Читать книгу The Memory Collector: The emotional and uplifting new novel from the bestselling author of The Other Us - Фиона Харпер - Страница 19

CHAPTER TWELVE

HORSE CHESTNUT

The bark twists round, spiralling upwards, holding the tree in like a corset, then when it gets so high it can’t contain itself any more, it explodes into leaves, showering them out like a firework, only they never fall and reach the ground. Tall white flowers balance on the ends of the branches like fluffy candles, even though it’s the height of summer. When the breeze stirs the leaves, I can hear them whisper, ‘Just you wait until autumn. Just you wait until I drop my prickly fruit on the grass.’ For the intrepid hunter, prepared to part the flesh, there is a reward of hard, shiny treasure. I stare up into the branches, wishing the months away, because I know good things are on their way.

THEN

Heather is running around the garden because her mummy has told her she needs fresh air. But the air doesn’t feel very fresh today. It feels a bit hot and sticky and if Heather runs around too much it makes her head wet and then her hair sticks to her face. But the air is even hotter indoors, so she keeps running, trying to make her own breeze. Every now and then she gets tired so she flops down on the grass, and then when she feels better again she jumps up and carries on.