Because my mama is so frightened of something bad happening to me that she’s stopped letting me live. She’s so afraid of someone taking advantage of me again that she doesn’t let anyone get close enough to even try.
But I’m more than my deafness, Cohen. And I’m not fragile. I won’t break if you touch me.
And I want you to touch me. Very much.
So, will you meet me tonight, at 8 p.m.?
Trafalgar Square, under Nelson’s Column.
Do you know who Nelson was? Do they teach our history in your schools, or only your own? I have so many questions for you. I’m going to start writing them down so that one day, when we can finally converse, I can ask them.
Because somehow, we’ll work this out between us, won’t we? We’ll find some way to understand one another? Or are these feelings all my own?
I’m looking forward to tonight, Cohen. You can’t know how much.
With fondest – though silent – regards,
River. xx
P.S. Oh, and this is something you should know. My favourite ice-cream flavour is Melon. Melon gelato, like they serve in Venice.
You might laugh at this, but I’ve never even tried it. Lucy and Billy went to Venice for their honeymoon, and Lucy told me all about it. She said that Italian melon gelato was like a little spoon of heaven. She said that it was sour and sweet and fruity and floral all at once. She said it was like kissing summer.
Mama doesn’t like me to travel, but one day I’m going to go to Venice and eat nothing but melon gelato.
I’m going to sit by the canal and visit the Bridge of Sighs. I’m going to watch the sun sink behind St. Mark’s.
I’m going to kiss summer.
I hope you’ll join me. xx
For a time, Cohen could hardly breathe.
Evening was rising, and the cold breeze was turning into one with real bite.
He pulled his coat closer around him and realised his knuckles were stark white against the cream colour of the paper River’s letter was written on.
His first impulse was to learn who this ‘Jake’ was, find him, torture him and then kill him, preferably slowly.
He’d then find River’s birth parents – the ones who dumped her when she lost her hearing – and make them suffer too.
But he took a deep breath, trying to let his earlier calm wash over him.He couldn’t change the past. Not his own and certainly not River’s. He had to let this go. Had to move forwards.
And so, he stood, binning his coffee cup and taking in one last look at the city skyline. He headed back down the hill towards the station, checking the time – the true time, the time by which the world was set – and calculated how long it would take him to get to Trafalgar Square.
An hour. An hour to go seven miles.
Not for the first time, Cohen bemoaned the British transport system.
But he had time. For River, he had all the time in the world.
He made his way from Greenwich to Bank, before walking to Monument station and jumping onto the tube. He remembered those early days in London; the confusion he felt while staring at a map of coloured lines, with stations prettily named things like Angel, Pudding Mill Lane, Swiss Cottage, or, his absolute favourite, Elephant and Castle (no freaking elephants or castles in sight though, and so one, that was a waste of a trip and two, what the heck, London?)
He remembered calling Fowler desperately one evening, completely lost, somewhat drunk, hoping his colleague’s knowledge of London would somehow help him out.
Fowler, with his usual snide tone, got to the point.
‘For God’s sake, Ford. Just take a black cab and expense it.’
