Lost Summer

‘That she felt after you were married it was almost as if you had changed deliberately. As if you spent more time working in order to shut her out.’

‘That isn’t true. Look, I’m the way I am because . . .’ Adam faltered.

‘Because of what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You were going to say something then.’

‘I was going to say what I do is a part of me. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Morris said. ‘Can you explain what you mean?’

Christ, he had walked right into that, Adam thought. He moved away from the window and eventually took the chair opposite Morris. He had a choice here. He could back off or he could try to answer Morris’s question. He’d never talked about any of it before, not to anyone. But a part of him recognized that he’d been leading up to this for some time. He knew he had to try and explain. Perhaps to himself as much as anyone, and Morris was the first person he’d ever come close to opening up to. He supposed it was because there was an element of the impersonal about a professional relationship. Or maybe it was because then Morris could try to explain it all to Louise. Something he couldn’t do himself. Or wouldn’t. The result was the same.

‘I just meant that isn’t our behaviour, the way we are, supposed to be determined by the things that happen when we’re young?’

‘Much of our personalities is shaped by our early influences, certainly. That and our genes.’

‘Nurture over nature?’

‘Broadly, though most people perceive that to mean that it’s our parents who have the greatest influence over us.’

‘You don’t agree?’ Adam asked, suddenly interested.

Morris shrugged. ‘Not directly. As children once we start school our peers become the dominant influencing factor. The attitudes and behaviour of our friends and how we relate to them shape us. More so than our parents.’

Well, he wouldn’t argue with that, Adam thought. There was a short silence.

‘You were going to say something before. Was it to do with your work? Why you chose your particular field?’

‘Yes. I suppose it was,’ Adam admitted.

Morris laced his fingers and assumed a practised expression that mixed mild interest and nonjudgemental detachment.

Adam remembered the day they had moved; the changing landscape outside the car window. The sky was overcast, a solid grey mass hanging heavy and leadenly ominous just above the level of the rooftops. Beyond the valley loomed the stark hills that marked the northern edge of the Pennines shrouded in cloud. It seemed about a million miles away from Hampstead.

His mother had smiled encouragingly from the front seat. ‘You’re going to love it here, Adam. All this beautiful countryside and fresh air.’

He’d wondered which one of them she was trying to convince. He noticed she and Kyle exchange glances.

Castleton turned out to be more of a large village than a town. The main road crossed a stone bridge over the River Gelt before winding past the square, around which were clustered a few shops, a church and a small branch of Barclays bank. The estate was a few miles further on and was approached through wrought-iron gates guarding a road flanked by twin columns of sweet chestnuts. At the end stood a massive sandstone manor. The estate manager’s house was out of sight, itself a substantial Edwardian building with a walled garden.

‘How old were you?’ Morris asked.

‘Thirteen. Kyle was my stepfather. My dad died when I was six. Kyle had worked for some international corporation managing Third World projects until he met my mother, and then he decided to settle down and announced he had this job managing an estate in Cumbria.’

‘I take it you weren’t thrilled with the move.’

‘You could say that. I had to leave everything I knew. Friends, school.’

‘How did you feel about that?’

Adam smiled wryly. ‘I didn’t think you people really said that.’ Morris smiled, but didn’t respond. ‘Lonely,’ Adam said eventually.

A week after they’d moved Adam rode his bike into Castleton along lanes bordered by hedges and stone walls, past fields full of docile cows. When he reached the town it was mid-morning and people were beginning to emerge from the church.

At the newsagent he picked up The Sunday Times for Kyle and the Observer for his mother. The girl behind the counter had pale blonde hair and was about his age.

‘You must be from the estate,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Adam,’ he answered, surprised. ‘How did you know I live on the estate?’

‘My friend’s dad works there. She said there was a new lad who talks posh.’

He wasn’t sure if he ought to be insulted. His cheeks burned. As he left, the old-fashioned bell above the door rang with a silvery note and glancing back he saw the girl watching him with an amused look.

‘Bye, Adam.’

He mumbled something in reply.

He came across the boys half a mile from the town. There were three of them sitting on a stone wall, their bikes lying down in the grass. As he drew nearer one of them walked out onto the road. He was tall and solidly built with thick brown hair. He stood with his hands on his hips and waited for Adam to come to a stop.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

‘I live on the estate.’

‘You have to pay to go on this road if you’re not from ’round here. Fifty pence.’

Adam remembered the thudding of his heart and how his mouth had become suddenly dry. Kyle had once told him that if you could it was better to talk your way out of trouble than to fight. ‘Actually, I suppose I am from around here now,’ he’d reasoned.

‘Actually, I am from around here old chap.’

One of the other boys parodied his accent. He was thin with pinched features and black hair that lay flat on his head. His jeans were filthy and had tears in both knees and the sole of one shoe flapped loose. He reminded Adam of the kids from the tower estate he used to pass on the way home from school who used to yell names and throw stones or even empty bottles.

The boy in the road seemed amused. ‘What school do you go to?’

‘It’s called Kings,’ Adam said. ‘But I haven’t started yet.’

‘Fucking grammar boy,’ the thin one sneered.

They had given him an ultimatum; pay or fight, otherwise he had to take the long way around.

‘What did you do?’ Morris asked.

Adam was surprised at how vivid his recall was. He could almost feel the sun on his back making him sweat, the smell of cut hay from the fields mingling with hot tarmac and he experienced again the stinging humiliation of being the victim of bullying. He was alone, an outsider.

He had known he would have to fight or never hear the end of it.