Back Summer in the City Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Fiona Collins
  4. Dedication
  5. CHAPTER 1
  6. CHAPTER 2
  7. CHAPTER 3
  8. CHAPTER 4
  9. CHAPTER 5
  10. CHAPTER 6
  11. CHAPTER 7
  12. CHAPTER 8
  13. CHAPTER 9
  14. CHAPTER 10
  15. CHAPTER 11
  16. CHAPTER 12
  17. CHAPTER 13
  18. CHAPTER 14
  19. CHAPTER 15
  20. CHAPTER 16
  21. CHAPTER 17
  22. CHAPTER 18
  23. CHAPTER 19
  24. CHAPTER 20
  25. CHAPTER 21
  26. CHAPTER 22
  27. CHAPTER 23
  28. CHAPTER 24
  29. CHAPTER 25
  30. CHAPTER 26
  31. CHAPTER 27
  32. CHAPTER 28
  33. CHAPTER 29
  34. CHAPTER 30
  35. CHAPTER 31
  36. CHAPTER 32
  37. CHAPTER 33
  38. CHAPTER 34
  39. CHAPTER 35
  40. CHAPTER 36
  41. CHAPTER 37
  42. CHAPTER 38
  43. CHAPTER 39
  44. CHAPTER 40
  45. CHAPTER 41
  46. CHAPTER 42
  47. CHAPTER 43
  48. CHAPTER 44
  49. CHAPTER 45
  50. CHAPTER 46
  51. CHAPTER 47
  52. Three Months Later
  53. Acknowledgements
  54. 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.