The light clicked and the room fell into black again. It was strange, because it felt more of a comfort now. More of a friend. I waited in the quietness for the music to return. For Al Bowlly. For a dancehall filled with who we used to be, circling a room, in shoes that pinched our toes but made us happy. Listening to music that wrapped itself around buried thoughts and made us feel less alone. A time we never wanted to leave.
I never did tell anyone my secret. It’s strange, because I told them everything else. I even told them about Ronnie in the end. I just couldn’t tell this. In those days, you couldn’t say a word, and then it became too late. Elsie had found her Albert, and I had to use up the remnants of other people’s lives to decorate my own. I didn’t mind so much, as long as we could be friends. As long as she didn’t leave me. It’s strange, isn’t it? How love paper-aeroplanes where it pleases. I have found that it settles in the most unlikely of places, and once it has, you are left with the burden of where it has landed for the rest of your life.
The music is very loud now. I can’t imagine where it’s coming from, although I think a part of me is beginning to realise. There was a point when I thought Simon had come back, when I thought I heard him knock at the door again, but the tap was too light, too gentle, and I knew it couldn’t have been him.
I know I won’t have to wait long.
I’m not sure I have enough time to remember it all again, from the beginning, because there’s so much to fit in.
I have never done anything remarkable. I’ve never climbed a mountain or won a medal, and I have never stood on a stage and been listened to, or crossed a finishing line before anyone else.
I have led a quite extraordinary life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I honestly believe that every person we meet alters us in some way. From the smallest encounter, to a life-long friendship, we are always changed by those who pass through our lives, even if they only walk with us for a short time.
With that in mind, it’s almost impossible to write acknowledgements. There are many people to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude. My amazing agent, Sue Armstrong, and all the team at C&W, especially Emma, Jake, Alexandra and Alexander. My fabulous editor Suzie Dooré, and an entire army of brilliant people at HarperCollins (especially Kate, Holly, Charlotte, Hannah, Tom and Fran). The truly wonderful and indispensable Ann Bissell, trusted keeper of my sanity and so much more than a publicist. I feel privileged to have the opportunity to work with you all.
Over the past few years of writing, I have been fortunate enough to meet very many generous people – fellow authors, booksellers, readers and reviewers. An enormous thank you to everyone who took the time to read my words, especially to Simon Savidge, Hannah Beckerman, Leilah Skelton, John Fish, Nina Pottell and Anne Cater. Your kindness will never be forgotten.
This story is also, in part, a love letter to Whitby. Accompanied by my parents (who deserve endless acknowledgement), I spent my childhood holidays climbing the Abbey steps, wandering around Woolworths, and terrifying myself on ghost walks (run by Harry, who – unlike Barry – told the very best stories). From Botham’s Tea Rooms to the arch of the whalebones, it will always be my very favourite place on earth.
As always, though, this book would never have been written without the patients. In Tamworth, Derby, Chesterfield and Burton, I was lucky enough to not only work with incredible teams of people, but also spend time with patients I will remember forever. My life was definitely changed by meeting you and my writing and thinking will always be guided by the short time we walked together.