1-7（在线收听）

7.

Then everyone moved on.

The family went back to work, and I went back to school, same as I did after every summerholiday.

Back to normal, everyone said cheerily.

From the passenger seat of Pa’s open-topped Aston Martin everything certainly looked thesame. Ludgrove School, nestled in the emerald Berkshire countryside, looked as ever like acountry church. (Come to think of it, the school motto was from Ecclesiastes: Whatsoever thyhand findeth to do, do it with thy might.) Then again, not many country churches could boast twohundred acres of woodland and meadows, sports fields and tennis courts, science labs and chapels.

Plus a well-stocked library.

If you wanted to find me in September 1997, the library would’ve been the last place to look.

Better to check the woods. Or the sports fields. I was always trying to keep moving, keep busy.

I was also, most often, alone. I liked people, I was gregarious by nature, but just then I didn’twant anyone too close. I needed space.

That was a tall order, however, at Ludgrove, where more than one hundred boys lived inproximity. We ate together, bathed together, slept together, sometimes ten to a room. Everyoneknew everyone’s business, down to who was circumcised and who wasn’t. (We called itRoundheads versus Cavaliers.)

And yet I don’t believe one boy so much as mentioned my mother when that new term began.

Out of respect?

More likely fear.

I certainly said nothing to anyone.

Days after my return I had a birthday. September 15, 1997. I turned thirteen. By long-standingLudgrove tradition there would be a cake, sorbet, and I was allowed to choose two flavors. I choseblack currant.

And mango.

Mummy’s favorite.

Birthdays were always a huge deal at Ludgrove, because every boy, and most teachers, had aravenous sweet tooth. There was often a violent struggle for the seat next to the birthday boy:

that’s where you’d be assured of the first and biggest slice. I don’t remember who managed to winthe seat beside me.

Make a wish, Harry!

You want a wish? All right, I wish my mother was—Then, out of nowhere—

Aunt Sarah?

Holding a box. Open it, Harry.

I tore at the wrapping paper, the ribbon. I peered inside.

What…?

Mummy bought it for you. Shortly before…

You mean in Paris?

Yes. Paris.

It was an Xbox. I was pleased. I loved video games.

That’s the story, anyway. It’s appeared in many accounts of my life, as gospel, and I have noidea if it’s true. Pa said Mummy hurt her head, but perhaps I was the one with brain damage? As adefense mechanism, most likely, my memory was no longer recording things quite as it once did.