He stopped the car at once, dead, and the rush-hour queue in Beaumont Street leant angrily on its collective horn, and blasted him. He sprang out of the car, and hurried round the bonnet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ James said, stooping over her. ‘I’m so desperately sorry.’ Lit by his headlamps, she glared up at him from the wet pavement. He saw, with a shock of tenderness, that she was a true Oxford spinster, one of that dwindling band of elderly, dignified, clever women living out frugal lives in small flats and rooms, sustained by thinking. He seized the handlebars of her bicycle, to free her, and, in so doing, emptied out the contents of her wicker bicycle basket. ‘Oh God,’ he said in despair. He attempted to pick the objects up; a plastic carrier bag of books, a bicycle lock and chain, a tin of cat food. ‘Should you be driving?’ she said furiously, struggling to her feet. She peered at him in the rain, through Schubert spectacles.
What do You think about The Men And The Girls (1993)?
