The Things We Do to Our Friends by Heather Darwent EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author Name: Heather Darwent
- Book Genre: Fiction
- ISBN #
- Edition Language: English
- Date of Publication: January 10, 2023
- File Format : PDF / EPUB
- PDF / EPUB Size: 2 MB
EDINBURGH
I’ve decided to look back and make some kind of sense of it all, and the
initial idea of starting to put the pieces together in one place was because
Tabitha’s mother asked me to write it all down so she had something of
Tabitha’s—a tangible record of her life for the extended family—but I
couldn’t quite bring myself to cobble together a fictional account where we
were normal students who did normal things, so I ended up giving her a
vague excuse, and she didn’t ask again. But the idea wouldn’t die down
once she’d brought it up, and I thought, why not? Why shouldn’t I go back
over what happened for my own purposes?
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Then the question was, where does the tale begin, and although there
are other places that may seem more logical, September 2005 feels right.
My arrival.
How very dramatic that sounds! But it felt dramatic at the time.
September is a month that has a special anticipation associated with it.
As the leaves turn and the nights darken. The first time you open a book,
cracking the spine and smoothing down the pages so they can’t spring back
up.
It’s a month that means fresh beginnings, and that only happens a few
times in life, when the slate is wiped clean and the story is ready for you to
begin and tell it how you wish. The first day of a job when you’re cautious
and rule-abiding, or with a new partner when you share appealing parts of
yourself to test the reaction. At university, it is even more of an opportunity.
Nobody knows who you are; there are no expectations or preconceptions.
How you answer each question and how you position yourself is entirely up
to you. But it needs to begin somewhere, and for me it was Edinburgh, at
Waverley Station.
I was ready to move, so desperate to leave Hull for good, but it was hard
not to feel a little discouraged when I stepped off the train and strode out
into the city. I was expecting post-summer blustery days with the warmth
still in the air, but the weather was particularly bad that year. I thought of
my granny and what she’d say in that scornful tone: “It’s just a few hours
away, Clare. I don’t know why you expected it to be so different.”
How gray the Old Town was. It was magnificent, but there was an
underlying sense of squalor below it all. Steps led to alleys, weaving with
possibility, where you could just as easily find a grand square as you could
a dead end and a seagull gnawing on scraps of cold chips. I remember the
magnitude of scale when I walked along to Queen Street and stared down to
the New Town. The views went all the way to the Firth of Forth, a glimpse
of water, but the winds were quick and soon a dampish fog obscured it all,
like a bundle of laundry pulled dripping from the washing machine, then
pinned up. I ignored the weather. I was determined to stay optimistic about
the whole thing.
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