Accidents Happen A Novel

CHAPTER TWO



It was a warm May evening and Oxford was bathed in a pale lemon tint. Kate pushed her bike across Donnington Bridge, then freewheeled down the steep path on the other side to cycle along the river.

It was busy. She set off, cycling around a woman with two big wet dogs, and a student on a bike who had clearly not learned to drive yet and wasn’t sticking to the left side. Kate pumped her legs hard, averting her eyes from the water on her right, trying to clear her mind of what she was about to do. She pushed against the resistance of each pedal stroke, changing gear when the journey along the flat path became too easy, until she could hear her own breath whistling gently on the summer breeze.

A swarm settled around her head like tiny flies.

One out of five. About 20 per cent, she thought, trying to ignore it.

She hit a steady pace around Christchurch Meadow. The grand old college looked especially beautiful tonight across the river, its stone facade soft and pretty in the low light. The grass in front of it glowed that rich, saturated Oxford green that suggested high teas and country estates. It was scattered with groups of the cheery, hard-working students who imbued the air in Oxford with their optimism and best efforts, who sprinkled its streets and parks and alleyways with goodwill, like bubbles of sweetness in a fizzy drink. Who made Oxford feel safe.

No, on nights like these, she hardly missed London at all.

After Folly Bridge Kate cleared the crowds and stepped up her speed again. She sailed past the waterside flats at Botley and the circus-coloured canal boats moored around Osney Lock. Behind Jericho, she ducked under a graffitied bridge and carried on along the canal path till she could cross into north Oxford.

There. She had done it. Dismounting to cross the bridge, she checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes flat. She could still make it for six.

As she set off, pushing her bike along the pavement to Summertown, the enormity of what lay ahead hit her.

She was here finally. She was actually going to do it this time.

Before she could change her mind for the tenth time, Kate made herself walk on, pushing the bike along the pavements of quiet side streets before emerging into the rush-hour traffic of Woodstock Road and Banbury Road, which she crossed to arrive in a leafy Summertown avenue.

Peace descended as she entered the exclusive Oxford enclave. The houses were spectacular. Imposing Victorian detacheds, with grand pianos in grand bay windows and walled gardens. Inspector Morse streets, as Helen would call them. As far from the clattering noise and cheerful chaos of east Oxford as you could be. The kind of leafy avenue Helen and Richard had assumed Kate would buy in when she and Jack moved from London – the first thing she had done to annoy them.

To avoid thinking about her destination, Kate observed each house as she passed, searching for a feature Hugo would appreciate. The houses were Victorian Gothic revival. Not his period, but she bet he would have known the correct name for every architectural detail on their splendid frontages.

Before she knew it, the sign was in front of her. Hemingway Avenue.

Kate stopped. Her cheeks were covered in a gentle sheen of perspiration, her lips still slightly numb from riding fast into the breeze.

Her watch said five to six. She had made it.

She was nearly there.

This was nearly it.

The urge to run overwhelmed her so abruptly, she put a hand out and touched a wall.

She was outside No. 1. If she carried on to No. 15 Hemingway Avenue there would be no going back.

Shutting her eyes, she forced herself to summon the memory of Jack’s face in her rear-view mirror an hour ago. His cheeks rigid like a mask, his lips thrust forward as he bit the inside of his mouth.

‘You are going to do this,’ she whispered, pushing herself off the wall.

And on she went, with smaller and smaller steps.

The house was even more impressive than its neighbours. One gable jutted in front of the other. Ivy grew around medieval-style stone window frames. The glass revealed nothing inside but the red silk fringe of standard lamp, then darkness beyond.

Kate pushed her bike into the driveway and locked it to a railing. She removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her hair. It fell forwards, thick with the Celtic blackness Mum told her she had inherited from an Irish aunt, blocking out the early evening sun for a second. She threw her head back and straightened her hair down to her shoulders, then forced herself up the stone steps to a white, carved portico. The front door was magnificent. Hugo would have loved it. An eight-foot-high Gothic revival arch, wooden, with roughly hewn baronial black metal hinges and a thick knocker.

Kate paused.

She lifted her hand before she could run away – and banged it.

The sound made her jump. It resonated around the front garden, like a shotgun. The huge door swung open to reveal a blonde woman in her sixties. She was as tall as Richard, and broad, with a matronly bosom. Her hair was drawn up into an elaborate bun which looked as if it had first been created in the sixties. The woman wore a green print dress and had a strong piece of turquoise jewellery around her neck.

‘Kate?’

Her voice was pleasant and soft, like ripe fruit.

Kate nodded, feeling like a child.

‘I’m Sylvia. Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

Kate walked into an elegant hall, tiled with gold and blue geometric Victorian tiles. ‘Do you want to leave your helmet there?’ Sylvia said, pointing to a mahogany table adorned by a giant vase of lilies.

Kate nodded again, praying the plastic buckles wouldn’t scratch it.

‘I’m so glad you finally managed to come,’ Sylvia said.

Kate looked at the floor.

‘I know. Sorry. Things just kept coming up.’

‘You managed to find someone to look after your son?’ Sylvia said, opening a door off the hall, and guiding Kate through. There was a fragrance of roses.

‘Yes, I did, thanks. His grandparents. My in-laws.’

The sitting room was even more impressive than the hall, furnished with antique tables, bookshelves and over-stuffed chairs and sofas. It smelled of polish. The wallpaper looked original Victorian, too, or at least one of those expensive reproductions Hugo used to buy through specialists. Sage green with an intricate spray of curling dark stems and ruby-red roses.

Sylvia pointed to an armchair.

‘Please, have a seat, Kate.’

But Kate couldn’t.

She stood in front of the chair. She was here now. It was time to start.

Looking Sylvia in the eye, she made herself speak the words. Maybe it was the numbness in her lips from cycling, but the voice didn’t sound like hers. The words came out half-formed and uncertain, as if she had missed off the hard edges and spoken only the soft bits in the middle.

‘I told them I was seeing a woman who wanted to discuss renovating her house.’

Sylvia nodded, as she moved to the sofa.

‘I see. Well, that’s something we can talk about, Kate.’