Chapters (54)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Fiona Collins
- Dedication
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- CHAPTER 41
- CHAPTER 42
- CHAPTER 43
- CHAPTER 44
- CHAPTER 45
- CHAPTER 46
- CHAPTER 47
- Three Months Later
- Acknowledgements
- THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
It might well do, I think. ‘Of course, Dad,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want.’ Why isn’t he grumpy today? Why isn’t he saying, ‘Let’s go home now’? Is it simply because he wants to try again, like he said?
He takes a big breath of non-stifling, fresh air. ‘This is quite nice,’ he adds. ‘Primrose Hill. Being amongst nature is nice.’
‘Do you want to hug a tree?’ I ask him.
‘No, I don’t want to hug a tree,’ he says. ‘Do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
I don’t even want to be here.
There’s a blast of music in front of us, as a woman in shorts and T-shirt – mid forties, recovering from the school run? – accidentally turns her radio up too high. She turns it back down and waves a quick apology to us, before flipping on to her back and putting her face in the full, scorching sun. A basking iguana.
We carry on sitting for a bit. I look at the woman with the radio. She has wrinkles she has probably enjoyed gaining. She looks ordinary for her age. How I’d love to look ordinary.
‘Are you too hot?’ asks Dad.
‘No, you?’
‘No.’ He unscrews the nozzle of silver paper he’s twisted the Fruit Polos wrapper into and offers me one, which I take.
‘People,’ he says. ‘People always say the same things to me.’
‘Like what, Dad?’
‘Like, “Bless you.” Like, “How long have you been like that?” “How many fingers am I holding up?” And they’re waggling their hand in front of my face – well, I presume that’s what they’re doing … That sort of stuff.’
‘People are bloody idiots.’
‘Or they talk too loudly, as though I’m deaf as well, or they say stupid things like, “You’re my hero.” Did people stare at us in Camden?’
‘All the time, Dad.’
‘Did you mind?’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘You can’t control other people,’ says Dad. ‘The only thing you have control over is yourself. How you react. How you deal with life.’
We haven’t dealt with it very well, I think. I’ve never felt like I have any control. We have lived a life half lived. I don’t know what to say in response to Dad’s comment. All this time I’ve wanted to talk to Dad – about real things – and now I don’t know what to say.