Summer in the City

by Fiona Collins

  ‘The same as ever?’ asks Dad as we walk down the street.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  I try to remember the detail he liked when I described the dragonfly. I try to be inventive, creative for him.

  ‘There’s a mass of people,’ I say, ‘hundreds of them, all ages. There’s a lot of backpacks, shorts, vest tops, sandals. Some sunburnt shoulders. There’s a man on rainbow roller-blades coming towards us. He’s wearing a ginger wig and a huge pair of comedy headphones.’ Surprisingly, the man high-fives me as he sails past; I actually slap my hand with his, then wipe it down my dress. ‘There’s a couple kissing outside a shop – why’s everybody kissing all the time?’ I move on – I don’t want Dad banging on about love and romance again. ‘A homeless woman asleep in a sunny doorway, inside a brown sleeping bag.’ Poor lady, I think. I wonder what her story is. ‘Just to our right is a man painted silver wearing a bowler hat and carrying a briefcase. He looks like he’s running, late to work or something – one arm in front, one arm behind, one leg forward. He’s really good. People are trying to make him laugh but he’s not budging.’

  ‘Remind me what a briefcase looks like,’ says Dad.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s rectangular. It has a handle on the top and a fold-over flap with a gold clasp on it.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Dad, his face creasing in concentration. ‘Thank you. You’re beginning to really see things, Prue.’

  ‘Am I?’ I answer.

  ‘Yes. Open your eyes, cucciolo. Open your eyes and see what’s out there.’

  ‘Is this about men again?’ I ask wearily. I won’t think about Kemp, I just won’t; I’ve done enough of that over the past few days. The new, weather-beaten, bearded Kemp; battered and chiselled by all the sun and wind and rain that has fallen on him since I last saw his amazing face. I have pushed him from me. I have shoved him inside that hollowness in my soul and plonked a paper bag over his head. And Dad has called me cucciolo – it means pup, or cub, or baby animal in Italian. A term of endearment. I may sound weary, but actually I am delighted.

  ‘Possibly,’ says Dad.

  I nudge into him a little, kiss my shoulder against his. ‘I’ll try,’ I say, just to humour him.

  ‘Good.’

  Ahead of us is the covered market, now a series of small shops. We came here quite a lot as kids. Before and after Dad went blind. The guide dogs always created quite a flurry. At the market we turn right and head for the grey stone square in front of St Paul’s Church. People are lounging on the shallow steps, standing in clusters, shielding their eyes from the sun, guzzling from bottles of water, laughing and enjoying the afternoon. Crossing the square. Are we in a lull between street performers? There’s always something going on here.

  ‘We’re at the square now, in front of St Paul’s Church, Dad,’ I say. ‘It’s very busy.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel quite so hot,’ says Dad.

  ‘The sun’s gone behind a cloud.’

  ‘I can’t hear anyone performing.’

  ‘No, it must be between shows.’ We stop. I scour the square. ‘OK, I can see a spot for us.’

  We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves; we want to blend in, if that’s ever possible. We head towards the fat ribbed columns of St Paul’s Church. We sit on the steps behind the ‘stage’ of the stone slabs; Dad stretches out his legs, places his cane parallel to them, I tuck mine underneath me, wrap the material of my dress around them. Adjust my sunglasses. A woman with loads of shopping bags plonks herself down next to Dad and gives him a warm smile he cannot see.

  The sun pokes its head out from behind the cloud. A distant police siren wails. From his vantage point on the balustraded balcony of the Punch and Judy pub opposite, an early drinker holds a pint of beer aloft and gives a random whoop. I scan the crowd. A few people start chatting, gathering their things, making to move off … then there is a shout.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, I got this!’

  Heads turn. To our left, at the far end of the church front, there’s a man atop a unicycle, clinging to one of the stone pillars. His legs are paddling wildly; he’s clutching the pillar in hilarious fashion. Children in the audience start to point and laugh.

  ‘Don’t take photos now, for goodness’ sake!’ he tells a woman with her phone in the air, which elicits a laugh that ripples round the crowd. The sun is fully back out and the audience is up for fun.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asks Dad.

  ‘A man on a unicycle clutching on to a pillar pretending he’s terrified,’ the woman next to Dad tells him.

  ‘Ah.’ He smiles and nods. He really does like to feel the sun on him, I think. He is positively basking.

  The performer is lurching, pretending to almost fall. He is grinning his head off and lapping up all the laughter. ‘OK, OK, I can do this!’ With a shriek he lets go of the pillar and launches off into a wide circuit of the performance space, holding one arm outstretched like a preposterous Shakespearean actor, before collapsing back on to the pillar with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He recovers himself, eagle-eyeing the crowd as he does so.

  ‘It’s OK, madam, I think you’ve mastered the selfie stick!’ he calls across to a woman pouting at herself in a magenta kaftan, who sheepishly puts her stick down.

  ‘I think I’ll do it again,’ he says, setting off on another circuit. ‘It’s good to re-cycle.’ There’s a groan and a laugh, a few claps. He goes one way, then he goes backwards, his feet spinning on the pedals. He skims close to us – very close – before he returns to the pillar again. For just a second he makes eye contact with me and I blush. He looks exactly like his photo.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Hanging off the pillar and pretending to be in trouble,’ I say. There is more laughter, high-pitched giggling from children.

  ‘What does he look like?’

  Hmm, what does this man, Salvi Russo – for I know it is the man I saw on poor Philippa Helens’ Facebook friends list – look like in the flesh? ‘Er … he’s not that tall, he’s a little stocky, he has a slight bald patch at the back of his head, big expressive eyes.’

  ‘Big expressive eyes …?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say distractedly. I’m staring at them right now. There’s a proper glint in them. ‘He looks cheeky,’ I conclude. Salvi is wearing black trousers, a clean white shirt and a waistcoat striped in purple and gold. He wears shoes that look like bowling shoes. I can see there’s already quite a lot of money in his collection hat, lots of notes, overlapping the edges. People can’t take their eyes off him and neither can I, which is quite surprising.

  He comes away from the pillar now, forwards and backwards, pedalling like he is treading water. The sun has gone in again, behind a large cloud overlaid with grey.

  ‘I need someone to come and help,’ he calls out. ‘Who would like to come and help me?’

  About twenty-five hands shoot up. There is laughter amongst the crowd as most of the hands belong to women. He swivels round on his unicycle.

  ‘You. There. The lady with the fringe and the long dress.’

  Among all these people, he’s looking straight at me. I freeze. I look behind me, desperately seeking another fringe but there isn’t one. Oh God, I’m the lady with the fringe and the long dress.

  ‘Yes, you.’ Salvi is smiling above his waistcoat. He has a hand tucked in its front pocket, like Napoleon. One of his cheeky eyes gives me a wink.

  I hesitantly point a reluctant finger at myself like a small child. Why me, for bloody hell’s sake? There are hundreds of people here!

  ‘Yes, you, with the terrified expression. Would you like to come up?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘Come on.’ It’s not a request but a command.

  Dad looks amused and says, ‘Go on then, Prue,’ and, like I’m hypnotized – because I really don’t want to do this – I stand up, cross the ancient paving stones and turn to face Salvi Russo, the street performer. The sun has disappeared compl
etely now – the sky a smattered grey and white lid above me. There’s a breeze playing with the hem of my skirt. I wish my fringe was four inches longer.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Salvi is twinkling all over the place. His smile lights up his face, like it did in his profile photo. I do declare he is charisma on a unicycle.

  ‘Chalk Farm.’

  He grins. ‘Ah, you have travelled far, my friend … Who are you here with?’

  ‘My dad,’ I say. God, I sound about twelve.

  ‘The blind guy!’ shouts out Dad, waving his cane in the air, and I am both astonished and mortified. What is he doing? Why is he bringing attention to himself like this? People are laughing and smiling at him. The woman with the shopping bags is in raptures.

  ‘Nice to see you, sir!’ calls back Salvi.

  ‘Can’t say the same!’ Dad shouts back. Seriously, has a bit of sun turned the man into a deranged wise-cracker?

  Salvi grins. ‘Come a bit closer,’ he says to me. Reluctantly I take four steps forward. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Prue,’ I say. ‘Prudence.’

  ‘Well, you’re far too sensible for this, then,’ he says. Only a few people laugh. Only a few know what ‘prudence’ means, I bet, and even fewer would remember the ‘Dear Prudence’ of The Beatles, the song my not-so-dear-departed mother named me after. ‘Prue. Nice name,’ he considers. ‘OK, Prue, I need your help. I want you to throw those three clubs up to me in turn.’ In front of me, in the centre of the circle of people, are three juggler’s clubs: orange and white in wide stripes.

  ‘Club number one, please. Throw it to me.’

  I walk towards the nearest club and go to pick it up.

  ‘No, club number one, I said. That’s club number three.’ The crowd laughs: of course, they are all identical.

  I pick up the club and throw it, badly. He catches it. There’s a whoop from the crowd.

  ‘Club number two, please.’

  I pick one up. ‘This one?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  It’s his turn to laugh. ‘Yes, Prue.’

  The way he says my name makes me feel something quite unsuitable for my forty-eight years. I throw the club; he catches it and juggles the pair of them, in front of him, to a twirling rhythm. The crowd start to clap in time.

  ‘Club number three.’

  I throw the final club to him. The sky is graphite now, above us. I feel a little chilly in my dress. Salvi juggles all three clubs while treading water on the unicycle; pedals spinning, that one wheel going backwards and forwards. I wonder again how this man knows Philippa. Then I wonder how long I should stand here for. Should I go back and sit down? I look over to Dad and he is talking to the woman with the shopping bags. I start walking slowly to the edge of the performance area so I can make my way back to him without too much of a fanfare.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  I halt, contrite, and glance at Salvi, who has stopped juggling and holds all three clubs in one hand. He is pinning me to the spot with narrowed eyes, eyebrows raised. He is shaking his head in mock condemnation. I bite my lip and know I probably look sheepish and stupid. A caught-out schoolgirl. Then his face breaks into a grin and he winks at me.

  ‘Naughty,’ he says and this cheeky reproach – so unexpected, so inappropriate, so saucy, even – plus the grin and the way he is looking at me, sparks something inside my body and my soul I’m not even sure I could quantify without sounding all unnecessary. I sense, I see, rather, here under grey London skies, amongst this crowd, an edge to this man – razor sharp and coal black, glittering almost – that pierces through my skin at this moment, like a slice of life that could be fully and exultingly lived.

  ‘Watch,’ he commands, and I am rendered as frozen as one of those metallic human statues, staring, spellbound, while Salvi finishes juggling the clubs, with a flourish, and turns to me again.

  ‘Now you can be excused,’ he says, and – there – the spell is broken. Did he really just call me ‘naughty’? ‘Thank you, Prue. Take a bow.’

  I give a sarcastic little curtsy. I scoot back to Dad, who is clapping enthusiastically. ‘Excruciating,’ I say as I sit down, trying to hide under my fringe.

  ‘It was fun,’ he replies.

  ‘You don’t like fun.’

  ‘Maybe I do,’ he counters. ‘Maybe I remember how it goes.’

  After a few seconds, I dare to peep out from under my fringe again. ‘Oh God, Dad,’ I say, ‘he’s getting the fire sticks out!’

  Salvi has a lighter in his hand and is up on the unicycle, lighting the third of three charcoal-grey fire sticks, two of which he holds in his mouth by the unlit ends. Their flames, caught in a heightening breeze, lick up towards his face, which he angles away. When they are all aflame, he takes each out of his mouth in turn and begins to juggle them, to another slow hand clap from the audience that gets louder and louder and quicker and quicker as the skies darken and darken. There’s another loud police siren – it segues into a distant rumbling of thunder. Faster, faster, louder, louder. The orange flames leap and tumble; the sticks fly. Dad is joining in with the clapping and so am I. The rhythm of it is infectious. There’s a louder, rather ominous clap of thunder and the crowd ‘oohs’ in mock horror, like we’re at a firework display.

  And then comes the rain. A sudden sheet of it, from nowhere; there were no fat warning-drops darkening stone slabs or plopping on bare forearms. It sweeps over the heads and the hats and the caps of the spectators and the tourists. Salvi jumps down from the unicycle. People clamber up with their backpacks and their carrier bags and their bottles of water and dash for shelter. We clamber up, too, and Dad grabs for the back of my left arm, at the elbow. We head for the covered market along with a hundred other people. We are swept along in a colourful sea of squeals and horrified laughter. A man presses against me. I feel Dad’s hand release from my arm. I am pushed sideways, by a different man. He is wearing an orange T-shirt and has an American accent. He is yelling at some woman about ‘fish and chips’. Where is Dad? I feel I’m about six people away from him now, maybe more – is he counting how many steps he has been pulled away from me?

  I try to turn against the tide but the tide is strong; people weren’t expecting to get rained on today, they are not dressed for it and they want shelter. Where is Dad? I can’t see him. All I can see is bags and shoulders and arms and shorts and jeans and hair and people’s backs. I trip on something, oh shit, how ridiculous – I’m falling! I hold out my arms to break my fall, see a flash of someone’s ankles in bright red socks and then there is blackness.

  CHAPTER 14

  There’s something on my eyes, something on my face. I’m sure my eyes are open but I can’t see anything. I blink. A synthetic material brushes against my eyelids, it is cool and scratchy. I’m flat on my back, I realize. Laid out like a kipper. I wriggle my toes and my fingers; everything seems to be intact, although I appear to be half-submerged in a puddle.

  ‘Pardon,’ says a voice – French, if my C-grade O level serves me correctly – and something navy blue and plasticky is lifted from my face. I see a Hello Kitty fluffy toy swinging from a key chain, as a backpack goes floating up in the sullen air and on to someone’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see to her. Grazie.’

  A face appears in front of mine. Huge, amused eyes the colour of fir trees, wrinkled at the corners. Long eyelashes. A handsome mouth curled into a smile. A nose that looks like it may have been broken, once upon a time. If I flick my eyes down (and I don’t want to), I know I will see a flash of purple and gold.

  ‘Hi. You OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sit up. I’m a few feet from the shelter of the covered market. I scan the crowds of people, all huddled under the archway. ‘Where’s my father?’ I immediately ask.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s over by the Moomin Shop being chatted up by a couple of pensioners.’

  I follow the line of Salvi’s pointed
finger and yes, there is Dad, indeed surrounded by women – more than a couple, actually – who are talking animatedly into his face and clutching on to his arms. I wonder if they followed the golden rule of Approach, Introduce, Offer, like you’re supposed to with blind people. Perhaps they offered to talk his ears off … Dad has his head thrown back and he is laughing, a sight I haven’t seen for a long, long time. I’m so surprised to see it.

  ‘We got separated. He’s blind; we can’t get separated,’ I say.

  ‘Here, let me help you up.’ Salvi holds out his hand to me, closes it tightly around mine and pulls me up. The touch of his hand is confident, assured; so confident it borders on audacity.

  ‘I’m Salvi,’ he says. ‘Salvi Russo.’

  I know. ‘I’m Prue,’ I reply, although he already knows this.

  He doesn’t let go. He keeps his hand tightly around mine as he begins to guide me over to the Moomin Shop, and Dad. The rain has stopped as abruptly as it began. The sun is beginning to make itself known again, shy after its defection.

  We’re walking through all the people. We’re getting some looks. Does it look weird that the Covent Garden street performer is pulling the show pony he drew from the crowds through the crowds? Will they think I’ve pulled? They must think I’m very lucky if I have. Close up, Salvi is still not handsome, but he has something: something magnetic, sexy; something that makes you want to never take your eyes off him. I try not to glance at him as often as I am.

  ‘Your dad is not that old,’ Salvi says, as we approach the Moomin Shop. He is smiling at me, his eyes casting themselves over my face and my body.

  ‘He had me young,’ I reply. ‘At sixteen.’ I wonder if Salvi is now calculating my age or whether it is announced on my face like a calling card. I also wonder about my birthmark. It has been rained on and had a Hello Kitty backpack scraped across it – is it still covered?

  ‘Oh, right. Sixteen …’ He nods and throws me another smile. ‘And you’re very pretty.’