Madeline was too close. She put both feet to the ground tentatively, but the scooter was skidding and a second later she hit the rear of the other vehicle. It was not a severe bump. Her brakes had saved her that, but the scooter overturned and she landed in the road, feeling foolishly like a schoolgirl falling from her cycle.
As she attempted to scramble to her feet two strong hands assisted her, while a voice like crushed ice demanded: ‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’
Madeline’s eyes widened, and she gazed up at the man confronting her so angrily. Was he actually blaming her? Why, he was the one to blame!
‘This is a highway, not a child’s playground!’ he continued relentlessly, his tone uncompromising. ‘You ought to think ahead. Or stay off the road altogether,’ he added, as an afterthought.
‘Now, wait a minute,’ began Madeline indignantly. ‘It was your fault for stopping so precipitately.’ She fumed as sardonic eyes surveyed her, and she wondered what nationality he really was. There was a faint but unmistakable accent in his voice that was definitely not English. ‘This road was not built for motor racing, and cars usually signify their intentions to give their followers forewarning—’
‘I am aware of that,’ he interrupted her. ‘All right, I admit I did stop abruptly, but if I hadn’t something much more serious could have happened. If you will walk round to the front of the car you’ll see for yourself.’
Straightening her shoulders, even though she felt a little shaky, Madeline walked slowly round the red monster. Then she halted, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her coat. Three vehicles were in collision in the centre of the road, a lorry and two cars, one of which had obviously run into the other two. A police car came whining up the road from Otterbury as she stood there, but happily no one seemed seriously injured.
‘Well?’ said her companion, looking rather amused now. ‘Does that convince you that my motives were reasonable?’
Madeline shrugged. ‘Of course. I’m sorry I was so quick to jump to conclusions, but really, a scooter doesn’t have the braking power of a car like this.’ She indicated the automobile.
The man inclined his head. Then he said, rather belatedly: ‘Are you hurt?’
Madeline could not suppress a smile. ‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘I’m all in one piece, thank you. You’d better examine your car. It’s much more likely to be in need of repair.’
He smiled too, rather mockingly, and Madeline found herself thinking what an attractive man he was. Tall, with broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, he was very tanned, and his eyes were a dark blue. His hair was very dark as well, and it was this that made Madeline think he might be a Spaniard, or an Italian. He moved with an easy fluid grace of movement and his attitude of indolence seemed to conceal a leashed vitality. The cut of his suit was impeccable and had obviously been made by a master craftsman, and the faint accent and his excellent grasp of English seemed to point to an expensive education. She wondered who he could be. She knew by sight most of the affluent people in Otterbury, but this man was a stranger. And, as though aware of her thoughts, he said:
‘As I am attached to the Sheridan factory, I hardly think we need concern ourselves with the repair of my car. Besides, it’s only slightly dented, as you can see.’
Sheridans was the car factory further up the road, an Italian–American concern, this being their first enterprise in England. That also seemed to explain his accent. He was obviously of Italian descent, but had probably spent many years in the States.
‘That’s all right, then,’ she said, bending to pick up the scooter and her shopping bag, which was fortunately closed. The man forestalled her, however, lifting the scooter effortlessly and scanning it with a practised eye.
‘Your scooter seems to be intact,’ he said. ‘If anything should go wrong just give us a ring and I’ll arrange to have it fixed. The number is Otterbury 2001.’
Madeline thanked him, conscious now of how dishevelled she must appear. As he handed her the scooter she was overwhelmingly conscious of his eyes appraising her quite openly and she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.
‘Th … thank you,’ she stammered, and kicked the starter. To her relief it started first time and she sat astride the seat and said: ‘Good-bye.’
‘Au revoir … Miss … Miss …?’ He smiled and waited for her answer.
‘It’s Mrs. Scott,’ she corrected him, and with a brief smile she rode away. She was aware of his eyes watching her as she rode down the road, and she prayed she would make no more mistakes.
Within seconds he sped past her, his hand lifted in acknowledgment, and she felt herself relax again.
Reaching the centre of Otterbury she turned right at the traffic lights towards Highnook. Highnook was a suburb of Otterbury where a lot of new housing had gone up, including the block of flats where Madeline lived with her daughter, Diana. The flats were in Evenwood Gardens, overlooking the River Otter, and Madeline always felt a thrill of pleasure when she reached her home. It was such a nice flat and Otterbury was such a pleasant town.
The flat was on the first floor, and as she opened the door and entered the small hallway, she called:
‘Diana! Are you home?’
There was no reply, so she closed the door and removed her coat. The living-room opened off the hallway. It was a large room with plain distempered walls which Madeline had ornamented with several plaques. The wall-to-wall carpeting, which had taken a lot of saving for, was sapphire blue, while the three-piece suite was white leather hung with dark blue fringed chair-backs. The heating was all electric, unfortunately, for Madeline preferred an open fire in at least one room. She now turned up the valve which operated the radiators, for although the room was warm compared to the cold air outside it was by no means comfortably so. The room had a homely, lived-in atmosphere. A china cabinet contained her few pieces of really good china and glass and the rest of the space was filled with bookshelves, well filled with novels, a television, and Diana’s pick-up which stood on a table in an alcove with a stack of ‘pop’ records beside it.
Madeline lit a cigarette and turned on the television. She had shopped at lunchtime and the chops she had bought for their dinner would not take much cooking.
Carrying her shopping bag through to the kitchen which opened off the lounge and was very tiny, she unpacked the food and put on the kettle. Then she returned to the lounge. It was nearly six, so Diana ought not to be long.
She walked into the bedroom which she and Diana shared. There was only one bedroom with a small bathroom and closet adjoining it. The flats were really only intended for one person, but as the two-bedroomed flats had been two pounds more a week, Madeline had had to content herself with the single bedroom. She did not mind for herself, but Diana was getting to an age when she objected to not having a room of her own. However, when they arrived in Otterbury after Joe’s death, Madeline had been grateful enough of a place of their own.
She stripped off her jersey dress and went into the bathroom to wash and brush her teeth. As she did so, she found herself wondering what the man in the car had really thought about her. She had found him immensely attractive, but then any woman would. She wondered how old he was. He had only looked to be in his early thirties and as she herself was thirty-three, he was probably about her age.
Brushing her hair, which when loosed from the French knot she usually wore it in fell to her shoulders, she wondered how old he had taken her for. She knew she did not really look her age. Adrian Sinclair was incessantly telling her that she looked more like Diana’s sister than her mother, but Adrian wanted to marry her and that was his way.
