Dramatic Adaptation for English Culture:
That summer day by the river…
Vicky’s family had always been close. When she was in Year 3, her little sister Sophie was born. Vicky loved being the older sister, her mum’s little helper. She’d push the pram proudly while her mother cooked Sunday roasts or tidied their terraced house in Manchester.
When Sophie was older, nursery places were scarce—overcrowded groups, underpaid staff. The manager offered a spot only if Vicky’s mum took a job there. She agreed, even though the pay was less than her old job at the supermarket.
Sophie had always been frail, prone to coughs and colds. At nursery, she stayed under their mother’s watchful eye. After school, Vicky often dropped by, sneaking leftover shepherd’s pie and custard—meals the other kids turned their noses up at.
Once full, she’d take Sophie home, watching her until Mum returned. She adored her sister—back before Sophie grew sharp-tongued and selfish.
Sophie was four when their father died. That summer had been relentless, three weeks of scorching heat. On weekends, families fled the city for picnics by the Thames or trips to the countryside.
Their parents packed sandwiches, crisps, and water, driving the girls out early. The riverbank was packed, barely room to breathe. Children splashed in the shallows while adults lounged under striped umbrellas. Sophie waded near the edge, and Vicky kept close, making sure no one bumped her.
When Dad dove in with a splash, Vicky thought he was just cooling off. But then she spotted two boys farther out—too far for teenagers. The river was wide, rough even for strong swimmers. One kept sinking, the other struggling to pull him up.
Then she understood. They were drowning.
No one else noticed. The laughter, the shrieks—all drowned out the truth. Dad reached them, hauled one boy up, and swam back, one arm straining while the other clutched the gasping teen. The second boy clung desperately, dragging him down.
“He’s going under!” Vicky screamed.
Two men finally looked, then charged into the water. Relief washed over her—until she realised Dad wasn’t surfacing.
“Dad!” she shrieked, clawing at her mother’s arm. “He’s gone!”
Mum scooped up Sophie, scanning the water. “There—I see him!” But Vicky shook her head, pointing frantically to the middle.
When they pulled him out, it was too late.
After the funeral, Mum moved like a ghost, barely speaking. Vicky took Sophie to nursery, then school, then back home, where Sophie whined, “I want Mum to fetch me!”
“Mum’s poorly,” Vicky would say.
“Then I want Dad!”
At home, Mum lay on the sofa, facing the wall.
She stopped eating. Terrified, Vicky knocked on Mrs. Wilkins’ door. After that, Mum slowly came back—cooking, cleaning, returning to work.
Money was tight at first. Dad’s railway pension helped, and Mum brought leftovers from nursery. Vicky suspected she wasn’t eating.
At eighteen, Vicky wanted to work, not uni. But Mum insisted: “Your dad wouldn’t want this.” So she enrolled part-time, picking whatever course had funding, and took a job at Boots.
Years ago, Dad bought land in the Lake District, dreaming of a big house, a garden. He’d only laid the foundation before— One of his mates offered to buy it. Mum sold it cheap, just to be rid of it.
Sophie grew demanding—designer trainers, the newest iPhone. “D’you think money grows on trees?” Vicky snapped once. “I worked summers delivering papers!”
Sophie threw tantrums, even ran off twice.
When Mum caved and bought her a faux-fur coat, Vicky lashed out: “She’s playing you!”
Mum just sighed. “She’s lost her dad. Who else will spoil her?”
Then Tom, their neighbour’s nephew, visited. Vicky fell hard—until he asked her to move to London. But how could she leave Mum with Sophie?
By winter, Sophie wanted a proper coat. “Get a job!” Vicky snapped.
Mum took out a loan instead.
That summer, Tom returned. Vicky, juggling shifts, barely saw him—until he left abruptly, citing a lads’ trip.
That night, Sophie vanished. A note on the table: *Gone to London. Don’t look for me.*
Vicky called Tom. He confessed—Sophie had flirted, begged to come. “Send her back!” she demanded.
Mum found her sobbing. “She took our savings.”
Sophie returned a year later—with a baby. “Her name’s Lily,” she said flatly, dropping a bag of nappies.
“You’re leaving her *here*?” Vicky choked.
“You’ll do better.”
The door slammed.
Mum wailed, “Why didn’t you stop her?”
Vicky just gripped Lily tighter. “She signed the papers. Lily’s ours now.”
Six years later, Sophie reappeared—gaunt, chain-smoking. Lily shrank from her.
“Why’d you come back?” Vicky hissed later.
“Just wanted to see her.”
She left before dawn.
Months after Mum’s death, a hospice called. Sophie was dying.
Vicky brought Lily. The woman in the bed barely resembled her sister.
“Mum?” Sophie whispered.
“Gone,” Vicky said softly.
Sophie’s tears spilled. “I remember the river… I thought—if I hadn’t been there, Dad—”
“Stop.” Vicky squeezed her hand. “You were four.”
“I remember.”
She died the next day. Buried alone—no space by their parents.
Now, when Lily refuses to visit the graves, saying, “I look too much like her. It’s creepy,” Vicky doesn’t argue.
Soon, Lily will leave too.
And Vicky will be alone.
Always back to that day by the river.
