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By Root 1714 0

the mighty spires of Trinity looming over me. Usually I revelled in their majesty, felt proud to be under their spectral gaze, but tonight… tonight I hated them. Hated Oxford. Hated the thin, sensible women in their thrift-shop clothes pedalling earnestly to their book clubs; the bearded, scruffy men emerging, blinking like moles in the streetlights, from cello recitals or odd, esoteric talks on existentialism. I hated the brains, the power; felt threatened. Suddenly I wished we lived in Streatham. Or Middlesbrough. Somewhere where I could saunter down the high street, swinging my Topshop handbag, popping into Thorntons for chocolate – somewhere where I belonged. Not here. Not where every other fly poster advertised not Joss Stone, but a Mendelssohn evening, or an opportunity to hear Salman Rushdie speak. They frightened me, these people with their sharp brains and their sharp tongues hidden behind plain, unremarkable, unadorned faces. Tonight, these buildings, the people they harboured, the talent they fostered, the pacts they made, the trysts they kept, the literary festivals they hosted, the privileged societies they belonged to, the visiting clever-dicks they entertained – tonight I felt they were capable of remarkable harm. I felt Oxford and its inhabitants turn on me, their contorted, sneering faces leering aggressively, like some nightmarish Hieronymus Bosch painting.

And yet, and yet… I ducked down a tree-lined side street, then another, pulled up outside a familiar little house with a peeling front door. Sat outside a moment. Not this one. Not this inhabitant. The one I'd always rather… not distanced myself from, but taken a careful step back from.

Mum was wearing a jogging suit when she came to the door. A lime-green fleecy affair with a pink stripe down the side and matching headband. The tangerine trainers clashed violently.

‘Oh! Hello, love.’ She was eating a Cadbury's Creme Egg and had some down her chin and her front. She sucked her finger. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Can't a girl pay an impulse visit on her mother without getting the third degree?’

I regretted it the moment I'd said it. Always the smart remark. Always the confrontation. I could see her back go up as I followed her down the hall. But then she hadn't exactly said, ‘Oh, darling, how lovely.’

‘Of course she can, but these days it's increasingly rare, that's why I asked.’ She stalked into the sitting room. I followed.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said meekly. ‘Sometimes my mouth says things my brain has absolutely no idea about. I didn't even mean it. How's things?’

I sat down heavily, glancing around at the familiar pale, minimalist room: cream walls, white Laura Ashley sofas and beige suede cushions: a far cry from the chintzy sofas and curtains at the farm, which, of course, was what she wanted. A dog-eared paperback was spread-eagled on the arm of the sofa. I picked it up.

‘Good book?’

‘Terrific. Mavis Brian's latest. You should read it, you'd love it.’

It occurred to me that I would. I glanced at the title. The Miller's Child. All clogs and shawls and foundlings and smouldering romance. Years ago I'd have sneaked it away, marking her place, and sat for hours in the window seat at the farm devouring it, reading one after the other that Mum passed on to me: sagas, historical romances, lapping them all up. But then, I maintained, my tastes had changed; become more literary. Not like Ant, of course, not Chekhov for pleasure – but certainly Jane Austen instead of Georgette Heyer. Persuasion, which I always started, but somehow never finished. It didn't matter of course because they all eventually appeared on the telly so I knew the endings. But it occurred to me I didn't read for pleasure any more. I read to better myself.

‘Where's Ant?’ Mum crossed the room to her drinks trolley in the corner.

‘Oh – at home. Working,’ I added quickly to avoid suspicion. ‘The house was a bit quiet so I felt like popping out.’ I sank my head back on the soft leather cushion.

‘Glass of wine?’ She picked up a corkscrew and began opening a bottle.

‘Actually, can I