Chapter 4
FOUR
ORLA
I do not think of myself as a curtain-twitcher, but after what happened yesterday I am afraid I must count myself officially within their ranks.
I have excuses, though – the curtains were not drawn so there was no actual twitching involved; I was in plain view, should anyone have chosen to look up at the second floor.
I was, quite genuinely, cleaning the window: the junior cats, successors to my beloved Maud, have taken to perching on the windowsill for hours on end, chattering at the blackbirds in the square, and their little noses leave smudges on the glass that obscure their view.
Until they’re old enough to be allowed out, this will have to be a regular chore.
I was, typically, distracted from my work by the view.
The trees are still bare, but the first snowdrops have emerged in the grass, their fragile heads modestly bowed against the cold.
High on a branch, a robin was singing his lungs out – I considered summoning the kittens to see him, but they were both asleep on my bed.
And around the corner, a woman appeared on a bicycle, her yellow waterproof jacket a pleasing splash of colour on the grey day.
I watched as she came around the square, not slowly but not particularly fast either, distracted as people often are by the surprising appearance of the three rows of elegant Georgian houses, perfectly preserved in this neighbourhood that is becoming increasingly dominated by high-rise glass-and-steel towers.
She did not see the Grahams’ cat, Augustus, returning from his morning prowl among the trees, until it was too late.
He saw her, though, and he made the wrong judgement: instead of dodging beneath a parked car for safety, he made a run for home, darting across the road right in front of her approaching front wheel.
It all happened too fast for me to take in the details.
She must have braked suddenly, perhaps hitting a cobblestone or skidding on a patch of ice.
But in any event, her bicycle went one way and she went the other, tumbling sideways and forwards over the handlebars and falling hard while Augustus dashed unharmed to the safety of his front door.
I heard her shout of alarm and the clatter of her bike hitting the pavement, shortly followed by an outraged yowl from Augustus as he reached the door of number eight and demanded to be let in.
I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to pick herself up and go on her way, but she didn’t.
She sat up, legs akimbo on the cold cobbles, looking down at her right hand as if it was somehow no longer part of her.
I put down my spray bottle of vinegar and cleaning rag, about to turn and hurry downstairs to see if I could help.
But before I could, the door of number eight swung open and Gray emerged, alerted either by the sounds of the woman’s fall or the cries of his cat.
I couldn’t see Augustus any more; presumably he had fled inside to lick the wounds he didn’t have.
Gray approached the woman, squatting down next to her.
I could hear his voice, soothing and concerned, and hers replying, high with shock and perhaps pain, although I couldn’t make out their words.
As I watched, he stood up again, taking her left arm in his and helping her to her feet.
They stood there for a moment before Gray picked up her bicycle, inspecting its wheels and shaking his head before carrying it inside his house.
The woman followed, her right arm cradled across her body.
I resumed my window cleaning, wondering whether the brief drama was over.
And it mostly was. After five minutes, they came out again, the woman now with a blanket around her shoulders. Gray guided her to his car, opened the door for her, they both got in and he drove away.
He would be taking her home, I guessed, her bicycle for the time being unrideable. Or perhaps he was giving her a lift to the hospital to get checked out.
Either way, it was a fleeting incident – a small blip in an otherwise uneventful Saturday morning.
So why do I feel the need to describe it here in these pages?