Coming of Age (11 page)

Thirteen

Amy slithered out of the Mercedes, thanked Umberto and walked up to her room.

It puffed a stifling heat.

She perched on the bed, trembling with exhaustion and, unexpectedly, on the verge of tears. She refused to let herself cry.

Mission accomplished
, she told herself sternly.
I've achieved what I came here to do. I should be celebrating.

She kicked off her sandals. The pillows felt warm and dusty beneath her head.

The morning's anticipation, the heady feelings of achievement and success, had dwindled to disappointment. Talking about Mum had stirred the old pain into a potent, fresh brew. She realised how little she'd known about Mum's life – and that she'd opened a Pandora's box of secrets. What might come exploding out of it?

Could she really trust Marcello? He was so handsome, so seductive. If he wasn't Mum's killer, who was? Had she come searching in quite the wrong place? Could the culprit – assuming there was one – be much closer to home? What other clues might there be, maybe right under her nose in Grayshott, that could have led her, long ago, to the truth?

Amy stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. She shut her eyes, letting the cool water stream over her body.

The answer to everything is in my head. In that memory of mine that won't unlock itself, however hard I try.

She wrapped herself in a towel, flung open the window and stood on the balcony. The sky had lost its radiance. Surly banks of cloud swirled up from the horizon, yet the heat had not abated. Perhaps those drops of rain on the terrace were the prelude to a storm?

I haven't solved anything. I've scraped at the surface of the truth. I'm terrified of what I'm going to find. But I'm
not
giving up.

The sounds of early evening drifted towards her: children bickering; a baby crying; a woman's voice singing a lullaby. Tinkling scales plodded up and down a piano. A dog barked. Amy longed to be home.

Perhaps if I stop trying so hard to remember that ghastly morning, stop being so furious that I've blanked it out, it'll come back to me. Just like I found my voice again, from out of nowhere.

She pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a pale pink cotton shirt. Not a breath of air stirred in the room.

I need to walk. Into the city, anywhere. Out of this furnace. It's got to be cooler outside.

Amy slips out to the Via Guiccardini, over the Ponte Vecchio, past the Uffizi and into the Piazza della Signoria. Crowds sit on the street steps or at café tables. The square buzzes with voices, the chink of cutlery on china, the clink of glasses on tabletops.

She walks towards the Café Rivoire. It sprawls elegantly on a corner, framed by low iron railings and interwoven terracotta pots bright with geraniums and laurel.

She decides to have a fruit juice and a sandwich at the Rivoire before going back to her room. She scans the crowd of drinkers, trying to find a space.

Two pairs of eyes look up at her from a nearby table.

They belong to Julian and Christopher.

Amy gasps. Their faces are tanned, relaxed, unshaven; their hair longer. They wear white shirts rolled to their elbows. Startled, they stare back at her as if they cannot believe their eyes.

There is no escape for her, no hiding place.

She longs to walk into Chris's arms, explain why she ran away, tell him how she feels. But Julian's presence makes her freeze. She can only stand there looking like a naughty child.

“Amy?” Julian scrambles to his feet. “What the
hell
are you doing here?”

Amy tries to smile, to pretend she often spends her time walking around Florence. Chris meets her eyes. He flushes, first with what looks like relief and delight, then with embarrassment. He says nothing, glances quickly away.

“Hi, Jules,” Amy says bleakly. She plays for time. “I could ask you the same!”

“We've been here all week. We drove here from Perugia. I wanted to show Chris the city before we go to Rome.”

He stands nearer to her now, by the café's border. He smells faintly of sweat and sun. He lowers his voice. “What are you doing here? Who are you with?”

“I'm on my own.” Amy looks over Julian's shoulder, trying to see Chris.

“
Why
are you here?”

“Why d'you think?”

“I thought you were in Paris.”

“I decided there was something more important I had to do.”

Julian's eyes narrow. “Would Marcello have anything to do with it?”

“Of course he would.” She spits out the words with a passion that surprises her.

Julian is beginning to understand. “I thought you'd destroyed that postcard. I told you to forget about him.”

“I'm not a little girl any more, Jules. I don't always do what my bossy older brother tells me.”

“So I see.” Julian looks taken aback.

“If you'd
told
me about Marcello, I wouldn't have had to come here to find him.”

“So your being here is
my
fault?”

“I didn't say that . . . I'm old enough to be responsible for my own actions.”

“Hmm . . .” Julian doesn't sound convinced. “And
have
you found him?”

“As a matter of fact I have.”

“
When
did you –”

“Today . . . at his villa.” Amy flings her hair back defiantly. “We spent the day together. He asked me to lunch.”

“I
bet
he did!”

“And he's invited me back tomorrow.”

Julian leans one hand on the railing and leaps over it. He grabs Amy's arm. “Oh, no, he hasn't!”

“His driver's picking me up. You can't stop me going.”

“Yes, I bloody well can.” Julian's voice shakes with rage. “Does Dad know you're here?”

“Of course not. He thinks I'm in Paris.”

“If you see Marcello again, I'll tell Dad what you've been up to.”

Amy catches her breath. “You wouldn't
do
that.”

“Just you watch me.” Julian grabs Amy's shoulders. “I don't want you to have anything to do with Marcello. He's dangerous.”

“Rubbish.” Amy pulls away. “Anyway, it's too late. We talked for hours. He loved Mum.”

“He'd no
right
to, sis. She was married. He should never have –”

“What? What
did
he do?”

Julian's arms drop to his sides. “I don't know.” Beads of sweat glitter on his forehead. “I was only thirteen. Mum never told me.”

Amy senses she has the upper hand. “I
do
know, because I've taken the trouble to find out. Marcello –”

“That's enough!” Julian lays a finger over her mouth. “I don't want to know. I don't
ever
want to hear his name again.”

Amy steps back from her brother, filled with contempt. “Coward.” She turns her back on him, flounces away. “I'm going back to my hotel.”

But she's frightened he'll abandon her.

Julian catches up. “Sorry, sis, I didn't mean to bully you . . . When are you leaving Florence?”

Half reluctantly, she says, “Saturday.”

“At least we've found each other. Come and have a drink. A meal. Let's talk about tomorrow.”

Amy looks back at him and then at Chris. She takes a deep breath. “OK. But only because I'm dying of thirst.”

Julian muttered, “Sorry, Chris. Family argument. Sorted.”

Chris said, “Hi, Amy,” but hardly looked at her. She drank an orange juice, listening to Julian's account of Perugia; his praise of Florence's magnificent art. It began to rumble with rain.

They had supper at a nearby restaurant. Miserably, Amy wondered how she was going to turn Marcello's invitation down. If she didn't, she knew Julian would carry out his threat.

As they left, Julian said, “I'll walk you to your hotel. We need to talk. Chris, see you back at ours.”

“Good night, Amy.” Chris looked directly at her, a spark of intimacy in his brief smile.

Amy's heart leapt.

Julian took her arm as they stepped on to the wet cobblestones. “Write Marcello a note. Tell him you can't come tomorrow.”

The temperature in the streets had dropped dramatically. Amy shivered. “But I've already said yes.”

“Make an excuse.” Julian held his umbrella over her. Rain thundered on to it like bullets from a gun. “I'm only trying to protect you.”

“It'll sound so rude.”

“You made the effort to find him. He can hardly complain. Leave the note for the driver with the concierge. Be sensible, sis, and I promise I won't tell Dad.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Spend the day with Chris and me. We're going to Siena. It's the most beautiful little place in the world.”

Dear Marcello

I'm very sorry but I can't come to your villa today. Julian is in Florence. I bumped into him last night. I'd no idea he was here.

He's forbidden me to see you again. He's still very angry about what happened between you and Mum. He's threatened to tell Dad I came to Florence to find you unless I do what he says.

Thank you for talking to me, and for showing me all you did.

Amy Grant

She labelled the envelope –
Umberto. Please give this to Marcello Galanti
– gave it to the concierge and explained who it was for. Then, before she changed her mind, she forced herself to leave the hotel.

Julian drove the small hired Fiat, Chris sat next to him.

Amy tried not to stare at Chris's neck, the curl of his ears, his arm, tanned, gleaming with blond hair, as he flung it along the seat. He did not turn to look at her.

They drove out of Florence, on to the
autostrada
, through the hillside tunnels, past the American Memorial, into the landscape of Tuscany, filled with umbrella pine and bright fields of triumphant sunflowers.

Julian described
Il Palio
, the festival of Siena. “It happens every year on 16th August. That was yesterday.” He grinned at Chris. “Sorry, we're a day late! It's a race between lots of
contrade
. They ride magnificent horses and wear amazing costumes. It's all over in a few minutes, but the passion they put into it!”

Amy wondered bitterly whether she'd ever have a chance to talk to Chris without Julian at their elbow. She had to tell Chris how she felt about him. And she was fast running out of time.

They sit in the Piazza del Campo, drinking thick sweet coffee at the Bar il Palio.

Amy is so close to Chris their shoulders almost brush. Julian talks endlessly about the beauty of the square.

Amy interrupts. “I'm going to buy a book on Siena. I'd like something to take home, to remind me.”

Julian waves an arm impatiently. “Over there, sis. On that stall. Make sure it's in English!”

Amy walks towards it. She is suddenly aware that someone is watching her: a middle-aged man dressed in bottle-green trousers and a matching shirt. His face is swarthy, pockmarked. A bright red beret perches rakishly on his oily hair.

Amy feels his laser-beam eyes on her. Trying to ignore him, she heads for the stall, opens her bag to find her purse. The man has moved closer. Far too close. She can smell his garlic breath.

He hisses like a snake into her face. He whips out of his pocket something pale. It has teeth. It is a dirty ivory comb. Before Amy can move, he has drawn the comb down the side of her hair in a swift, raking movement, pulling at its roots.

Amy screams. She jumps away from him and drops her bag. In a flash, Julian and Chris are by her side. Julian darts towards the man, shoves at him, starts shouting.

Chris takes her arm and steadies her. “Are you hurt?”

Amy shakes her head, but her teeth chatter with shock. “Thanks, Chris . . . I'm fine.”

“Thank God for that!”

He stoops with her to pick up the contents of her bag. They scatter on the pavement like a child's toys: a lipstick rolling in its shiny case, loose coins, a felt-tip pen.

Their hands meet over a slim red-leather book and the crushed petals of a faded yellow rose.

Fourteen

Amy seizes the moment.

“I didn't mean to run away from you.”

Crowds press heedlessly past, almost treading on her hands, knocking against her shoulder. The pavement sways around her. She rescues her bag from under someone's feet, clutching it like a long-lost friend.

Chris kneels beside her, frantically scooping up her passport, her purse, a small plastic-framed mirror. In it, for a split second, she sees his face. She looks sideways at him. Chris bites his lip and looks silently back. Something changes in his eyes and gives her hope.

Make him listen.

Incoherently, the words spill out of her. “That night. There were other people in the garden. I'm so sorry. You must've thought . . . I can explain . . . Please let me.”

Chris picks up the sonnets, tenderly brushes the dirt from the soft binding. “It's OK, Amy, you don't have to say anything.”

She scrapes up the rose petals, cradling them in her palm. “You've no idea how I feel . . . Please, Chris, can we talk?”

He cuts in decisively. “OK, then.” He turns towards her. “Tonight.”

He opens the book and holds it out to her.

Amy's lungs catch with relief. She slides the battered rose among the pages. “When? What about Julian? How can we . . .”

Chris mutters, “Leave him to me.”

He stands up. “Everything's fine, Jules,” he says loudly. “Amy wasn't hurt. We've managed to rescue her things.”

“Are you sure, sis?” Julian looks at her anxiously.

“I'm fine. Don't make a fuss.”

He gives her an awkward hug. “What a lunatic guy! Thank God he didn't have a knife. It doesn't bear thinking about . . .
Sure
you're OK?”

Amy zips up her bag.
Tonight!
The colours of the square sing to her; the delicate blue sky shimmers with delight; crowds skim across the courtyard, chasing the sun. “Quite sure.”

“Excellent. I'm going to buy you that book you wanted. And then, hey, why don't we all have lunch to celebrate? My treat.”

Amy looks up at Chris. “Sometimes my brother has really wonderful ideas.”

They walk Siena's narrow streets, linger in a pottery shop.

Julian buys a hand-painted plate, haggling over the price. Chris catches Amy's eye. They smile at each other like conspirators.

They eat lunch out of doors. Julian disappears to pay the bill. Chris leans across the table and says, “I have a plan!”

Julian hauls them off to the cathedral. They stand looking up at the façade, gasping at its beauty. It towers against the sky like a huge encrusted jewel. Julian waves an arm, moves forward to describe its details. “The lower part of the façade was built by Giovanni Pisano in 1284.”

Amy feels Chris's hand, gently and for a single fleeting moment, press against the small of her back.

In Florence, they eat supper in the same restaurant.

Chris toasts Julian over a glass of wine. “You're an excellent driver and a brilliant guide.”

Julian replies it is a pleasure to have such a captive and adoring audience. They laugh.

They stand outside, breathing the cool night air; walk towards the river. Lights in the water gleam like fireflies. The sky, showered in handfuls of pin-prick stars, deepens to an inky blue.

Chris says firmly, “It's OK, Jules . . . I'll walk Amy back to her hotel.”

Julian looks at Chris. “Fine,” he says. “I'll go and pack.” He gives Amy a hug. “Will you be OK getting to the airport?”

“Yes, Jules,” Amy says patiently.

“See you at Terra Firma in a couple of weeks.” He steps away from them and waves. “Night, sis.”

For a whole, long heartbeat, Florence is a silent city.

Amy and Chris look at each other. They move closer together. They walk on to the Ponte Vecchio. Chris slides an arm around Amy's waist. He pulls her towards the centre of the bridge, where they can stand and watch the river, undisturbed.

“Talk to me,” he says.

Amy tells him about Dad and Hannah in the garden. The postcard in Mum's study. Julian's refusal to tell her anything. Her decision to find Marcello. Lying to Dad and Ruth. Being at the Villa Galanti. Seeing the wooden chest in the chapel. Never wanting to tell Dad what she'd seen.

Chris listens. He turns towards her, smoothes her hair out of her eyes. “You've got to let your dad start again.”

Amy looks up at him. “That's what Ruth says, what Julian says. I know you're right. But it's so hard to accept. Nobody can ever take Mum's place.”

“Nobody's trying to.” Chris slides his arms around her. “Your dad's found Hannah because he knows you're going to set him free.”

“I hadn't thought of it like that . . .”

“And you can set him free, because you're not a little girl any longer.”

“Sometimes,” Amy says, “I feel like a child. I want to burst into tears and be comforted. I want my mum.” Her eyes burn. “And other times . . .”

“Yes?”

Something in Amy melts. “I just want to be kissed. But nobody's ever offered. Nobody I ever cared about.”

Chris takes his cue. “So can I, finally, kiss you?”

Her heart races. “Yes.”

“You won't run away again?”

She laughs. “I promise not to.”

He runs a finger down the side of her cheek, over her mouth; draws her body towards his. “That's just as well, Amy. Because this time, I won't let you get away.”

On the plane, after it had taken off, Amy opened the letter.

It had been waiting for her with the concierge at the hotel. She knew it was from Marcello: she recognised his handwriting. In the shadowy hallway, then in her room, she couldn't face reading it. Not after such an evening. She sat on the lonely bed, remembering Christopher's kisses; drifted to sleep feeling his lips on hers, hearing the murmur of his voice, telling her he'd write . . .

Now, high within the walls of cloud, she steeled herself. She drew out the thick, creamy notepaper with its sepia crest, its scent of Blue Grass:

Dear Amy

I am greatly sorry you could not come today. All night, I have been thinking about you. But I understand the reason.

Thank you, really, from the bottom of my heart, for coming here to find me. I only want to say now one thing. If you ever wish to see me again, I shall be here waiting. My private number is at the top of the page. Any time, ring me.

I loved your mother. I know you have believed it.

Marcello

Amy stared at the letter with a confusion of feelings: sadness, anger, resignation, profound dissatisfaction.

She'd solved nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to solve. She had no choice but to believe Marcello's story. But so many things in it didn't add up. What about the book? Surely if Marcello had really loved Mum, he'd want to publish it as a memorial to her, not freeze her inheritance under a pile of stone.

Unless it hid his guilt . . .

Amy shivered. Perhaps she could go back to see Marcello and persuade him to publish it. Give him permission – if any were needed – to unlock Mum from her tomb.

Did she have the courage? Would she have to tell Dad the whole story? Would Marcello agree? Was there, after these six long years, a last chapter to be written that Amy could help him with?

She'd come to Italy with a postcard and left it with a letter. Had she really achieved anything?

Of course, she'd found Chris again. She remembered those kisses on the Ponte Vecchio. They'd been worth everything.

Amy opened the front door of Terra Firma.

The house smelt of polish. Fresh roses graced the hall table. A bowl of apples and bananas spilled over in the kitchen, a note beside it. Dora said Tyler was fine and she'd bring him home tomorrow night, when everyone was back.

Wearily, Amy plodded up to her room. She took Marcello's letter out of her bag and hid it in her desk. She went to the window, peered out at the garden. The grass had grown. Rose petals showered the lawn. Leaves on the silver birch had flickered into dusty gold; the fairy lights clung tenaciously to their branches.

She remembered the party: the rustle of her dress, standing in Chris's arms, stumbling back to the house over the damp lawn. It all seemed a long time ago.

A blackbird trilled ecstatically, welcoming her home.

Two figures emerged from the shed at the bottom of the garden. They laughed.

Amy turns and races out of the house.

By the time she reaches the shed, the couple have vanished. The thunder of dance music echoes from the sky. There must have been a party on the Common last night that's still spilling over into the late morning . . .

The shed door swings open on its rusty hinge. Amy steps inside. The scent of musk hangs in the air, mixed with the stink of sweat and dark tobacco. Cigarette papers and crushed butts litter the floor.

The couple had pulled some old sacking from a pile in the corner. It lies flattened by their weight. Amy stares down at it. Maybe they'd made love on it all night long, their bodies naked, entwined, while music blared to the sky. She imagines lying there with Chris; tries to quash the wild beating of her heart.

She stoops to pick up the bedding, to put it back where it belongs. She stops. Something made of wood stands half hidden in a corner of the shed. She's never seen it before.

She moves towards it, curious, gripped by dread. She pulls at the one remaining rotten piece of sacking that drapes over it.

Underneath it, lovingly hand-carved, sits a child's cradle.

Amy's hands fly to her mouth, then to the sides of the tiny bed. It begins to rock beneath her touch, creaking as if with joy that once again it is needed.

Amy's head begins to throb.

Had Mum been
pregnant
when she died? Is
that
the key to the mystery?

Amy pushes at the door to Mum's study.

The room fills with echoes.

Ruth's:
“You put your mum on a bit of a pedestal.”

Dad's:
“She wasn't perfect, Amy. Don't make out she was some kind of saint.”

Marcello's:
“She was the love of my life.”

She slides on to the sofa, grabs the Saint Elizabeth cushion and hugs it, brushing impatiently at her face, which seems to be wet.

“Were you the victim in all this, Mum? Or did you just get what was coming to you, living a double life?”

The room throbs with angry silence.

“You see, I've met your Marcello. Oh, yes! I've been to the Villa Galanti. Bit of a paradise, isn't it? I know about your plans, because he told me.

“But what I don't understand is this.”

Amy throws the cushion to one side. She stands up, staring hard into those pale grey-green eyes.

“Why didn't you even
mention
them to me? Or were you just going to push me into a suitcase and take me along for the ride?”

“Are you better?” Ruth drags her into the hall.

“Better than what?”

Ruth looks at her. “You were dying of flu, remember?”

Amy flushes. “Sorry, I'd forgotten.”

Ruth frowns. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

On the piano, Ruth's dad thunders away at “Land of Hope and Glory” with extraordinary gusto.

“Could we talk in your room?”

“Course. Come up . . . Ignore the mess.”

Amy flops on to Ruth's bed. “There's something I've got to tell you.”

“I
thought
there was . . . You can't hide anything from Auntie Ruth!”

“No, this is serious.” Amy takes a deep breath. “I wasn't ill . . . I lied.”

“What?”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“I had to do something on my own and I couldn't trust anyone or tell them, because if anyone had known what I'd planned they wouldn't have let me go.”

Ruth sits beside her. “Amy Grant, would you like to slow down and start again?”

“How was Paris?” Amy asks miserably.

“You first. One word at a time. Very, very slowly . . .”

“Hi!” Dad says.

His smile stretches ear to ear. He gives Amy a sharp, perfunctory hug. He looks tanned and fit and – Amy stares at him as he plonks his suitcase in the hall – different. He shines with happiness. It radiates from him like the morning sun.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“How was Paris?”

“It was great.” Amy does her best to sound enthusiastic. “We had a really interesting time.”

“Hope it improved your French.”

“Oh, it
did
.”

“How did you spend the week?”

Amy tries to remember what Ruth had told her. “Oh, you know . . . we did everything. We went everywhere. All the usual Paris stuff . . . It was very well organised.”

“That's Mrs Baxter for you.” Dad picks up the post from the hall table. “She's brilliant at that kind of thing.” He puts the letters down. “Look, shall we have a cup of tea? I've got something fantastic to tell you.”

Amy follows Dad into the kitchen. He isn't walking, he's kind of hopping like a frog. No, he isn't. He's dancing.

She plugs in the kettle and looks at him. “I can see you had a wonderful time.”

Dad sits at the table, then leaps to his feet again. “Oh, Amy, it was fabulous. I've never been to Wales before and the mountains are just superb. We walked and walked, wind and rain and sun, it didn't matter.”

“Great.” Amy holds her breath. “And?”

Dad throws back his head and laughs. “Clever girl. The biggest ‘and' in the world! I asked Hannah to marry me and she said yes!”

Amy gasps. The kitchen begins to sway around her. “
Marry
you?”

“That's right. Isn't it wonderful?”