One Perfect Summer

like a reward instead of a punishment, and soon I’m smiling for real.
    King’s College Chapel with its grand spires comes into view and I pause for a moment to admire the view. Mottled brown cows graze in the meadow in front of me and I can see punters gliding through the water beyond it, with King’s as a backdrop. They’re visible only from the chest up as they lift their poles and drop them down again. For the first time I’m genuinely struck by how breathtakingly beautiful it is here. Until now I’ve felt too deadened inside to appreciate it. I walk a little further before it occurs to me that I haven’t yet used my Student ID pass that allows me free access through the colleges, regardless of the fact that I don’t go to the university. On a whim, I turn into the black wrought-iron gates belonging to Clare College, stopping when I reach the bridge. I stand on the cobbled pathway and lean on the stone wall, small circular patches of yellow lichen rough underneath my arms.
    Lizzy hasn’t come to visit yet I haven’t encouraged her to, because I haven’t felt up for visitors, nor for visiting her in Edinburgh. Her mum is in remission, thankfully. I’m so relieved for my friend and her family. I can’t imagine what it has been like for all of them. I tried not to let Lizzy witness the extent of my pain after Dorset, but it wasn’t always possible. I still remember the look on her face when she saw me on one particularly inconsolable afternoon before we set off for university. She couldn’t understand it. It was as if I was a stranger to her. As with my parents, I have to pretend that I’m fine when I speak to her now. Christmas was hell, putting on an act when we were face to face, and I’m dreading going home for Easter. I can’t bear to witness Lizzy’s disappointment in me on top of everything else. But back to the present . . .
    The sunlight reflecting on the river is almost blinding and it hurts to look at King’s College Chapel now, which is there in front of me behind a perfectly manicured lawn. A cloud momentarily passes over the sun and the water ripples beneath a cool breeze. The gate to the manicured Fellows Gardens to my left is closed, although I can see striking red and yellow flowers decorating the banks.
    I turn to see a lone punter drawing nearer. He looks to be in his late teens or early twenties and is wearing a black T-shirt and black trousers. The only colour on him comes from his hair, which is jaw-length and dark red. He’s standing on a square wooden platform at the back of the punt, lifting his long pole clear of the water, before letting it slide between his hands until it hits the riverbed. He pushes down and away so the boat glides effortlessly through the water. I continue to watch as he punts towards the bridge that I’m standing on, oddly unable to tear my eyes away. And then he looks right at me. I try to avert my gaze, but I can’t. He grins and salutes me, and I find myself smiling and saluting him back. His boat starts to pass under the bridge, but he’s still looking up at me. I gasp with shock as his head hits the underside of the bridge, causing him to cry out in pain. I run to the other side.
    ‘Are you okay?’ I call out with horror.
    The punt appears from under the bridge and thankfully he’s still on it. He glances up at me and grins. I realise then that he was having me on.
    ‘You bastard!’ I shout to the sound of him laughing.
    I hear a young woman’s voice and curiously drag my eyes away to see a much larger punt full of tourists appear from behind me. She’s wearing navy-blue shorts and a waistcoat over a white shirt. I eavesdrop as she approaches.
    ‘Clare College was founded in 1326, making it the second-oldest surviving college in Cambridge,’ the tour guide says. ‘Clare Bridge is the oldest bridge in the city,’ she continues. ‘You’ll notice that one of the stone balls adorning it has a missing wedge.’
    A few of the tourists murmur their acknowledgement and I look around and find that the ball in question is right in front of me. It resembles Edam cheese with a slice cut out of it.
    ‘Nobody quite knows why,’ she says, ‘but one theory is that the original builder of the bridge was not paid the full amount, so he cut out the segment to balance the difference in payment.’
    The punter ducks her head and disappears under the bridge, appearing on the other side soon afterwards. I notice a novice in one of the smaller,