CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I forgot about my dad’s illness when I was in Prague, but guilt plagued me as soon as I got back to Leipzig. I wrote home asking how he was and received a reply from my mum, which said: much the same. Towards the end of term, I made the journey to the central post office again and phoned home. This time Shona, my sister, answered. She set out the situation for me with a bluntness my mum could never have mustered. My dad hadn’t just been unwell, she said, he’d had a heart attack.
“Mum didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to worry you.”
“A serious heart attack or a mild one?”
She didn’t dignify this with an answer. “Our dad is f*****g dying, and where the f**k are you, dickhead?”
“He’s not dying, Shona. He’s had a heart attack. People recover from heart attacks. Calm
