“OK . . . Eddie’s going to carry you.”
Voices mutter somewhere in the distance.
A car door slams.
Bang.
Like the clap of thunder.
Then everything once again goes a blissfully deep sooty black.
Sixteen
Amy hangs over the lavatory bowl and spews into it.
It’s not a pretty sight and the smell is worse.
She gets up from her knees and flushes the toilet. Pieces of green sick float around the surface of the water. They remind Amy of the watercress soup she’d longed to throw over Hannah and Dad. Maybe if she’d had the courage to chuck it, Hannah might have disappeared for good, there and then.
She stands shivering, her bare feet on the cold tiles, waiting for the cistern to fill up. It’s doing a lot of gurgling. Perhaps it doesn’t much enjoy what she’s retched into it.
She reaches out for the edge of the handbasin and grips it as hard as she can.
She dares not look at her reflection.
She runs the cold tap until the basin has filled with water. She takes a deep breath, gasping as her face hits the flat icy puddle.
She raises her head.
Jesus! That can’t be her in the mirror. The apparition has greenish skin, a lopsided jaw, lank hair and puffy eyes. She hadn’t meant to look.
Her head throbs.
She limps to the door, turns off the light, fumbles back across the bathroom, bumps into the bath, stubs her toe, swears, finds the lavatory bowl, flushes the toilet for the second time, flips the seat down and sits on it. She might be sick again.
The cistern is having a field day. Gurgle, churn, slurp, blip. It sounds like the contents of her stomach. Or what remains of them.
Chinks of dawn light filter through the window. A solitary bird begins to cheep.
If I put my head between my knees, maybe the walls will stop spinning.
The door opens. A painfully garish light flashes into her eyes. A long pause hangs in the air, together with the stink of vomit.
“Amy?”
She peers into the voice. It’s wearing a long, floaty, smoky-blue nightdress, with deep lacy ruffles around the neck.
“Good grief, Amy! What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“Hannah.” Amy finds it hard to move her lips, so the word comes out sideways. “Never better. What are you doing here?”
Hannah ignores the question. Quietly, she closes and locks the door. She moves swiftly towards Amy. In a single swoop, she takes her in her arms.
Amy feels the soft, fragrant nightdress wrapping around her. It’s like having Mum again. Hot tears dribble down her cheeks. She mumbles, “I think I must’ve drunk too much by mistake.”
Hannah says firmly, “I know just how you feel.” She strokes the wet hair out of Amy’s eyes. She grabs a handful of tissues and dries Amy’s face. She unhooks a bathrobe from behind the door. It belongs to Dad. She lifts Amy to her feet and cuddles her into it.
She whispers, “Come on. Back to bed with you . . . Quietly . . . Don’t wake your dad.” She unlocks the door. “I’m going to make some tea, and a hot-water bottle, and bring them up to you . . . Quickly now . . . Go and tuck yourself in.”
Amy woke to a stone-cold water bottle and the sound of Dora hoovering.
She sat up and groaned. Waves of pain flowed through her head and down her spine. A squalid heap of red silk huddled at the end of the bed.
Someone had wedged a piece of paper on her bedside table, between the clock and the lamp. She reached for it and held it to her eyes, squinting at it gingerly.
Dear Amy
Hope you had a good sleep and that you’re feeling better.
Are you free tomorrow? I’ve got the day off as it’s Saturday. I thought we could go to London together. I need something to wear for the wedding and I’d love to buy you a new outfit too. And shall we have our hair done at somewhere really special?
Give me a ring at the surgery and let me know.
Love
Hannah
From the driveway, Amy could hear Ruth practising.
She opened the door, still holding her beloved violin. She dragged Amy into the hall. “Have you survived?”
“Just about.”
“You look a bit peaky.”
“You should’ve seen me at the crack of dawn! . . . Look, about tomorrow.”
“Don’t tell me. You can’t make the concert.”
“Would you mind desperately if I didn’t? Hannah’s offered to buy me an outfit for the wedding.”
“Cool!”
“And I felt I couldn’t turn her down.”
“Where will you go?”
“London . . . Somewhere posh, I expect . . . We probably won’t be back till late.”
“I think that’s fantastic.”
“We might not find what we want.”
“I mean it’s brilliant that you’re getting on with Hannah.”
Amy looked around Ruth’s untidy kitchen, at the dishes piled in the sink, the mound of crumpled clothes waiting for the iron. Instead of wanting to clean everything up, Amy suddenly thought the room looked friendly and comfortable.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Give me a ring on Sunday,” Ruth said. “I’ll come over to inspect your loot.”
Amy wallows in a deep tufted chair in a Knightsbridge coffee shop.
Hannah looks at her approvingly. “Your hair’s fabulous.”
“You don’t think it’s too short?”
“Absolutely not . . . Anyway, it’ll grow.”
“Yes.” Amy sips her cappuccino. “Thanks. It must’ve cost a bomb.”
“Worth every penny. I’ve only got one maid of honour, haven’t I?”
Hannah’s crossing things off a complicated list on her organiser. She’s left-handed. The sapphire glitters. She says, without looking up, “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
Amy is silent.
Hannah presses on. “I thought I could wear a kind of blue-green. What do you think?”
Amy remembers Marcello’s eyes. “Great.”
“Tell you what, let’s coordinate our colours. If I wear a slightly darker shade of blue, you could wear a paler one.”
“Fine.”
“For us, I thought straight dresses with short matching jackets, very simple, but terribly well cut, in a wonderful fabric with a proper lining.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“And no hats . . . I hate them . . . When I was sixteen, my mother made me wear a tall green creation. I looked like a Christmas tree.”
Amy laughs. The sound surprises her. It rings through the coffee shop. There is a sudden hush while people listen.
“I got straight As,” she says.
The sapphire stops dead in its tracks. “What?”
“My GCSEs. Straight As.”
“Amy! That’s fantastic! Another cause for celebration.” Hannah hesitates. “Why didn’t William tell me?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“You mean you haven’t told him?”
Amy runs her fingers through her new sleek bob. She longs for Chris to see it. She clinches her advantage. “Dad hasn’t asked. He’s got other things on his mind.”
Hannah has the grace to blush.
Over supper that night, as the three of them sat on the terrace, Dad apologised.
He said he’d been a complete idiot to have forgotten about Amy’s results. He wanted to take them all out for a slap-up meal next Sunday. Not tomorrow, because there were so many things he and Hannah had to do, but next Sunday was a date. Where would Amy like to go?
Amy sighed. It didn’t really matter any more.
He loved her new hairstyle. And he quite understood he wasn’t allowed to see their new outfits, that Amy had locked hers away and wouldn’t even have a dress rehearsal.
The phone rang. Again. It rang incessantly these days, but it was hardly ever for her. It was often for Hannah. Amy wondered irritably wh
y she couldn’t use her own mobile . . .
Over the next fortnight Terra Firma began to change its identity.
Wedding presents arrived. Dora stacked them in the living room and the hall and then piled them on the dining-room table.
They ate all their meals in the kitchen.
Hannah’s possessions crept into every corner of the house, one by one, as if by magic. Amy would get back to Terra Firma to find a strange coat hanging in the hall, a foreign hand-towel in the downstairs loo, a new painting on the landing wall, a weird-smelling tea in the kitchen, a huge pink toilet bag zipped on the bathroom shelf.
One morning a van arrived. Burly men unloaded two brown-leather armchairs and a wooden chest. Dad said they could take the chairs up to the top floor. The chest was for his bedroom.
Afterwards, Amy checked Mum’s study. Her adorable sagging sofa with the squashy Blue Grass cushions had vanished. The chairs sat stiffly in their place.
She raced on to the Common with Tyler, ran until her legs gave way. She’d never forgive Hannah and Dad for dumping Mum’s furniture without asking her. Never.
Sweaty and puffing, she sat on a bench, pulled Chris’s letter from her pocket. She carried it everywhere, her only crumb of comfort.
Hey, Amy!
How are you? How was the flight home?
We arrived in Rome two days ago and it’s blisteringly hot. I’m doing my best to keep up with Jules, whose appetite for all things beautiful seems to increase daily. I must admit mine’s starting to flag. I want to see your beauty more than anything . . .
We’ll soon be home. My agent rang to say he wants me to audition for a small part in a new West End play. He won’t tell me what it is, which is infuriating. He says he has his reasons. Something about not reading the lines so often they get stale!
If by any miracle I get the part, it’d be goodbye to Cambridge before I got my degree. It’s the last thing in the world my parents want – but then, hey, it’s my life, isn’t it? My choice.
I think about you all the time. Yesterday I saw a girl who looked so like you I nearly crossed the street and flung my arms around her! I can’t wait for the moment when I can do that, once again, with you.
I send you all my love
Christopher
Amy stared at the calendar on her bedroom wall. Tomorrow was the big day. She was terrified. Last night she’d opened the door to Mum’s study, only to find Hannah sitting at the desk, checking her wedding list.
“Come in,” Hannah sang out. “Plenty of room in here for both of us.”
Amy had flung herself out of the room. She slammed the door so hard that Tyler heard the noise from the kitchen and began to wail.
“Sis? It’s me.”
“Jules! . . . Where are you?”
“On our way home . . . We’re going to stop off at Chris’s place to pick up his best suit! We should be at Terra Firma by early evening.”
“Thank God! It’s chaos here.”
“I bet it is!”
“Everything’s happened so fast.”
“Let’s hope they’re doing the right thing . . . What time does it all start tomorrow?”
“Register Office at eleven, church blessing midday, back here for a wedding breakfast . . . You’ll hardly recognise the house . . . I can’t move for flowers, and Tyler’s going berserk.”
“It’ll soon be over, sis.”
“Yes.” Amy bites the inside of her lip. “Is Chris with you?”
“He’s just gone to buy some sandwiches.”
“Tell him I can’t wait to see him.”
“Will do. See you, sis . . . Keep smiling.”
“I’ll try,” Amy says, but when she does, her mouth won’t lift into the right shape.
At four o’clock, Amy stops pacing the hall and watching for Christopher.
Suddenly exhausted, she climbs the stairs to Mum’s study. Thank God the room is empty. She shuts the door. The stifling air stinks of lily-of-the-valley. Furious, she flings opens a window.
In the garden, someone is testing the fairy lights. They flash on and off like Morse code. Like a warning.
The sky lours, thick with weary cloud, heavy with heat.
After tomorrow, everything will be different.
Hannah will come up here all the time. She’ll sit in those disgusting slippery chairs. She’ll take over the room. My only real space will be my bedroom. Everything will change.
Something bangs against the door, as if kicking at it.
Amy jumps.
The door flies open.
Dad stands in the doorway, his face white, his eyes blazing.
“Ahhh . . . I thought I might find you here.”
“What on earth’s the matter?”
Dad doesn’t walk towards her. He goes on standing in the doorway, his legs apart, his arms spread wide, as if they are propping up the frame. Like he’s doing some silly exercise in his gym.
“You tell me.” The words drop like stones. “Shall we start with the name Mrs Baxter?”
“Oh.” Amy shivers with shock. She clenches every muscle in her body, trying to keep it taut.
“Yes, oh.” Dad’s voice is louder, heavily sarcastic. “She came to see me this afternoon, at the surgery.”
Amy mutters offhandedly, “Didn’t know she was one of your patients.”
“And guess what she said to me just before she left?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
Dad snorts with disbelief. “I think you have!”
“Mrs Baxter’s a busybody.”
“Maybe that’s a bloody good thing. She said, ‘What a pity Amy couldn’t come to Paris with us. Is she better? We missed her. We had such a good time. ’”
Amy looks at Dad in silence. Lines crinkle the skin around his mouth. His face has turned from white to a peculiar shade of purple. Like a foxglove.
“How d’you think that made me feel, eh? . . . Have you any idea?”
Amy likes remaining silent. It gives her time to think.
“Well? What’ve you got to say for yourself? If you weren’t in Paris last month, where the hell were you?”
“I didn’t go anywhere. I stayed here. I was ill.”
“Rubbish. You were fine when Hannah and I left, or we’d never have gone.”
“D’you care?”
“Of course I care . . . For God’s sake, Amy, do we have to go through all this again? You told me you’d been to Paris.”
“OK, then. I didn’t go.” She’s shaking now, all over, with anger. “So you want to hear the truth?”
Dad shouts, “Don’t you think I have the right to know?”
Amy takes a deep breath. Really deep. She fills her lungs so the air in her body will last for the longest possible time. “I went to Fiesole to see Marcello Galanti.”
Dad’s face is suddenly white again, a yellowy white, blotchy and old. “Who?”
“You heard.”
“You travelled to Italy?”
“Got it in one.”
“On your own?”
“Yes, Dad . . . Your ‘little girl’ did something on her own!”
“But . . . why?”
Dad’s eyes are beginning to do something weird. They flicker up and down and from side to side, as if searching for something he cannot find. “Who is this – what did you say his name was?”
Amy screams it to the walls, the ceiling, the heavy, louring sky.
Dad opens his mouth. A blob of spit, like soapsuds, dribbles out of it.
Amy darts across the room. “And don’t tell me you’ve never heard it before, because I won’t believe you.”
Dad wipes away the spit with his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Amy shoves her face up against his. Right up against it. Really close.
He smells rancid. She knows what he smells of. It is fear.
Suddenly she knows he’s guilty as hell.
She whispers, “Yes, you do . . . You’re lying.”
; Dad flinches.
“I think you’re a lousy cowardly liar.”
“How dare you!”
She pushes Dad to one side, startled by the depth of her fury, amazed at her strength.
He reels against the door.
One by one the words thrum out of her.
“I’m right, aren’t I? My mother’s death. You had a hand in it.”
Dad gasps as if the words stab him through the heart. He implores her. “Please . . . Amy . . . My darling little girl –”
“Get out of my way.”
She is on the landing.
She is racing like a maniac down the stairs.
Seventeen
Amy crashes across the hall, through the kitchen and down the garden.
She is out on the Common. She turns right. She doesn’t bother to look. She knows exactly where she’s going.
She has no air in her lungs to breathe, let alone to run. She slows to a walk, her head down, her legs stiff and full of purpose, as if they are funeral-marching to the stolid beat of a drum.
Left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . .
Her trousers brush against her thighs, swish . . . swish . . .
The path feels different: she has forgotten how it used to look. It is wilder, more overgrown, more neglected. Massive green ferns with golden tips spill across its edges. Thick tree roots sprawl above the ground, between the stones, tripping her feet.
A sign says: DANGER. NARROW PATHWAY. HORSES STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. It is old and weather-beaten. She’s never seen it before. They must have put it up, afterwards.
The Common is swamped in an intolerable humidity. Pleading for a breath of air, Amy cranes her neck to the sky. A ribbon of lightning cracks silently across it: a huge white crooked finger of admonition from a witch’s hand. It sears her eyeballs. She blinks. She can see its livid echo patterning in front of her.
There is silence.
Coming of Age Page 13