Summer at the Lake (8 page)

‘Please don’t think we were gossiping about you,’ Miss Silcox said, meeting Floriana’s gaze over the top of the huge mug, ‘but Adam mentioned that you seemed to think you were at fault for the accident. Surely you can’t really believe that? The car, after all, was going much too fast.’

‘I’m afraid I was at fault to a degree,’ Floriana responded. ‘I still can’t actually recall the impact of the car hitting me, but I do remember stepping into the road without looking. I feel rather silly about the whole business. To be honest, I feel a bit sorry for the driver.’

The old lady’s silver eyebrows rose at that. ‘But he didn’t stop,’ she said, clearly taken aback. ‘He could have left you for dead.’

‘I know, but the thing is, there was nothing premeditated about it and I can easily understand that he, or she for that matter, probably panicked and just took off.’

‘That’s a very generous attitude on your part, but don’t you think the driver ought to be taught a lesson, if only to stop him, or
her
, from doing it again?’

Floriana thought about this and with a truffle held between her thumb and forefinger, she dipped it into her mug of hot chocolate. ‘I agree, in principle,’ she said, ‘but how do we know the driver hasn’t spent the weekend in a frenzy of regret and self-recrimination? Would being sent to jail and punished for an accident they didn’t cause be truly just? I’m not sure I’d want that on my conscience when I know that I’m partly to blame, that were it not for the fact my mind was elsewhere, I would have reached home quite safely. And you know, if the timing had been different, it could have been Adam’s car I stepped out in front of.’

Miss Silcox pursed her lips. ‘An admirable approach and I applaud you for that. We live in an age when too many people refuse to accept responsibility for their actions and rush pell-mell to blame others for their mistakes. Yet I still hold the view that I’d think better of the driver if he’d had the courage to stop and help. As for Adam knocking you over, had he done so, he would most assuredly have stopped to help you. I barely know him, but he’s a man of integrity, that I’m sure of.’

Floriana popped the warmed softened truffle into her mouth and let it melt on her tongue. At length, she said, ‘We can never really know how a person will react when faced with a moral dilemma, can we? Likewise, we all make mistakes. Haven’t you done something which you’ve regretted the instant you did it?’

As she heard herself ask the question, Floriana wondered with a spark of irritation if she wasn’t thinking about something altogether different.

About Seb.

About
her
and Seb.

She flushed with annoyance, for betraying the depth of her feelings, that Seb was never far from her thoughts. Unwilling to pursue the conversation further, she offered Miss Silcox another truffle.

‘No thank you,’ the old lady said, ‘they’re for you. And yes, I’ve done many things I’ve regretted, but just as many I don’t, though perhaps some I ought.’

In the silence that followed, while Floriana tried to think of something else to talk about, Miss Silcox looked about her. When furnishing the room Floriana had had shabby chic in mind, but even she had to admit she had only achieved the shabby element of the design.

She watched her guest’s sharp eyes roaming over the packed bookshelves either side of the fireplace, the cast-off television from her parents, the basket of knitting on the floor – she was making a pair of fingerless gloves for her niece – the solitary Christmas card on the mantelpiece, the wonky lamp, the candles, and the tatty beige carpet with its blackened edges which the previous owner had left behind and which Floriana longed to be rid of. Taking up the carpet was another job on her To Do list, a list that seemed to grow on a daily basis. If only the number of available hours in the day grew exponentially. She didn’t know what sort of house Miss Silcox lived in, but she guessed it was a lot grander than her much-loved Toy House.

‘May I ask you something?’ Miss Silcox asked when her scrutiny had been exhausted and she had placed with deliberate care her finished mug of hot chocolate on the table. ‘It’s rather personal, so please tell me to mind my own business if I’ve gone too far.’

Floriana nodded, and tucked her feet under her on the sofa, curious to hear what this woman considered to be personal. Maybe she was going to offer some interior design tips.

‘It was at the time of the accident,’ Miss Silcox said, ‘when Adam was ringing for an ambulance and when you were not quite compos mentis; you kept repeating something.’

‘Really? What was it?’

‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, but I think it was a name. Does the name Seb mean anything to you?’

Floriana first laid eyes on Sebastian Hughes when she was fourteen years old and was helping out in her father’s shop during the long summer holiday.

Day & Son had been a family-run business since 1872 when Floriana’s great-grandfather had opened a small hardware store selling ironmongery and decorating equipment. By the time her father took it over, not only had the Kent village of Stanhurst expanded to being a small town, but the shop had spread to the two premises either side and its stock was comprised of a vast selection of DIY equipment and general household items, including an extensive range of kitchenware and garden furniture. Then last year, after several approaches from a large supermarket chain, her father reluctantly accepted an offer to sell the shop so the site could be converted into a sizeable convenience store. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly, and not surprisingly it wasn’t met with universal approval.

But back when Floriana was a child, and just as soon as she and her sister were old enough, they had both worked Saturdays and holidays in the shop and on this particular busy afternoon when Floriana was filling the shelves with pest control products, she noticed a boy about the same age as herself searching for something on a nearby shelf. She’d never seen him before, so took a moment to give him the full once-over. Like most teenagers, his jeans were baggy and where they dragged on the ground they were torn and frayed at the heels of his trainers. He was wearing a black T-shirt, the front of which showed a skull with a crown of barbed wire. His hair was thick and messy, as if he hadn’t brushed it in days. He was, she thought, not bad-looking in a quirky sort of way.

She watched him take a mousetrap from the shelf and to her amusement he pulled back the metal spring and stuck his finger experimentally in the bit where the mouse would meet its snappy end. She waited for the inevitable yelp, but it didn’t happen. Removing his finger, he released the spring, then casually slipped the trap into his pocket.

Petty thieving went on all the time in the shop, but never had Floriana actually witnessed somebody do it right under her nose. Shocked she looked around for one of the full-time assistants, but there was nobody else about. Determined he wasn’t going to get away with it, she stopped what she was doing and followed him as he coolly ambled towards the main door.

Out on the street, she tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?’ she said, mimicking the snooty tone of voice her sister used whenever she was telling her off about something.

He swung round so quickly she thought he might hit her and make a run for it. But he hit her with an awkward smile instead and said, ‘Oh hell, I don’t suppose you could let me off, could you? I mean, it’s just a mousetrap. Seventy-five pence worth of wood with a bit of metal is hardly going to make a difference, is it?’

‘Of course it makes a difference!’ she said indignantly.

He shrugged. ‘What do you care, you only work here, don’t you?’

‘This is my dad’s shop,’ she said, ‘which means I care lots.’ She held out her hand. ‘So stop kidding yourself you’re Robin Hood or Dick Turpin and give me back the mousetrap.’

He lowered his gaze and looked quizzically at the open palm of her hand, in a way that suddenly made her feel very foolish. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing with a finger, ‘that line there shows you have a strong spirit and that you’re not easily manipulated by others.’

Furious, she snatched her hand away. ‘Don’t change the subject. Just give me back the mousetrap or . . .’ Her words trailed off and she floundered. Just what would she do?

‘Or what?’ he asked. He didn’t sound like he was challenging her, merely as if he was trying to be helpful. Which made her feel a hundred times more foolish.

‘Or I’ll call the police!’ she blurted out, knowing that her face was now the same colour as the red polo shirt Day & Son employees wore. Worse still, she wasn’t just mimicking her overbearing sister, she was turning into Ann!

He took a step back and stared at her. ‘Bloody hell, you’re serious, aren’t you? You really would call the police, and over something as stupid as a shitty bit of wood and a spring.’

‘It’s you who’s put yourself in this situation,’ she said, her indignation fizzling out. ‘All I’m doing is giving you the choice to do the right thing.’

‘And do you always do the right thing?’ he asked. There was mockery in his eyes.

Her indignation spluttered back into life again. But only because he’d hit home so closely, because more often than not if there was a simple choice between doing the right thing and doing the wrong thing, Floriana could make the choice that would get her into hot water. She saw it as being individual, not wanting to be a sheep, one of the boring crowd, but her teachers saw it differently and called her stubborn and rebellious. She had once been sent to the head for being rude to a teacher, something she hotly denied; all she’d done was correct his spelling. I mean, come on, an English teacher who couldn’t spell?

‘Right,’ she said decisively, grabbing hold of the boy’s arm, ‘you’re coming with me.’

Except he didn’t budge, being much taller than her there was no chance of her dragging him back inside the shop. To her further annoyance, he laughed. ‘What’s this, a citizen’s arrest?’

Cross that he was laughing at her, she let go of him. ‘Oh, sod you!’ she said, wishing she’d never got involved. Why couldn’t she have been working in another part of the shop when he’d come in to help himself?

A moment passed, during which neither of them seemed to know what to say next. Finally he broke the silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Look, have it back if it means so much to you.’ He pushed the mousetrap into her hands.

‘You could just pay for it,’ she said, ‘as you pointed out yourself, seventy-five pence isn’t that big a deal.’

‘Yeah, well, it is if you don’t have any money.’

His reply surprised her; from the second he’d opened his mouth, he had looked and sounded exactly the sort to have plenty of money, if not in his own pocket then certainly in that of his parents’.

‘What do you want a mousetrap for?’ she asked, as he started to walk away from her.

Twisting his head round, he looked at her as if she was a complete idiot. ‘Why does anyone want a mousetrap? To catch mice, of course.’

She watched him go off down the street. He had a long loping stride and an air of vague distraction about him.

Two days later when she had shown a customer where to find the descaling products, she felt someone tapping her on the shoulder.

It was him.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’d like a mousetrap, please. And before you get uppity with me, today I’m in the fortunate position to offer you seventy-five pence of the sovereign realm. God save the Queen!’

In spite of the excruciating memory she had of his previous visit, and how small and mean she had felt for the rest of the day, she smiled.

The transaction completed, he said, ‘What time do you get off work? Or does your father keep you here overnight stocking shelves?’

By the end of the school holiday not only had they become friends but Floriana’s father had agreed that he could work Saturdays in the shop.

Seb and his mother had moved to Stanhurst following her divorce and he described their situation in terms of living in genteel penury. It was an expression which Floriana had come to know as being a typical Seb remark, in that it was loaded with sufficient exaggeration and irony to appear comical, but in actual fact belied just how difficult things were. It was a defence mechanism, she came to realise.

He’d apologised for trying to steal the mousetrap, explaining that he and his mother had been in their new house less than twenty-four hours when they’d discovered they had company. With his mother screaming hysterically every time a mouse poked its head out of a drawer or a cupboard and her bank account seriously in the red, Seb had taken matters into his own hands. And failed. ‘Clearly I’m not cut out for a life of crime,’ he’d joked, adding more seriously, ‘any more than my mother is cut out for marriage and motherhood.’

This was his mother’s second marriage to end in divorce. Seb’s father – Husband Number One – had long ago remarried and contributed haphazardly to his son’s well-being, the money mostly going towards paying the fees for the private school he attended. Husband Number Two felt no inclination to support a child that wasn’t his. ‘I can’t say I blame him,’ Seb said of the man, ‘why should he just because he married my mother?’

Although Seb was the same age as Floriana, he seemed older and altogether more worldly and astute. He claimed he was steeped in cynicism and that tricked people into thinking he was smarter than he really was. ‘Put it this way, I’ve been on a steep learning curve,’ he said one day when she asked him how he always managed to sound so positive and pragmatic.

‘Since when?’ she’d asked.

‘Since I was born.’

Of his mother he said, matter-of-factly, ‘It’s a shame, but she’s not very good at being married. The trouble is, she’s not very good at being on her own either.’

It didn’t take long for Floriana to realise that Seb had his hands full taking care of his mother, who in Floriana’s opinion was a lazy, selfish woman who needed to stop moaning about how unfair life was. Some days she stayed in bed, awash in her own misery, not giving a thought to Seb who was left to fend for himself. Not once did he ever criticise or complain; he just accepted the situation and got on with it.