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Authors: Hilary Freeman
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corridor.
What did she say? No reputable surgeon would touch my nose? She must be wrong. I’m just going to have to try to find one for myself.
set out to meet Rosie and Vix on the corner of our street at three, just as we’ve arranged. As I walk
down Paradise Avenue, I feel distracted. Although I’ve had time to calm down since the doctor’s appointment, my head is chock full of finding Dad and getting my nose fixed and worrying
about the way things are with Rich. My brains are in such a mush that I’m not sure which of my worries is the most important, or even if they’re each just one part of the same big
problem: my mess of a life.
My friends are both there, waiting for me, when I arrive, and it cheers me to see them. We kiss each other and, as we walk, catch up on the morning’s gossip. We’ve already texted and
messaged each other, so there isn’t much news to report. They’ve told me what they think of Rich following our disastrous anniversary dinner, and I’m sure they’ll bring it
up again over coffee, later. I haven’t told them about my visit to the doctor yet. First things first . . .
Dot’s Music Shop is tucked away behind Kentish Town Road and Camden Road, on a corner facing a little grass-covered traffic island with an old, red telephone box. I’ve walked past it
many times, but I’ve never been inside. You can hardly see through the windows for all the posters and pictures pasted up on them, and the guitars that hang enticingly behind, just out of
reach. Even the steps are painted black and white, like piano keys.
‘Do you know what?’ says Rosie, pausing at the bottom of the steps. ‘I think I might have been here before, when I was a kid. I think my mum brought me here to buy a
recorder.’
Vix giggles. ‘You can buy another one now if you like.’
I’m too stressed to chat about recorders. ‘Here goes,’ I say to my friends. I take a deep breath and lean against the front door. It opens with a pleasing, old-fashioned
tinkle.
‘Hello, girls, what can I do for you?’ asks a kind-looking woman, with rosy cheeks and greying hair, who must be Dot.
Hesitantly, I walk up to the counter, with Rosie and Vix on either side of me. ‘Um, we, er, don’t need to buy anything. Sorry. We just wanted some help.’ I’m flustered
and not quite sure where to start. Asking someone to help you find your long lost dad isn’t quite the same as asking if they’ve seen your missing cat.
Rosie steps forward. ‘She wants to find her dad. She wonders if you can help.’
‘Her dad ?’
‘Yes, he’s a musician,’ explains Vix. ‘He used to live in Camden and play gigs here too. She hasn’t seen him for years.’
‘Right,’ says Dot. She looks intrigued. I guess this isn’t the type of request she gets every day. She smiles at me. ‘And how can I help?’
‘We thought you might know him,’ says Rosie. She clears her throat, which is what she always does when she’s about to name-drop someone famous. ‘My friend Rufus Justice
from Fieldstar – he lives next door – told me know you all the musicians in Camden.’
Dot laughs. ‘Ah, Rufus, yes. He comes in sometimes. But I don’t know about all of them.’ She makes eye contact with me. ‘So what’s your dad’s name?
Sorry, what’s your name? I’m Dot.’
‘Hi Dot. I’m Sky, and this is Vix and Rosie,’ I say, nodding towards my friends. ‘My dad is called Connor Carter. He lived in Camden until about six years ago. I think he
might have been in a band called The Four Horsemen. I don’t know much else. He was Irish. Oh, and he played loads of different instruments, so maybe he came in for strings or music, or
something.’
Dot furrows her brow, concentrating hard. I think she’s trying to work out if she remembers Connor Carter, or The Four Horsemen. ‘It doesn’t ring a bell,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed. Then I remember the photograph I have folded up in my
What did she say? No reputable surgeon would touch my nose? She must be wrong. I’m just going to have to try to find one for myself.
set out to meet Rosie and Vix on the corner of our street at three, just as we’ve arranged. As I walk
down Paradise Avenue, I feel distracted. Although I’ve had time to calm down since the doctor’s appointment, my head is chock full of finding Dad and getting my nose fixed and worrying
about the way things are with Rich. My brains are in such a mush that I’m not sure which of my worries is the most important, or even if they’re each just one part of the same big
problem: my mess of a life.
My friends are both there, waiting for me, when I arrive, and it cheers me to see them. We kiss each other and, as we walk, catch up on the morning’s gossip. We’ve already texted and
messaged each other, so there isn’t much news to report. They’ve told me what they think of Rich following our disastrous anniversary dinner, and I’m sure they’ll bring it
up again over coffee, later. I haven’t told them about my visit to the doctor yet. First things first . . .
Dot’s Music Shop is tucked away behind Kentish Town Road and Camden Road, on a corner facing a little grass-covered traffic island with an old, red telephone box. I’ve walked past it
many times, but I’ve never been inside. You can hardly see through the windows for all the posters and pictures pasted up on them, and the guitars that hang enticingly behind, just out of
reach. Even the steps are painted black and white, like piano keys.
‘Do you know what?’ says Rosie, pausing at the bottom of the steps. ‘I think I might have been here before, when I was a kid. I think my mum brought me here to buy a
recorder.’
Vix giggles. ‘You can buy another one now if you like.’
I’m too stressed to chat about recorders. ‘Here goes,’ I say to my friends. I take a deep breath and lean against the front door. It opens with a pleasing, old-fashioned
tinkle.
‘Hello, girls, what can I do for you?’ asks a kind-looking woman, with rosy cheeks and greying hair, who must be Dot.
Hesitantly, I walk up to the counter, with Rosie and Vix on either side of me. ‘Um, we, er, don’t need to buy anything. Sorry. We just wanted some help.’ I’m flustered
and not quite sure where to start. Asking someone to help you find your long lost dad isn’t quite the same as asking if they’ve seen your missing cat.
Rosie steps forward. ‘She wants to find her dad. She wonders if you can help.’
‘Her dad ?’
‘Yes, he’s a musician,’ explains Vix. ‘He used to live in Camden and play gigs here too. She hasn’t seen him for years.’
‘Right,’ says Dot. She looks intrigued. I guess this isn’t the type of request she gets every day. She smiles at me. ‘And how can I help?’
‘We thought you might know him,’ says Rosie. She clears her throat, which is what she always does when she’s about to name-drop someone famous. ‘My friend Rufus Justice
from Fieldstar – he lives next door – told me know you all the musicians in Camden.’
Dot laughs. ‘Ah, Rufus, yes. He comes in sometimes. But I don’t know about all of them.’ She makes eye contact with me. ‘So what’s your dad’s name?
Sorry, what’s your name? I’m Dot.’
‘Hi Dot. I’m Sky, and this is Vix and Rosie,’ I say, nodding towards my friends. ‘My dad is called Connor Carter. He lived in Camden until about six years ago. I think he
might have been in a band called The Four Horsemen. I don’t know much else. He was Irish. Oh, and he played loads of different instruments, so maybe he came in for strings or music, or
something.’
Dot furrows her brow, concentrating hard. I think she’s trying to work out if she remembers Connor Carter, or The Four Horsemen. ‘It doesn’t ring a bell,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed. Then I remember the photograph I have folded up in my
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