It was September, spring, with a cheerful breeze running along with us, new leaves lit and flickering, the houses hung with wisteria and jasmine. We were walking with Peter, who had been troublesomely in love with Emma for several years. If she’d been alone he might not have dared to follow her but her younger, noisier sister made it easy. I was, without knowing it, combative; sparring with me had relieved the nerves of more than one of Emma’s boyfriends. Emma walked silently beside us, a spray of jasmine dangling from one hand. A truck, uncommon in our quiet, moneyed suburb, screamed past us. When it had gone, Peter said, ‘A truck drove into my house once.’ ‘No, really?’ I was balancing on the low stone wall that ran beside the road. ‘Tell us about it,’ I said, hopping off the wall to land next to him. He glanced at Emma, who continued to watch the pavement in front of her, which was lumpy with tree roots. ‘We lived on a corner,’ said Peter. ‘It came too fast on the way round, and its brakes failed.
