

She stopped herself short, realising that another glimmer of memory had surfaced. She chased after the glimmer, but like quicksilver it slipped away and was gone.

‘Do you have somebody at home?’

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Marple was at it again with her questioning! ‘I think that’s my business, isn’t it?’ Floriana replied with a show of what she hoped was assertion, but which she suspected made her sound more like a stroppy teenager.

‘You’re right,’ Mr Strong – aka Adam – said, stepping forward and putting a hand on the old lady’s arm. ‘Come on, Mrs Silcox,’ he added, ‘I think we’ve achieved what we came to do, now it’s time to go.’

‘It’s
Miss
Silcox,’ the woman corrected him, ‘and please don’t patronise me and make out that I’m some old dear with nothing better to do than poke my nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘Then let’s leave before that accusation is made, shall we?’

Ooh
, thought Floriana, Mr Strong lives up to his name!

But then the crestfallen look on the old lady’s face had Floriana feeling sorry for her and ashamed of her own rudeness, she said, ‘Please, I appreciate your concern, really I do, it was extremely kind of you both to care so much.’

‘Thank you,’ Miss Silcox said with a slight lifting of her chin. ‘And to reassure you, I’m the last person on earth to interfere in anyone else’s business, but in this instance I felt it was not only my duty as a good citizen to come here, but because . . . because I should like to think somebody might do the same for me.’

Floriana now felt utterly shamed and a quick glance at Mr Strong told her he felt the same.

‘How are we all getting on in here, then?’

It was the nurse from earlier.

‘Fine,’ Floriana said. ‘Can I go home now, please?’

The nurse smiled. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’

Forty-five minutes later Floriana was discharged and she gratefully accepted the offer of a lift home with her Good Samaritans.

When they drew up outside 10a Church Close, she thanked them, took their contact details, which Miss Silcox insisted she have, and waved them off with cast-iron assurances that she was absolutely fine.

She wasn’t fine, and they probably knew that, but they’d been considerate enough not to push it. In the kitchen she put the kettle on and was about to load the toaster when her mobile rang. When she looked at the screen she saw that it was her sister. Floriana was in no mood to speak to her, but she could see that Ann had rung several times already.

‘At last!’ Ann said. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all evening.’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just trying to sort out Christmas. You said you’d tell me definitely by today whether you were coming or not.’ The reproach in Ann’s voice pummelled away in Floriana’s ear and made her head thump more painfully than ever.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said feebly, ‘I was going to call you, I really was, only I—’

‘Well, that’s you all over, isn’t it? You’re always going to do something but you never get around to it, do you? Honestly, I give up! So, what’s the excuse this time?’

‘I was knocked over by a car on my way home and—’

‘You shouldn’t make jokes like that,’ her sister said, exasperated. ‘The next thing you know it will really happen – it’s called tempting fate.’

‘I’m not joking. A car really did hit me. I’ve just got back from A&E.’

There was a pause the other end of the line while her sister presumably regrouped her thoughts. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

Typical Ann, no enquiring how Floriana was, just straight to indignation. ‘What would be the point?’ Floriana responded. ‘It’s not as if you could help, you’re too far away. And thanks for asking how I am.’

Another pause from Ann as she realised her mistake. ‘Sorry,’ she said, almost sounding like she meant it. ‘So how are you? You sound OK, for what it’s worth.’

‘I’m not, as it happens. I feel bloody awful. I’ve got half a dozen stitches in my head and a battered face and a body that feels like hell.’

‘But nothing broken? No internal damage?’

‘No, thank goodness.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ Ann said. ‘What about the car that hit you, what are the police doing about the driver?’

‘The driver didn’t stop.’

‘
What?
Were you able to get the number plate?’

As she always did, Ann managed to make Floriana feel inept, as though she had been deliberately negligent in this oversight. She explained that she had no actual memory of being hit, that it was a blank.

‘Any witnesses?’

She told her sister about her Good Samaritans, then to her horror Ann said, ‘I’d come and be with you if I could, but I can’t get away from work right now. Why don’t you come to us?’

‘There’s no need,’ Floriana said quickly, knowing she had to downplay the accident or who knew what her sister would unleash on her. ‘I’m just a little bruised and shocked, nothing serious. Really.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, totally sure. All I need is a good night’s sleep and I’ll be as right as rain in the morning.’ Nothing like a bit of misplaced optimism!

The kettle began to boil and switching it off she heard her sister say, ‘I think it would be better if we didn’t tell Mum and Dad about this, it would only worry them and it would be awful if you spoilt their holiday. You know what Mum’s like, she’d come rushing back if she knew you’d been in an accident.’

Their parents were part-way through a round-the-world cruise. The trip, many years in the planning, had been a present to themselves after Dad had finally sold the family business and retired, so Floriana knew that what Ann had said made sense, it would be wrong to ruin the holiday for them. But as was so often the way, it was the manner in which her sister made the comment that rankled.

‘Of course I won’t tell them,’ she said defensively, ‘I’m not that stupid. Now I’m sorry to hurry you, but I need to have something to eat and go to bed, I’m shattered.’

‘Of course. I’ll ring you in the morning to make sure you’re all right. Oh, and please, have a think about Christmas, I need to know final numbers.’

And I need to come up with a twenty-four-carat-gold excuse why I can’t come to you for Christmas, Floriana thought when she rang off. She feared that only her death would provide a plausible excuse for not fitting in with her sister’s exacting plans.

Not funny, she told herself with a shiver. Had the timing been fractionally different this evening, that car could very well have finished her off. A tingle ran down her spine and it suddenly came home to her that the nurse at the hospital had been right; she had been lucky.

Lucky also that two such helpful people had been there on the scene. She would have to thank them properly tomorrow for their help. It was the least she could do.

Saturday morning in Summertown and Adam had woken with the stark reminder that Jesse really had gone. Work commitments had meant that Monday to Friday it wasn’t unusual for Jesse to be absent from their bed, but Saturday and Sunday morning she had always been there; it had been one of the constants in their relationship.

To distract himself from dwelling on her absence, and despite the perishing cold, he had gone for an early morning run and then after he’d showered and dressed, he’d walked down to the shops and returned home from the new bakers with a bag of freshly baked croissants for his breakfast.