Summer at the Lake (6 page)

‘Not at all. In fact, I wanted to apologise to
you
.’

‘Really? What on earth for?’

‘For my behaviour at the hospital; they bring out the worst in me. When I was seven years old I had a prolonged stay in one and ever since I’ve preferred to keep my distance.’

‘I know what you mean. I couldn’t wait to leave, I was terrified I’d be forced to stay the night.’

‘Is that why you went along with Miss Silcox’s ruse that she was your grandmother?’

‘Yes. I thought they’d force me to stay if they didn’t think there was someone here to fuss over me.’

She sipped her coffee cautiously, taking care how she placed the mug against her mouth. Last night the pain to her cheek had been relatively localised, today it had spread to her entire face despite regular doses of paracetamol, which also seemed not to touch the thumping headache she still had. The swelling and bruising had also spread and after a fitful night’s sleep she had been shocked to look in the mirror this morning and find she had a black eye. The nurse had warned her it might happen, that the bruise from the blow to her head would extend to her eye and beyond.

As if picking up on her thoughts again, he said, ‘Did you manage to sleep?’

‘Not much.’

‘Is there anything you need doing?’ he asked. ‘Any shopping I could fetch for you? Any errands you need running?’

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she suddenly felt close to tears. ‘Please,’ she said, flapping a hand, ‘don’t be so helpful or I might not let you leave!’

As though guessing she was about to embarrass them both, he eased himself out of the chair and reached for a plate and passed it to her. ‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Marie Antoinette’s answer to all of life’s ills. What would you like?’

Shaken by her near loss of control, Floriana swallowed back the lump in her throat and murmured, ‘The mince pie, please.’

The awkward moment defused, he helped himself to a chocolate éclair and sat down again. She saw his gaze come to rest on the mantelpiece where one solitary Christmas card stood – the one from Seb, the cause of her present predicament. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he asked. ‘Are you staying in Oxford?’

‘Oh,’ she said as carelessly as she could muster, ‘normally I’d go to my parents, but they’re away on a world cruise right now which leaves me trying to get out of going to stay with my sister.’

‘You don’t get on?’

‘We get on fine, so long as I never forget that I’m the clumsy, irresponsible younger sister.’

‘Are you clumsy and irresponsible?’

Unable to open her mouth too wide, not without causing a great deal of pain to her jaw, she nibbled carefully on the edge of the mince pie. ‘I have my moments,’ she said. ‘Look at me now, covered in more bruises than a rotting banana and quite possibly of my own making.’

He frowned. ‘I hardly think you can blame yourself for being hit by a reckless driver.’

‘Hmm . . . well, the trouble is, and my memory still isn’t clear on this point, but as I told the policeman who was here earlier, it’s highly likely I stepped into the road without looking. My mind was definitely elsewhere. I know that for a fact.’

‘Even so, the driver should have stopped. So what will you do if you don’t go to your sister’s?’

‘I shall lie low.’

‘No friends you can go to?’

‘I’d hate to impose on them. It’s family time, isn’t it? What about you?’ she asked, tired of his constant questioning. Or rather, tired of the direction of his questions, which all too pointedly underscored just how few close friends she had. As if that hadn’t been made abundantly clear last night when she didn’t ring anyone to be with her.

The thing was, she had plenty of what she called casual friends – work colleagues and ex-college buddies who she hadn’t seen in a long time because they were scattered far and wide – but only one good close friend here in Oxford, the sort she could ring in an emergency, and that was Sara. But Sara had gone home to Argentina last week to spend December with her family. Of course, before Sara, Seb had been the one to whom she could always turn. But that had stopped when Imogen had appeared in Seb’s life and ruined everything.

‘I’ll be with my family,’ her guest said, curtailing her thoughts about Seb. ‘What will you do about work? You said last night that you’re a tour guide. Is that here in Oxford?’

‘Yes, and I’ve already called in to say I can’t do my two tours tomorrow. It’s left them in the lurch, but I’m hoping I’ll be OK by Monday.’

‘You don’t think you should give yourself more time to recover, at least until the bruising has faded?’

‘You mean, until I no longer run the risk of frightening people with my hideous face?’

He smiled with a sudden flash of engaging frankness. ‘Might be all right if you’re doing a ghost tour.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll slap on some industrial strength make-up, wear a hat pulled down low and a muffler pushed up high so only my eyes show. By the way, this mince pie is delicious. Thank you so much for coming and for bringing such a thoughtful gift.’

His thoughtfulness went to further lengths before he left. He insisted on washing up the mugs and plates, replacing the halogen bulbs in the kitchen, and bleeding the radiator in the sitting room, so, as he pointed out, it would stop gurgling and heat the room more effectively. When he was putting his jacket and scarf back on at the front door, he said, ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s nothing else I can do?’

‘Well, there is that cracked window pane in the bathroom that needs fixing and a tap that’s leaking.’ Seeing him hesitate with his jacket, she said, ‘I’m joking! You’ve done more than enough. Go on, you must have better things to do than be here. Go and have some Saturday afternoon fun.’

‘I’m going to go and inspect my new house, as a matter of fact.’

‘In that case, would you do one more thing for me? Would you call on Miss Silcox and thank her for her help last night?’

‘Consider it done.’

He held out his hand to her. ‘Goodbye and take care. And as I said before, anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. You have my card, don’t you?’

Mr Strong, she thought, waving him off, how very apt his name was. Strong and eminently dependable, and altogether a very interesting man. She had never knowingly met a property developer before, but he didn’t fit the profile of what she imagined one to be.

Listening to the sound of his car driving off, she stood for a moment wondering what to do next. Then her gaze fell on Seb’s Christmas card on the mantelpiece. No. Not that. She wasn’t in any fit state to think about replying. It could wait.

From her customary seat in the drawing room window of Trinity House and with her cat – Euridice – settled on her lap and purring happily, Esme observed the ebb and flow of activity on Latimer Street. A car had just gone by with a large Christmas tree ineptly tied to the roof; it had looked like it would slide off at any minute.

That was what age had done to her; it had turned her into an observer rather than a participator. Yet she was quite happy to live vicariously; after all, she had more than enough memories to keep her company. She also had a natural disdain for getting involved in other people’s lives.

However, there had been no avoiding that young girl’s accident last night, or from getting involved. Nothing on earth would have made her walk away. As she’d told the community police officer who’d visited earlier, when a person was in need, it was basic humanity to help.

On the table in front of her lay that morning’s copy of
The Times
, the crossword only partially completed. Normally by now, before she sorted out something to eat for lunch, she would have it finished. But her mind wasn’t on it. She kept thinking about Floriana Day. Such a pretty and unusual name, she mused, absently scratching the top of the cat’s head and wondering if the girl’s roots were Italian.

‘So what shall I do, Euridice? Shall I forget about Miss Floriana Day in the hope that she’s all right, or shall I add further weight to her conviction that I’m a bothersome old lady?’

Purring with increased rapture, the cat squeezed its eyes shut and pushed its head against Esme’s hand.

‘Yes, I rather thought that’s what you would say, which, I might add, isn’t all that helpful.’

Out on the tree-lined road, a car appeared in front of Trinity House. Leaning forward, Esme watched it come to a stop in front of the neighbouring property to the left. The driver was none other than Mr Strong. She watched him step out of the car and survey next door. Her own house had been built around the same time and was similarly constructed of red and yellow brick, but whereas number six was a modest Victorian villa, Trinity House was of a larger and more elaborate construction. With pointed arched windows and an elevated front door set deep within an arched and slated porch, it was a modestly scaled-down version of the more lavish Gothic-style residences to be found on the eastern side of the Banbury Road in Norham Gardens.

He was a fine-looking man, she thought, as Mr Strong continued to scrutinise the exterior of his house from the pavement. Self-assured, but in no way arrogant. A little taciturn, perhaps, but that was preferable to a loquacious nitwit. She had noted the absence of a wedding ring last night and while she was all too aware that people today didn’t necessarily marry their life partners, or indeed wear a ring to display their marital status, it had not slipped her notice that at no stage did Mr Strong telephone anyone to say he’d be late home, which left her with the conclusion that he very likely lived alone.

Just as Floriana Day did. Which was why Esme was so concerned about her. She couldn’t get it out of her head that the poor girl didn’t have someone on hand to turn to, and while she herself was not one to succumb to self-pity, she knew how it felt to be unwell and alone and how vulnerable it made one feel.

Out on the street, Mr Strong’s attention had been diverted: he was now staring at Trinity House and even though she was hidden behind the net curtain, Esme hastily moved away from the window, not wanting his opinion of her to plummet yet further, to be dismissed as a common curtain-twitcher.

At the disturbance, Euridice sprang from her lap and landed on the floor with a startled meow. She gave herself a little shake, followed by a stretch, then stood and looked at Esme as if to say, ‘Now what?’

For answer, there was a vigorous knock at the front door.

‘It seems we have a visitor,’ Esme said, glancing quickly at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and smoothing back her hair. ‘And taking into consideration who it is, I think we should both be on our best behaviour, don’t you?’

The cat meowed again and scampered off to hide behind an armchair; she was always wary of company.

Once again, Adam was being offered something to drink. This time it was tea, which he politely declined. He hadn’t planned to cross the threshold, his intention solely to relay a message, and to apologise for being offhand last night. But in the same way that Floriana had pointed out it was too cold to talk on the doorstep, he had agreed to come in for a few minutes.

Before stepping into the hallway with its ornate coving and dado rail and faded runner on the tiled floor, he had half expected to enter a gloomy netherworld of Miss Havisham meets Miss Doily-Kitsch, fragranced with eau de mothballs and musty old age. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The gracefully proportioned, high-ceilinged room Miss Silcox had led him to – cobweb-free as far as he could see – was comfortably furnished with polished antique furniture, pieces of china, shelves of books, and a conspicuous quantity of paintings. Delicate watercolours rubbed shoulders with large oils, along with what looked like experimental acrylics. There were landscapes, still lifes and portraits, some of them good, some of them extremely good. One large painting in particular caught his eye; it was of a strikingly attractive young blonde girl sitting in the dappled shade of a tree. She had a book in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it, her gaze was engaged directly with whoever had painted the picture.

‘You’re an art lover, I see,’ he commented, when he had been invited to sit in a comfortable leather armchair and she had taken a more upright wing chair. ‘Or are you the artist?’

‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.

He immediately apologised. ‘Sorry, that was clumsy of me.’

‘My father was the artist,’ she said, ‘I’m merely the custodian. Now tell me about Floriana. How is she
really
? And do you think there’s anything more we can do to help?’

He shared with her what little he’d picked up on during his visit and finished by saying, ‘I’m sure she’d like it if you were to call round.’ He had no way of knowing if this was true but felt it could do no harm. Floriana didn’t appear to have a surfeit of ready help available and Miss Silcox seemed genuinely keen to help, so why not encourage her?

Meeting the old lady again, and in less dramatic circumstances, Adam was fast reviewing his opinion of her. She was not, as he’d thought previously, a do-gooding sticky-beak, she was an intelligent woman who, along with her house, intrigued him. With the weak afternoon sun pouring an aqueous light across the charmingly serene room, he felt oddly at ease chatting with her and he rather hoped there would be other moments such as this in the course of doing up his house next door.

‘Really?’ Miss Silcox asked. ‘You don’t think Miss Day might see it as interference?’

He was about to answer when a small and pretty ginger cat peered out cautiously from behind Miss Silcox’s chair. It looked steadfastly at Adam then slowly, with dainty little steps, padded across the rug towards him. After pausing by his foot, it sprang gracefully up onto his knee and stared unblinkingly at him. Keeping perfectly still, he stared back, and as if happy with the arrangement, the cat made itself at home on his lap and began to purr.

‘Gracious,’ Miss Silcox said, ‘I’ve never seen her do that with anyone else before. You’re greatly honoured. Generally she’s as timid as they come.’

Adam relaxed further into the squashy softness of the chair and stroked the cat. ‘What’s her name?’