Summer at the Lake (3 page)

She was very much aware that as she grew older, her own world grew smaller, to the point that it had now shrunk to this little part of North Oxford, wedged as it was between the Banbury and Woodstock roads. Eventually, she supposed, it would shrink to just Trinity House and then quite possibly to just the one room. Life in miniature, she thought with a wry smile.

Rarely did she go too far afield these days. Occasionally she had a sudden longing to catch the bus into the centre of town, or take a taxi to see a play at the Playhouse or enjoy a concert at St Mary’s, but in general she was quite content to sit alone at home and read while listening to the radio. Her favourite spot was in the window of the drawing room. From there, looking onto the road, she would watch the comings and goings of those who lived near her. They mostly seemed to be in a tearing hurry and had little or no time to get to know the people around them. They were all – just as she was – little islands of self-containment.

A long time ago she had known her immediate neighbours, but following a rapid turnaround in newcomers, the ever-changing faces had brought with them a barrier of anonymity. There had been a half-hearted attempt at a street party for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, but Esme had not joined in. Hidden from view behind the net curtain she had watched from the window and observed people standing awkwardly in the road making small talk with glasses of wine and beer in their hands. She had feared some well-meaning soul might knock on her door and force her to participate out of a sense of pity – poor old dear, she had imagined them saying amongst themselves, we’d better invite her. But no one had come. Which had left her both relieved and perversely disappointed.

She couldn’t remember who it was, but someone once said that the past is a place, not a time. It was true. For her the past was a place more richly vibrant than the present; it was crowded with memories – of climbing Magdalen Tower to watch the sun rise on May Day, of picnics down by the river drinking Pimm’s and feasting on strawberries, of walks through the deer park and the Botanical Gardens, of parties talking late into the night with earnest young men and women who thought they were going to change the world. She could see them now, their eyes burning with the zealous conviction they had all the answers.

There were no answers, she had long since learnt, only questions.

As she walked in the dark along the road, she thought about the house next door to her: it had stood empty for eleven months. The owner, who had lived in London and rented it out to a succession of tenants, had died and it was only now that probate had been settled the house could be sold. Esme knew all this because she had been in the garden one afternoon and overheard the conversation taking place the other side of the wall between the estate agent and whoever it was he was showing round. Very probably, whoever bought it would do it up and turn it into flats.

She paused to shift her heavy shopping bag from her left arm to her right and heard a car behind her. Glancing over her shoulder and momentarily dazzled by a blaze of headlamps, she took an involuntary pace away from the road as the car zoomed past at a terrific speed and with a loud roar of engine. A split second later and there was a sound that made her gasp out loud.

Her heart pounding, she quickened her step.

Floriana had the weirdest feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

Stranger still, a man she didn’t know was asking what her name was. Never mind what
her
name was, what was
his
? Who was he and why was he asking her if she knew where she was? Of course she knew where she was, she was . . . she was . . . Hang on a moment, where exactly was she?

She was working, that was it! She was at the Randolph having afternoon tea with her cheerful group of Americans. But where were they? Oh hell, she hadn’t lost one of them, had she? That was always the nightmare, somebody wandering off. Honestly, the number of times she’d lost a person because they’d slipped away to the toilet without telling her. She turned her head to look around for her group and found that she couldn’t. All she could see was a man.

He must be the man who’d asked what her name was. He had an interesting face. Sort of courtly looking with a noble nose, long and straight, and a wide forehead and a smooth jaw and chin. When she thought about it, he was awfully close to her, but maybe that was because it was dark and he couldn’t see her unless he was a few inches away. He also seemed to be at a peculiar angle. Or was it she who was at a funny angle? She tried to change her position but stopped when something hurt. She tried to work out which bit of her hurt, but couldn’t.

Whoever he was, she’d say this for him, he was persistent because he was asking again what her name was. To shut him up, she said, ‘Floriana. What’s yours?’

‘It’s Adam,’ he said. ‘An ambulance is on its way, it’ll soon be here.’

‘An ambulance,’ she repeated, her curiosity piqued; she tried and failed to look around her again. ‘Why?’

‘It’s probably best if you don’t move,’ he said. ‘Just try and stay still. What’s your surname, Floriana?’

Wow, was he trying to chat her up? ‘It’s Day,’ she said. ‘Floriana Day.’

She heard another voice. A woman’s voice that was low and refined and had a distinct edge of authority to it. ‘Ask her where she lives. Ask her if there’s anyone we should telephone to be with her.’

Wondering who the woman was talking about, Floriana closed her eyes and tried to think which one of her group it was who was missing at the Randolph.

Except there wasn’t anyone missing, was there? More to the point, she wasn’t at the Randolph. She was . . . she was walking home, that was it! And she was upset. But why?

She battled her way through the fog of confusion. It was something to do with Seb. He . . . he had sent her a Christmas card. Now she remembered. He and Imogen were getting married.

As if the mere act of remembering unleashed it, a wave of pain swept through her and she suddenly felt sick. And dizzy. She began to shiver and her teeth chattered.

She started at the feel of something touching her. Opening her eyes, she realised that the man who had been asking her name was now covering her with a blanket. No, not a blanket, but a coat. A soft woollen coat that smelled nice. That was kind of him. ‘What happened?’ she tried to say through the chattering of her teeth. ‘What’s wrong with me? What have I done and where am I?’

‘You’re in Latimer Street and you were hit by a car,’ he replied.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t sound good. Am I badly hurt?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘At a guess?’

‘The paramedics will have a better idea.’

Floriana thought about this, and at the same time she tried to work it out for herself. But it was beyond her. All she knew was that she felt more tired than she had ever felt in her entire life and sort of spacey, as though she was on the edge of dreaming. The other definite was that somewhere in her body there was an epic amount of pain. Maybe if she could just sleep, the pain would be gone when she woke up. She closed her eyes and immediately felt herself drifting away. She was back at the Randolph, pointing out the Morse Bar to her group and shepherding them into the Drawing Room for afternoon tea. They were laughing and chatting amongst themselves, but one of the women was saying, ‘Keep her talking, don’t let her go to sleep. It’s important to keep her awake.’

But it wasn’t one of the American women in the group who had spoken, it was the woman who had spoken before, the one with the distinctive voice.

‘Floriana,’ the man said, ‘can you hear me? Come on, tell me about your day. What did you do today?’

‘I just want to sleep,’ she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed.

‘I know you do, but humour me. Tell me where you work. Or are you a student?’

With a massive effort, she opened her eyes and found herself staring straight into his. ‘I’m a tour guide.’

‘That must be an interesting job. I expect you meet all sorts of people, don’t you?’

‘Are you making me talk because you’re worried I’m going to die? It’s what they do in films, isn’t it?’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘That’s good to know. Are you a doctor?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘So you don’t really know, do you? What did you say your name was?’

‘It’s Adam.’

‘Well, Adam, I think I must be OK if I’m talking to you, mustn’t I? Or . . . or am I imagining this conversation?’

‘No, you’re definitely talking to me.’

‘But what if I just imagined you said that?’

He adjusted the coat around her. ‘An interesting line of argument and unfortunately it’s not one I can easily disprove for you. You’ll just have to take my word for it.’

She liked the tone of his voice; it was very calming. ‘My head hurts,’ she said abruptly, realising that most of the pain she was feeling was located there.

‘Even more reason to keep absolutely still,’ he said.

‘Ask if there’s anyone we can get hold of for her.’

It was the well-spoken woman again. This time she sounded even more insistent.

‘Who’s your bossy friend?’ Floriana asked. ‘I don’t think I’d like to get on the wrong side of her.’

‘I’ve no idea who she is; we’ve only just met. But I think perhaps it’s alarm and concern rather than bossiness she’s projecting. Ah, that’s the ambulance coming.’

Hearing the sound of a siren rapidly approaching, and the relief in the man’s voice, she said, ‘I’ve never been in an ambulance before.’

It was actually a police car that arrived first, followed quickly by an ambulance. It was when the two paramedics, having made a quick assessment of her, were lifting her carefully onto a stretcher that Floriana got a glimpse of the woman who had been giving out orders. She couldn’t be sure in her dazed state, but she had the feeling she had seen her before.

The ambulance had driven off, and the handful of onlookers who had been lured out onto the street by the excitement of the sirens and flashing blue lights had now returned to their homes, their names and contact details taken by the police officer. Since they had seen nothing of any help, it was Adam and the elderly woman who were of most interest to the police officer. Their witness statements taken, the officer then set about checking the road for anything that might count as evidence.

It was now, after he’d put his coat back on and brushed the dirt from his trousers from kneeling on the ground, that Adam looked properly at the elderly woman at his side for the first time. She was small – not even level with his shoulder – and was smartly dressed in a black coat trimmed with fur at the cuffs. Her white hair was partially covered by a surprisingly stylish black beret with a brooch in the shape of a panther pinned to one side. At her throat was a red and black silk scarf and clutched tightly in her leather-gloved hands was a shopping bag, along with a handbag that looked very like it had once been part of a crocodile. Elderly and frail she might appear, but Adam strongly suspected there was steel in those old-lady bones of hers.

‘It doesn’t seem right the poor girl being on her own,’ she said, looking up at him.

‘I expect the paramedics or someone at the hospital will contact her family or a friend.’

The woman frowned doubtfully. ‘I’ve seen her about. And never with anyone. Do you think one of us should have gone in the ambulance with her?’

‘I should imagine the last thing she needed was a stranger getting in the way.’

‘What if they don’t?’

‘Don’t what?’

‘What if no one rings her family or friends? What if she doesn’t have anyone?’

Buttoning his coat up, Adam said, ‘In the circumstances, I think we’ve done all we can.’

He knew it sounded feeble, but really they had, hadn’t they? They had witnessed an accident, they had called an ambulance, they had waited for it to arrive and then they had left it to the experts. What more could they do?

‘She seemed so young and so vulnerable,’ the old lady said. ‘I do hope she’s going to be all right. I don’t think I shall be able to rest until I know she’s not too badly hurt. Aren’t you in the least bit worried about her? It’s outrageous that the driver didn’t stop. I wish I’d been quick enough to make a note of his number plate.’

OK, this was fast turning into one of those surreal nights you never think is going to happen to you. He was now in the A&E department of the John Radcliffe and, as instructed, he was keeping schtum and was leaving the talking to his elderly companion: Miss Silcox.

Within minutes of their arrival, she had effortlessly convinced the woman behind the reception desk that she was
Mrs
Silcox, Floriana Day’s grandmother, thereby getting round any potential problems regarding family members only being given information about a patient. He was pretty sure there was no need for such subterfuge in a case like this, but who was he to question her thinking? He had to hand it to her, though, she was a canny old thing. Canny enough to play on his conscience and persuade him to drive her here.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the girl who’d been knocked over, he did; he just didn’t want anyone to accuse him of interfering. Odds on, the girl herself would think it weird what they were doing. In all likelihood, a friend or a member of her family – or even a boyfriend – was already on their way here and frankly it was going to look pretty strange when it came to explaining themselves. On top of that, he hated hospitals. He hated the smell. He hated the sounds. And most of all, he hated the threat of death that hung over them. The sooner he could get out of here the better.

‘Shall I see if I can find us something to drink?’ he asked, in need of something useful to do.

‘A cup of tea would be most welcome,’ Miss Silcox said. ‘A splash of milk and no sugar. Thank you.’

He was about to go in search of a vending machine when a nurse appeared. ‘If you’d like to come with me, I’ll take you to your granddaughter,’ the nurse said to Miss Silcox. ‘I’m afraid she’s still a little woozy, but she seems anxious to see you.’

Uh-oh
, thought Adam.