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By Root 1773 0

many painful memories and that she was moving to 47 Fairfield Avenue, down the road from Mum, who, at number 16, had inherited Cynthia's house when she'd died. They weren't necessarily soul mates back then – Mum was just doing Felicity a good turn – but over time, proximity and a shared past – after all, they'd both been married to the same man – they forged an unlikely alliance. Tuesday nights found Mum in Felicity's sitting room at the backgammon board, where gin and tonics were served promptly at six; they took it in turn to provide the sandwiches. Thursday night was book club night, and on Sunday's, if they weren't with Caro or me, they lunched together in town. Oh, and some mornings had coffee too.

I smiled now as I cycled passed Mum's little terraced house at one end and pedalled towards Felicity's more substantial property at the other. Were they there today, I wondered. If Felicity wasn't teaching, in all probability yes, but I wouldn't stop. I glanced through the heavily draped sitting-room window. I was five minutes late as it was, and coffee with those two only led to drinks. I wouldn't get away without joining them for a hefty sharpener.

I pushed my bike through Cornmarket, pedalled on down St Aldates, calling out a cheery hello to Ron, who'd been our porter at Balliol but was now at Christ Church, and who was patiently trying to explain to a group of uncomprehending Chinese that they couldn't simply step over his chain and stray into his quad. He shrugged despairingly at me and I grinned back. There were tourists swarming everywhere at the moment, particularly in the main streets, but not down here – I swung a left, freewheeling down a little alleyway – not in the tiny trattoria Ant and I favoured, slightly crummy but off the beaten track, and only really frequented by staff and students; the cognoscenti.

How lovely, I thought, to have a husband who still wanted to have lunch with me. For years, on alternate Fridays, because he only had one lecture, I'd cycle in and have a bowl of soup with him at Lorenzo's.

‘I might even catch the end of your lecture,’ I'd called this morning as Ant, as ever, took the letters from the postman as they passed at the back gate. ‘Although if it's as steamy as the last one I'll be under the seat with embarrassment.’

I'd crept in a couple of weeks ago when he'd been lecturing on Lawrence, or, more particularly, the sex in Lawrence, and been quite shocked to hear him spelling out the finer nuances of fellatio to a hall full of wide-eyed first years.

He'd laughed. ‘Prude. And, anyway, it's Joyce today, so no chance of that. Poor devil was desperately repressed. See you later.’

I hadn't made it, of course. Too busy making huge decisions at the cheese counter and Ant was already at our favoured table when I arrived, the long, communal one along the back wall. He was reading as usual, I noticed fondly as I wove my way through the steamy room, waving at Carlos, who ran the place, as I went. When I'd first known Ant and we'd lunched in here, he'd invariably be reading a slim volume of poetry. More recently it was an essay, as he tried to catch up with some marking, and I saw him tuck just such a paper hastily inside his jacket pocket as I sat down opposite him. I loved the fact that he still wore an old corduroy jacket as true academics should, and that he smelled of fresh air and books as I leaned across the table to kiss him.

‘Must Try Harder, or See Me?’

He gave a weary smile. ‘Oh, I dare say I'll trot out the usual encouraging platitudes, just as they trot out theirs about courtly love. I might have to confiscate The Chaucerian Legend by A. J. Holmes from the library. See how they get on without it. See if the cogs still turn.’

‘They'll only find it on the Internet, and anyway, you can hardly blame them. Surely everything there is to say about Chaucer has already been said. You lot have had twelve centuries to get to grips with him, they've only had a term. They're hardly going to come up with something earth-shattering like – I don't know – The Nun's Tale is actually an allegory