Coming of Age

by Valerie Mendes

  He flung over his shoulder, “You know what playing with fire means, don’t you?”

  Amy’s eyes stung with tears.

  “You’ll get burnt.”

  Amy does not follow her brother. She watches him walk away, while a sense of creeping desolation falls around her like the beginnings of dusk.

  Julian has always been on her side. She can talk to him, assumes he’ll listen, sympathise, tug her plaits, tease her seriousness and coax her into laughter. Now he knows more than he’ll tell her, something about Mum she desperately needs to know.

  Now she’s on her own.

  She turns back to the Common, wanders disconsolately towards a wooden bench. For a long miserable hour she sits hunched over her knees. Birds pipe their last few songs. The sun dips and dies into its crimson-pillowed bed.

  I have a choice. I can either tear up the card and pretend I never found it. Or I can treat it as the first clue. I can follow its thread, discover where it leads.

  “Lauren, my darling . . .”

  What was it Ruth had said? “You put your mum on a bit of a pedestal.”

  What if Ruth is right?

  Amy stands up, shivering. Her bare arms prick with damp; the woods have settled into twilight shadows. She looks towards the path where Mum died. In her head she hears again that thunder of horses’ hooves.

  I was wrong. I haven’t got a choice. I don’t know who Marcello is, but I’m going to find out. Whatever it takes, I’m going to discover the truth behind his words.

  Nobody else cares any longer.

  Only me.

  Seven

  Breakfast next morning was unusually silent.

  Dad spotted it immediately. He came to the table, glowing after his run and his shower. Amy wrinkled her nose. The heavy scent of pine wafted around the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter with you two?”

  Julian poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Well?” Dad glanced at Amy. “End of term today, your party on Saturday, your club expedition to Paris coming up. You should be dancing on air, not sitting there with a face like a wet weekend.” He picked up his bag. “Wish I had six weeks off!”

  “Got a headache,” Amy said sullenly, but Dad had vanished through the door.

  Julian said, “No, you haven’t.”

  “It’s my head, not yours.”

  “Come on, sis. You’ve got the grumps.” Pause. “What have you decided to do?”

  “About the card?”

  He scowled. “What else?”

  Amy didn’t miss a beat. “Took your advice.” Once the lie had flown out, it was easy to embellish. “I tore it into shreds and chucked it away.”

  Julian beamed. “What a relief! I worried half the night.”

  “Not much else I can do.” She stood up to clear the table. The card, wedged into her pocket, seemed to burn its way into her thigh, as if indignant at the threat of destruction. She remembered Hannah’s thighs, gleaming in the sun.

  Julian stood up too. “Forget about it.” Gently, he punched her shoulder. “It’s easy to get trapped in the past. That won’t happen to you, will it, sis? You will move on.”

  “You mean like Dad?” Amy said bitterly.

  Julian chuckled. “That’s exactly what I mean.” He ruffled her hair. I wish Jules wouldn’t do that. He still treats me like a child.

  “By the way, I forgot to tell you.” Julian watched her approvingly. “Christopher rang.”

  Amy’s heart missed a beat. “How is he?”

  “Fine. We’re going to Perugia together.”

  Amy concentrated on rinsing the dishes. “Oh?”

  “I met a guy there last year, while I was on their summer university course. Said he’d give me a couple of weeks’ intensive tuition, so I can brush up my Italian.”

  “Does it need brushing?”

  “I can read it well, for my art history, but I never get a chance to speak it . . . Chris said he’d come with me. We’ll probably go on to Rome or Naples.”

  Amy’s mouth tasted sour with jealousy. “Lucky you.” A week in Paris tramping round the Louvre, with Mrs Baxter organising every moment, is hardly competition.

  “Chris is coming here to stay for a few days. I told him about your party.”

  Amy’s heart made up for lost time. “You did?”

  “He says he’d love to come. If that’s OK with you.”

  Amy blazed a smile at her adorable brother. “It’ll be great to see him again.”

  “He’ll be here on Friday. He’s always had a soft spot for you. Often asks me how my lovely little sister’s getting on.”

  Amy turned away to hide her scarlet cheeks.

  Move on . . . That’s so easy to say.

  Amy cycled over to collect Ruth for the last morning of term.

  Ignore problems, shove them under the carpet, don’t confront anything that looks remotely difficult. Typical of Jules. He can’t bear to look at a real body, only an imitation that’s been painted and clamped into a frame. That can’t talk back, tell you things you’d rather not hear.

  There must’ve been something serious going on between Mum and Marcello to make Jules refuse to talk about it.

  Mum had never finished her book with its section on Marcello’s garden. But supposing somebody else had written about it? If she caught the bus to Guildford this afternoon, she could go to the bookshop. Begin to track something down.

  Anyway, she had nothing even half decent to wear for the party. And if Chris was coming, a new outfit was essential. In fact, Chris’s imminent arrival put Amy’s sixteenth birthday in a whole new light.

  She bumped over Ruth’s driveway, trilling her bell to announce her arrival.

  The three days to Friday began to shimmer with anticipation.

  Amy stared out of the bus window on her way to Guildford as the small towns bumbled past – Haslemere, Godalming, Farncoombe – green and sleepy in the hazy afternoon light.

  Christopher.

  She’d met him twice before. Each meeting seared indelibly into her mind. The first time she’d been thirteen. Dad had taken her to Oxford, to an open day at Julian’s boarding school during the summer term.

  In the afternoon there’d been a cricket match. Amy stood on the sidelines, mesmerised by one of the batsmen. He made sixty powerful, energetic runs, swinging the ball to the boundary, before he was deftly caught.

  A shower of hands clapped as he left the field.

  Julian called out, “Well played!”, grabbed his arm as he came striding from the pitch. “Chris, this is my dad – and my sister, Amy.”

  She caught her breath as Chris took off his helmet, looked down at her and gripped her hand. He seemed filled with sunlight, his narrow face tanned, his shirt damp with sweat, open at the neck, his dark-blond hair glistening.

  He smiled at her. “Hi, Amy.” His voice was deep and husky. “I’ve heard such a lot about you from Jules.”

  Dad said, “Shall we have some tea?”

  “Good idea.” The world became two blue eyes. “I’ll jump in the shower.”

  The second time had been a year ago, at Cambridge, where Chris had played the title role in Hamlet at an Arts Theatre student production. He was reading English at Peterhouse, desperate to become an actor, but his parents insisted he got a degree first.

  She and Dad had met Julian and Chris by the river. They’d gone punting, Chris standing tall and slim at the helm – “Let me do all the hard work, why don’t you!” – the pole, smooth and shiny with water, dripping through his hands, his eyes flirting with her when the others weren’t looking.

  That evening Amy sat through Hamlet, her heart thumping like a drum, trying not to let Dad and Julian see how smitten she was. Neither of them ever suspected her feelings, how she’d replayed that weekend, that special evening, in her head, over and again. She’d never even told Ruth.

  Dad’s not the only one who’s madly in love! What if he knew? That’d give him something to think about besides his
darling Hannah!

  And now on Friday she and Chris would meet again. She wondered what he’d make of Grayshott and Terra Firma. She wondered what he’d make of her. Because she didn’t feel like “Julian’s little sister” any more.

  Nor, she realised with a jolt, did she any longer feel like “Daddy’s little girl”.

  So what exactly was she?

  Standing on the second floor of Guildford’s Waterstones, Amy gazed through the window at the High Street. She’d spent an hour thumbing through books on gardening and landscape design, full of marvellous photographs, elegant, beautiful – and useless.

  None of them even mentioned Italy.

  I don’t know what I expected to find. All I have is a first name and the link with Florence. It’s not much to go on. If I were serious about all this, I’d fly to Italy and find Marcello himself!

  She gave a sudden laugh at the idea. A book-browser looked up at her curiously. Amy headed for the stairs. Sure, she needed to know who Marcello was. But she’d never been abroad on her own. Dad would never let her go. And she could hardly tell him the reason for the trip.

  Anyway, she wasn’t that interested.

  Or was she?

  Thoughtfully, she sat over a cappuccino in Starbucks, spooning up the frothy chocolate topping. Mum had left her some money in her will, in a trust fund until Amy was sixteen. She knew that Dad’s chief birthday present would be her own bank account and cashcard.

  Suppose she took out enough money to pay for a trip to Florence? Could she get there and back without Dad knowing? Instead of going to Paris with Mrs Boring Baxter, suppose she used that week to go to Italy?

  Would she have the courage to do it on her own?

  Maybe. It needed careful planning. She’d start thinking on the bus. Meanwhile, the party. Amy drained her cup. She wanted a dress, or a long skirt and frilly top: something floaty and romantic. To make Christopher sit up and say, “Hey! Just look at Jules’s little sister now!”

  I’m gonna take midsummer night and make it special just for you . . .

  The latest pop lyric blared through the shopping arcade. Amy began to hum along.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Dad said that evening.

  “Oh?” Amy sliced some tomatoes. She did not bother to look up.

  “For your party. Actually, it was Hannah’s idea.”

  I might have guessed.

  “She and I had lunch together. In the garden. She was saying how beautiful it looked. Then she said, ‘Why don’t we get an electrician to put some fairy lights in the trees?’ It’s a brilliant idea. They’ll look fantastic.”

  Amy’s heart lurched. She imagined standing in Christopher’s arms in the rose garden, the moon shining, the lights sparkling from the silver birch, music from the house drifting over the lawn.

  “What d’you think, Amy? Good idea?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Great. I’ll ask Dora to organise it tomorrow.”

  Amy looked up at him. “I suppose you and Hannah will be at the party?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  He’d poured a glass of cold juice and was halfway out of the door with it. Amy said quickly, “Dad?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “What you said at breakfast. About wishing you had six weeks off.”

  “So I did.”

  “Have you planned a holiday?”

  “D’you know, it’s amazing you should mention it . . .”

  “Oh?” Amy kept her head down. She drizzled olive oil on the salad, watched the raw spinach leaves gleam.

  “It’s exactly what we discussed over lunch. We thought while you’re in Paris we could go to Wales. Just for a week. I wouldn’t want you to be alone in the house . . .”

  “I could always stay at Ruth’s.”

  “No, a week will be fine. Hannah wants me to meet her parents in Cardiff. Then she and I can spend a few days walking in the mountains. Fresh air, exercise . . .”

  “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  So now he’s meeting her parents!

  Dad laughed. “Really? You wouldn’t mind? You know, if Hannah and I . . .”

  It wouldn’t matter much if I did.

  “What’ll we do with Tyler?”

  “I’ll ask Dora to have him. She’ll spoil him rotten and he’ll adore it. It’ll give her a holiday too.”

  Better and better.

  “That’s settled, then.” Amy picked up the salad bowl. “Could you tell Julian supper’s ready?”

  Amy watched Dad leave the kitchen. This afternoon, her plan had seemed far-fetched and ridiculous. Not any more . . .

  Amy opens her wardrobe and takes out the new dress. It swishes against her.

  “What d’you think?”

  Ruth gasps. “It’s gorgeous. It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “Less than half price.”

  “Put it on.”

  Amy kicks off her trainers, strips off her T-shirt and jeans. Gently, she pulls the dress over her head. The silk rustles seductively.

  “You don’t think it’s a bit over the top?”

  “Nonsense. You look fantastic. I’ve never seen you in red before. Give us a twirl.”

  Amy twirls. The flared knee-length skirt lifts around her thighs.

  “You’ll need shoes to match . . . and to put your hair up.”

  Amy scoops it into a high ponytail. “Like that?”

  “With a red ribbon, something to set it off. You’ll look fabulous. ’Specially with that new sparkle in your eye.”

  “What new sparkle?” Amy pretends to adjust the scoop of the dress’s neckline.

  “You tell me.”

  Amy giggles. “If you must know, Christopher’s coming to the party.”

  Ruth sits up on the bed. “Julian’s friend? The one you met in Cambridge last year?”

  “Yes,” Amy says. “And I met him before, at Julian’s school. When I was thirteen.”

  Ruth stares at her. “You never told me! Amy Grant, you’re blushing! You’re as red as your dress. You fancy him like mad. Come on, Miss I-Can’t-Be-Bothered-with-Boys! Own up to Auntie Ruth.”

  Amy slides the dress off, sorry to part with it. She runs her fingers down its skirt, turns to look at Ruth.

  “He’s not a boy,” she says. “He’s twenty years old.”

  “Don’t you think –” Ruth hesitates – “he might be a bit old for you?”

  Amy starts to dance around the room in her underwear, leaping and bounding, clapping her hands above her head, clicking her fingers to the beat of her body.

  “Old? My Christopher? He’s perfect . . . Just you wait and see!”

  Eight

  On Friday Amy wakes to the heavy pattering of rain.

  She wrenches the curtains aside and opens the window. A warm summer wind batters the trees. Lupins and delphiniums sag their bright heads beneath the torrent. Fairy lights dangle from drenched branches, trying to hold on. Puddles collect on the terrace. A drove of starlings, blue-black and glittering, swoops noisily to drink.

  At midday Julian says, “I’m going to collect Chris from Haslemere. Are you coming to the station with me?”

  Amy’s courage seeps away. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Sure? We’ll probably have a pub lunch on the way back.”

  “I’ve got tons of things to do for the party.”

  “Hmm . . . Bad luck, sis . . . Looks like it’ll have to be indoors.”

  “Oh, don’t say that.”

  Amy paces the house, unable to concentrate on anything. She polishes the rows of glasses for the party, checks the caterers’ list of food, which they’ll deliver tomorrow. She clears the hall of coats, muddy boots and junk mail.

  She dashes out into the rain to pick pink and yellow roses, their petals cool and wet. She arranges them in the living room. She carries a vase of them upstairs, to the bedroom on the second floor where Chris will sleep. Their fragrance fills the air.

 
She puts blue candles in the holders on the dining-room table, fresh sandalwood soap in the downstairs loo. She throws away bundles of old newspapers, plumps the cushions, banishes Tyler’s basket to the kitchen, cleans the stained-glass windows in the hall.

  The house gleams.

  Tyler sleeps on a window-seat dreaming of rabbits, his ears twitching.

  Slowly, the rain eases, then stops. The sun struggles out from buxom purple clouds. Leaves drip.

  Amy runs up to her room. She changes her shirt three times, finally deciding on a plain white blouse, unbuttoned at the neck. Her hair flows over her shoulders, long and loose. She puts on Burnt Sienna lipstick, but her hand shakes so much the colour smudges. Impatiently, she wipes it off.

  When she hears Julian’s car, she darts down the stairs and across the hall, flinging open the front door. Christopher climbs out of the car and stands beside Julian, who opens the boot and pulls out Chris’s bag.

  Amy swallows. Suddenly her voice is trapped.

  Then, loudly, she calls, “Hi! Welcome to Terra Firma!”

  Chris turns. He shades his eyes against the sun and looks at her.

  He smiles.

  Amy carries a tea tray on to the terrace. The garden smells damp and fresh. She pours the dark liquid, gives out the cups, trying to steady her hand.

  China clinks.

  Chris and Amy talk. Their words flow into and out of each other’s, interweaving. They laugh. Their laughter floats upwards to the fairy lights. The garden steams beneath the heat of afternoon.

  Tyler barks for attention. Amy throws him half a shortbread biscuit. He crunches it with gusto, then scampers to the end of the garden, begging for a walk.

  The phone rings in the hall. Julian says, “I’ll go.”

  For the first time, Amy and Chris are alone. She looks across at him. Her heart thrums in the river of quiet between them.

  He leans forward. “So –” his hair catches the sunlight – “tomorrow. Who’s coming to your party?”

  “Lots of friends. From school and the local club. Dad and Hannah will be there.”