Just a quick note, very belatedly, to say thanks SO much for that fab weekend! It was just what we needed after a hellishly stressful few months – a real tonic! Cambridge is every bit as beautiful as you described, and we can’t wait to come and stay again! On the way home, we asked the kids what was their favourite part of the weekend and they said, ‘All of it’ – which pretty much sums up how we all feel. That punting trip down the river was sublime: the beautiful college buildings, the sun . . . Oh, by the way, we think we might have solved the mystery of that punt we bashed into under the bridge: ‘Step to Heaven’. A mate of ours here was a student at Trinity College, and he says they have their own punts, and each one is named after something that’s one of three – there’s a song called ‘Three Steps to Heaven’, isn’t there? Gene Vincent, or was it Eddie Cochrane? Anyway, we’ve been trying to work out what the other Trinity punts must be called: Musketeer? Blind Mouse? Wise Man? Let us know if you see any of those on the Cam (or the Granta, for that matter!).
Your house is a stunner – we're so jealous! Does it feel like home yet, or do you still feel like you’re playing house? I remember you said that about the last place too, and felt as if someone might snatch it away from you when you weren’t looking! Relax, it’s yours! Meanwhile, I wish someone’d snatch our dilapidated hovel – and preferably sort the leaky roof out while they’re at it! Anyway, thanks again for making us feel so welcome!
Leigh, Jules, Hamish and Ava
PS. Jules insists that one of the Trinity punts must be called ‘Lion on a Shirt’, but I think that’s probably stretching it a bit!
Chapter 11
Monday 19 July 2010
I walk out into the heat, stop as the dizziness takes hold. I close my eyes and lean against the police station wall, propping myself up to make sure I don’t end up on the ground. A car horn beeps. I can’t tell how far away it is. It’s probably my taxi. I ought to look, but I know better than to risk it when my mind is breaking up into clumps of woolly grey. I won’t open my eyes until I’m certain the world will look normal again. The worst thing about these attacks is the visual distortion. If I keep my eyes open, it’s terrifying – like falling further and further back inside my head, being dragged by an internal current away from my eyes, which stay fixed where they are as I recede into the depths.
‘Connie!’ The car horn again. I recognise the voice, but can’t identify it. I’m still resting against the wall with my eyes closed when I feel a hand on my arm. ‘Connie, are you okay?’
My sister. Fran.
‘Just a bit light-headed,’ I manage to say. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. What are you doing here? How did you know . . . ?’
‘I rang Kit when your phone went straight to voicemail. He told me you’d need a lift home.’
Because I made him angry, and he left me stranded.
‘I’m not taking you home yet, though. Get in the car.’
Not taking me home? Where, then? I open my eyes. Fran’s Range Rover is parked half in and half out of the disabled space closest to the building. The driver and passenger doors are hanging open. It makes me think of a film I saw when I was little about a magic car that could fly; its doors were its wings.
Fran’s wearing the faded jeans and orange and white striped rugby shirt that I think of as her non-work uniform. Sometimes, when I’m at her house and see them drying on the clothes rack, I think about stealing them and throwing them away, though there’s nothing particularly wrong with them.
‘I’ve ordered a cab,’ I say. ‘I ought to wait.’
‘Forget the cab. I’ve called Diane in on her day off to cover for me because I need to talk to you – now. Like it or not, you’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘The tea rooms at Silsford Castle. We’re going to have a cup of tea and a chat.’ Fran sounds grimly determined. Nothing about her tone suggests that any of it will be fun.