Coming of Age

by Valerie Mendes

  Amy grins. “The largest chocolate ice cream in the world and sod the calories.”

  “With a figure like yours, who needs to count?” Ruth vanishes inside the newsagent’s. The violin she’s propped in her bike basket makes the bike topple over. Amy laughs. It’s typical of Ruth that even her bike has a life of its own.

  She looks along the quiet village street, the familiar shops, the people – she recognises most of them – going about their business. Nothing ever changes here. Everything’s neat and tidy, in its proper place. Just the way I like it.

  She checks the coiled bun of hair at the nape of her neck. Smooth and correct. Then her bike basket. All those biology books can go back on the shelf above her desk, along with her immaculate files.

  Tonight she’ll cook a special supper for Dad: one of her chicken casseroles, with a summer pudding to follow. She has all the ingredients in her sparkling kitchen. She plans their meals every Saturday and shops at the Liphook supermarket with Dad in the afternoon.

  This evening, they’ll eat in the dining room, candles shining on the mahogany table, their serviettes in lovely silver rings. They’ll walk Tyler on the Common, talk about her work for the next few months.

  It’s six years since Mum died. It feels longer: as if she and Dad have always lived alone together, happiest in each other’s company, though delighted when Julian’s home. And when Aunt Charlotte comes to stay: at Christmas and Easter, and often at weekends. Just to keep in touch, look after Amy. Make sure that Dad’s OK.

  Amy, almost sixteen now, is going to be a doctor. Julian’s reading History of Art at Cambridge. He’s always turned up his nose at medicine. “I’m much too squeamish,” he’d say, shuddering at the thought of “all those bodies . . . You can be the worthy one, sis! Give me a painting any day. Bodies in paintings don’t cough and bleed!”

  But Amy’s longing to follow in Dad’s footsteps. And one day, if she decides to be a GP, maybe she’ll join his practice. He’ll hand over his files. “Remember Mrs Meadows? Her son has a strange new virus . . .” Oh, yes. Her inheritance. That’s what Dad’s life has been about. Caring for the village folk until it’s her turn to take over . . .

  Ruth emerges from the newsagent’s holding two huge ice creams. She hands the chocolate one to Amy, buries her face in a livid pink concoction.

  Amy laughs. “You’ve got strawberry bits all over your nose.”

  “So? Part of the fun.” Ruth picks up her bike with her free hand and glances at Amy. “Coming to the club in Guildford tonight? Me and Eddie are going. Pete said he’d be there.”

  Amy savours the coolness of the ice. “Pete who?”

  “Oh, come on, Amy! Pete Franklin. You met him on Saturday, lives in Haslemere. Says he fancies you.”

  Amy blushes, furious with herself. “Sorry. I’m cooking for Dad.”

  “You can do that any night.”

  “No, I can’t.” Amy bites off a neat piece of cone. “He’s usually on call. Said he’d take a night off, to celebrate the last of my exams. I’m defrosting the chicken.”

  Ruth swallows a dollop of ice cream. “Do you know what, Amy Grant? You’re becoming more than a little dull!”

  “Too bad!”

  “It is too bad . . . Me and Eddie have been together for ages. You’ve never even had a boyfriend.”

  “What’s the rush?” Amy says vaguely.

  Ruth turns away to chat to one of her neighbours. Amy is about to join in when something catches her eye.

  Somebody familiar – very familiar – has come out of the Indian restaurant at the end of the street.

  Dad.

  But he’s not alone.

  A tall woman with smooth dark hair cut into a short bob has come out with him. She’s wearing a cream-coloured suit with a long jacket and a knee-length skirt. She’s tying a scarf round her neck, talking to Dad. More than talking – they’re laughing, standing close together, he’s looking into her eyes.

  They turn and start to cross the road. Dad flings an arm in front of her, pulls her back from an oncoming Land Rover. It looks as if they’re going to the surgery . . .

  “Amy?”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t listened to a word. What are you staring at?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  Amy swallows the last of her cone. It tastes bitter. She glances at Ruth. “I thought I saw my dad with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman. I’ve never seen her before. They came out of the Manzil, walked off down the road arm in arm.”

  “What’s so extraordinary about that?”

  Amy says quietly, “Dad didn’t tell me he was taking anyone to lunch.”

  Ruth stares at her. “For goodness’sake, Amy. Does he have to tell you everything?”

  “No, he doesn’t have to . . . He just does.”

  “That’s daft.” Ruth takes another swipe at her unruly hair. “He’s got a life of his own, hasn’t he? Maybe she’s one of his patients.”

  “She didn’t look ill. I didn’t recognise her. I’m sure she’s not from round here.”

  Ruth pushes her bike into the road and straddles it. “There’s only one way to find out. You’ll have to ask him at that supper of yours tonight.”

  Amy stirs the rich casserole, sniffing at the pungent, honest tang of garlic which cuts like a knife through the steamy air.

  “That smells wonderful!” Dad puts his head round the door. “Can I help?”

  “It’s all done.” Amy reaches to kiss his cheek. It feels rough with a day’s growth of beard. “Good day?”

  “Very good.” Dad smiles. His dark eyes beneath their heavy brows look brighter than usual. “Twenty out of ten.”

  A pang of alarm shoots through Amy’s heart. “I had a good day too.”

  “Of course!” Dad spins round from the sink. “How was biology?”

  “I could answer all the questions standing on my head.”

  “Great!” Dad hugs her. “I’m sure you’ve done brilliantly. Here, let me take the casserole.”

  Amy carries a bowl of new potatoes and green beans into the dining room. The scent of the roses she’d arranged on the table is drowned by the aroma of chicken.

  “So,” she says carefully when they’ve eaten. Her heart thumps uncomfortably. She forces herself to ask. “Did you find time for lunch today?”

  “That was delicious, Amy. You’re an excellent cook.” Dad looks at the flowers. “We need to plant more roses. Keep replenishing Mum’s rose garden. Maybe we could drive to the garden centre, check their new stock.”

  “I’d like that.” Amy stands up. She stacks the summer-pudding plates. Her legs feel surprisingly weak. She says flatly, trying to seem nonchalant, aware she’s doggedly repeating the question, making it into a statement, “So you didn’t have lunch.”

  Dad folds his serviette, pushes it through the ring. He does not look up. “Guess I had a sandwich at my desk.”

  “He lied.”

  Amy sits in the hall talking to Ruth on the phone. Dad had vanished in the car on an errand and taken Tyler with him.

  “An out-and-out lie. A sandwich at his desk. Why would he say that?”

  “He must’ve had a reason.”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t want me to know what he’s doing any more.”

  “Nonsense. P’raps it’s a question of patient confidentiality.”

  “Don’t give me that! Not in the Manzil at lunchtime!”

  “Maybe that lunch is a weekly date. We’re not usually in the village so early in the afternoon. It was only because we’d taken the last exam and we had the rest of the day off. Maybe he and this woman have been to that restaurant lots of times, but you’ve just never seen them.”

  “So if she’s a friend, why hasn’t he told me about her?”

  “Either she is someone special and he doesn’t want you to know about her, or she’s so unimportant he’s forgotten.”

  Amy says slowly
, “I think she’s special. He said he’d had a wonderful day.”

  Ruth sounds impatient. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Why didn’t you tell him you’d seen her and ask him who she is?”

  “I can’t explain.” Amy curls the telephone cord round her fingers until it hurts. “I don’t want to pry.”

  “Look, Amy. Suppose your dad has got a girlfriend. It’s been years since your mum . . .”

  “Six years,” Amy says abruptly.

  “Exactly. So why shouldn’t he?”

  “Because –” Amy is surprised and alarmed that her eyes sting with tears – “because he belongs to me.”

  “Hey, come on, Amy. Get a life. You’re his daughter, not his –”

  “I know what I am.” Amy rubs the base of her right hand into her eyes. “You don’t need to remind me.” She hears Ruth’s front-door bell ring.

  “Eddie’s here.” Ruth’s voice is flustered. “Sure you won’t come with us?”

  Amy stares across the hall floor. The late-evening sun filters through the stained-glass windows in the front door, dappling the tiles with rainbow-coloured, gently moving shadows.

  “I’m not in the mood. Those exams have worn me out.”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  No, I won’t. All that silly chat, all that noise. And Pete, with his skinny chest and big ears. Why would anyone want to spend the evening with him?

  Amy goes back to the kitchen, clatters plates into the dishwasher, lays the table for breakfast. Then she runs up to the room which is her special sanctuary: Mum’s study.

  That day of the funeral, in the evening, when everyone had gone, she’d written Dad a note: Please can we keep Mum’s room just as it is? Not touch anything? Ask Dora to keep it clean, but not to move anything or make it different?

  Dad had nodded, immediately understood.

  Now Amy opens the door. The room lies directly above her own bedroom and shares the view of the garden. Here she can see over the paved terrace leading from the house, over the lawn and the rose garden, out across the silver birch and rowan tree to the Common and the deep fir woods beyond.

  The sun lies low in the June sky; a blackbird sings from the birch. Amy looks at the old sofa and slouchy chairs, the wide desk under the window, the shelves piled with books on gardening and design. Even now, when she buries her face among the cushions, she remembers the smell of Blue Grass, the perfume her mother always wore, its pungent freshness.

  One cushion in particular. Mum had made it as a present for her, that last Christmas. She’d embroidered her favourite stained-glass window from Saint Luke’s: Saint Elizabeth, standing proud and stocky with her bare arms and feet, holding in her apron nine pink roses and a loaf of bread.

  “She’s carrying her garden with her,” Mum always said. “What I love about her is her strength.”

  Amy raises her head.

  “Something’s going on, Mum. I don’t know what it is and I could be wrong. But at supper tonight, Dad lied to me. That’s never happened before and I’m scared.”

  She looks above the small stone fireplace. On the wall hangs Mum’s portrait, painted by a student friend. Mum sits in a garden on a curly iron chair, behind her a pale purple lilac tree in full bloom. She wears jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. She holds an apple, out of which she’s taken a single bite. Her hair hangs loose on her shoulders, thick, curling, dark red. Amy’s inheritance.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  Mum stares down at her, the half-smile lifting her mouth, lighting her extraordinary pale grey-green eyes.

  The silence in the room intensifies.

  “Talk to me,” Amy says. “If you were me, Mum, what would you do?”

  Four

  Half an hour later Amy heard Dad’s car draw up. She ran downstairs and opened the door.

  Dad heaved something bulky from the boot.

  She stared. “What on earth is that?”

  “An exercise bike.” Dad grinned. “They were on special offer at that new supermarket.” He slammed the boot, his face red with exertion. “Hold the door open for me, Amy . . . Tyler, please stop snapping at my heels.”

  Dad staggered across the path and through the front door. He plonked the bike in the hall. Tyler skidded around it, growling.

  “Where are you going to put it?”

  “I thought I’d turn the garage into a gym.”

  “A what?”

  “I don’t get enough exercise. Couple of walks a week with Tyler doesn’t count, and I’ve been piling on the pounds.”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  Dad laughed. “Your wonderful cooking doesn’t help. Not that I’m complaining.” He pulled affectionately at a long strand of her hair. “You look after me better than I deserve. But as you get older, it gets harder to burn those calories.” He shifted his waistband. “These trousers feel tighter by the minute. So I thought, William, my boy, it’s action stations.”

  Amy looked at Dad’s flushed face and untidy hair; at his eyes, sparkling with excitement. For a moment she saw him at sixteen, taking a girl on his first date . . . falling in love with Mum.

  She said, “The garage is a total mess. Shall I help you clear it?”

  “That’d be great. Here, let me unwrap the bike.”

  He tore at the wrapping. Tyler growled more loudly. The scent of new leather and shiny chrome wafted into the hall.

  “There!” Dad said, as if he’d just made it himself. “It’s got a speedometer and a clock with a timer . . . And this shows you how many miles you’ve pedalled.”

  Amy snapped, “I have seen one before, you know.”

  The bike loured at them aggressively.

  “Course, sweetheart, it’s not just for me. I bought it for both of us. You’ll be able to use it too.”

  Amy lies in bed, abruptly awake. Beads of sweat on her forehead drip into her hair. She’s had the nightmare again, the first time for ages. The thunder of horses’ hooves, the streak of silent lightning, the terror, the feeling of paralysis.

  The details are always the same.

  Each time the nightmare returns, she thinks, Maybe this is the last time I’ll ever have it. But she knows she’s only trying to cheer herself up.

  She looks at her clock. Five in the morning.

  She’ll never get back to sleep now, there’s no point in even trying. She throws back the sheet and blanket, slips out of bed. Her back aches. She and Dad had worked for two solid hours last night, clearing that garage.

  She patters into the bathroom, reaches in the cabinet for some toothpaste. A new bottle catches her eye. She pulls it out. It’s hair dye. The seal on the bottle has not been broken. Especially for Men! shouts the label. Lose That Grey! Regain Your Youthful Looks!

  Amy replaces the bottle. Suddenly she feels like going back to bed. On the landing, she notices the door to Dad’s bedroom stands slightly ajar. She pushes it open and peers round. Dad’s pyjamas lie crumpled on the bed, his work suit swings from its hanger.

  Back on the landing, she hears the kitchen door click. She shoots into her room, darts to the window, wrenches at the curtain.

  Dad’s running through the garden towards the Common. No, not running, he’s jogging, his head slanted down, in a concentrated, purposeful way. He’s wearing a bright red tracksuit with a navy stripe snaking down the sides of the legs.

  Tyler races ecstatically ahead of him, his silly ears flying.

  The pit of Amy’s stomach heaves. She opens the window and takes a deep breath of dawn air. The first delicate swirl of birdsong rustles from the trees.

  “I mean . . .” Amy pushed her bike into the school shed. “It was five in the morning, for heaven’s sake. Dad never gets up before six-thirty if he can help it. Not unless a patient calls him out, and then he makes a terrific fuss.”

  “Don’t you need less sleep as you get older?” Ruth asked.

  “And that tracksuit. I’ve never seen it before. We buy all hi
s clothes together, we always have done since Mum . . .”

  “I think it’s great.” Ruth wrenched three battered library books from her bike basket. “Lots of men when they reach forty . . . How old’s your dad?”

  “Forty-six,” Amy said sullenly.

  “It’s a good age to start taking yourself in hand. Most blokes go to seed – too many chips, too much beer . . .”

  “I don’t give Dad too many.”

  “And there’s yours trying to stay fit, and all you can do is grumble.”

  “I’m not grumbling.”

  “You could’ve fooled me!”

  “It’s so unlike him. And hair dye! I ask you. I like him just the way he is.”

  “This lady friend.” Ruth glanced at Amy as they crunched the gravelled path leading into school. “The one you saw him with.”

  Amy growled, “What about her?”

  “Maybe he’s doing all this for her.”

  Ruth pulled at the heavy glass door. The smell of school gusted out at them: disinfectant from newly washed floors, chalk and sweat.

  Amy flushed. “He’d better not be!”

  “Face it,” Ruth persisted. “Maybe he is.”

  Amy gets home from school, wheels her bike into the garage. For a moment she thinks she’s in someone else’s. The bags of rubbish she and Dad had filled have gone, the brick walls and high ceiling have been cleaned of cobwebs, the concrete floor swept. Dad must’ve asked Dora to finish what they’d started.

  Beside the new exercise bike sits a large, unopened box.

  Amy tears at the wrapping. A black and yellow trampoline stares out from a sea of white foam. The New Rebounder:The Best Way to Fight Flab. Twenty Minutes a Day! Feel the Difference in a Week!

  Gingerly, Amy steps on it. She begins to bounce. Up! Down! Up! Down! Higher, she thinks angrily. Higher!

  Her hair escapes its knot, swirls delightedly into the air.