Coming of Age (14 page)

Eighteen

Amy heaves her body to its feet.

It is raining heavily. The trees sigh with relief. Rivulets of water bubble down the path, crawl between the stones.

Amy is soaked. Her hair hangs flat against her neck, her shirt clings to her breasts.

Her father says, “Where are you going?”

She looks down at him. He squats in the hedgerow like a giant toad.

“Terra Firma. I believe that's where I live.”

“Amy?”

“What?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I've no idea . . . Think . . . Smile and be polite.”

“But – ”

“We have guests. Jules and Chris. They'll be waiting at the house.”

“But – ”

Amy screams, “But what? What do you
want
from me?”

There is a terrible long quiet moment.

Her father says, “Forgiveness.”

“Wow! That's a
very
big word!”

“Yes. So is compassion. And understanding.” He struggles to his feet. “Please.”

Father and daughter face each other in the pouring rain, across the river path. “You must believe me. It was an accident. A terrible mistake.”

Amy says, “Shut up! Just shut up and get out of my life!”

“But my
darling
little girl . . .”

“Don't
ever
call me that again.” She feels like spitting in his face. “Crawl under a stone. That's where you belong.”

She turned and walked away.

She did not look back. She could hear her father behind her, the squelch of his shoes, the sharp intake of his breath. She kept up the ruthless pace, though she knew he was flagging. She could feel his exhaustion but she steeled her heart.

She raced ahead of him.

Knowledge is power . . . I feel powerful . . . A different person . . . I feel whole again. Whatever I decide to do, I've managed to remember my bit of what happened.

That's what matters.

I'll have to believe my father's told me the truth, just like I had to believe Marcello.

And now I must decide what I'm going to do . . .

Amy dashed into the house.

She glanced at the note from Hannah on the kitchen table:

Darling, Where are you? I've gone back to my flat to make myself beautiful for tomorrow. Ring me tonight. Sweet dreams. Love you the most. Hannah

Amy clawed at the piece of paper with her wet hands, tore it to shreds and threw it in the bin. She emptied the teapot over it, squashing the tea leaves into a dark stain, wishing Hannah's face lay beneath: just like her father had wanted Marcello to lie under his poker, prodding at the letter in the fire.

She snapped the lid shut and dripped her way into the hall. Jules's and Chris's bags sat on the stairs. She pushed at the living-room door, poked her head around it.

Chris stood up. “Hi!” His eyes had a dazzling light to them.

Amy blew him a kiss.

Jules said, “Sis! . . . Where
have
you been? Talk about a drowned rat!”

Dad stood at Amy's elbow, his breath heaving. “Julian! Christopher! Welcome home! My fault she's so wet!”

Amy moved away from him.

“Dad and I,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “we've been having a little father-and-daughter chat. Before his big day and all.” She looked him squarely in the eyes, seeing in front of her a very frightened man. “Haven't we,
Dad
?”

“That's . . . that's right.”

“Jules and Chris and I,” Amy said casually, “we had
such
a wonderful time in Florence . . . Didn't we, Jules?”

Her brother looked startled and then alarmed.

Dad's mouth dropped open. “What d'you mean?”

“Oh, it wasn't
planned
. You could say we met by
accident
.”

Her father's face paled. “How very nice,” he squeaked.

“And now,” Amy grinned at the three men in her life, “would you excuse me? I simply
must
get out of these wet clothes before I catch my death.”

They ate supper in the kitchen.

Julian cooked rice with wild mushrooms. Amy made a salad. Dad and Chris stood around and drank white wine. Dad swallowed half a bottle very fast and opened a second. Julian carved a cooked chicken, cold, straight from the fridge.

Everything tasted like soap.

Amy sat next to Chris. They didn't say much to each other, but every so often Chris's foot would gently nudge hers. Tyler took a shine to Chris and squashed adoringly against his legs.

Nobody mentioned Florence. When the conversation flagged, Julian brayed on about Rome. Dad got steadily drunk.

At the cheese and biscuits stage, Amy stood up. “Would you all excuse me again?”

“Where are you off to?” Her father's eyes flickered warily over her.

“There's something I need to do.”

“I hope you're not going
out
this time of night?”

Amy ignored him. She looked at Julian. “You can clear up, can't you? I won't be a minute.” She turned at the door. “In fact, you'll hardly notice I'm gone.”

She pounded up to her room, sat at her desk, scrabbled between the files for the thick, creamy notepaper with its sepia crest. She read its handwriting three times. Then swiftly, decisively, she wrote:

Dear Marcello

I'm sorry to have taken so long to answer your letter. My father is getting married again. The ceremony is planned for tomorrow. So we've all been very busy at Terra Firma getting ready for the big day.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about you and the Villa Galanti. And about your book in the chapel. I now know that my mother wanted you to publish it.

I'd like to come back to Fiesole. I want to see you again. To read the book. To persuade you to publish it.

Amy Grant

Her heart thumping with impatience, Amy wheeled her bicycle out of the garage.

The road stretched shiny with rain, thick with wet leaves; the sky black, without moon or stars. She flicked on the bike's front and back lights and cycled to the post box. The letter thudded irrevocably into its mouth.

One down . . . Two more to go . . .

She changed direction and set off for Grayshott village. For the small, friendly police house, where she hoped their police officer, Philip Bradley, would be waiting.

She rings the bell.

A light flicks on in the hall. The door opens. Philip peers out.

“Hello! Isn't it Amy Grant?”

“It is.”

“Good
evening
! This
is
a nice surprise!”

“Is it?”

“I don't often get calls from you this time of night. Come to think of it, I don't get calls from you at all!”

“No.” Amy swallows. “Things have changed . . . There's something you need to know . . .”

Get on with it!

“I've something to tell you.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“No.” Amy takes a deep breath. “This won't take long.”

Philip settles into his listening position: head on one side, eyes wide, arms folded across his policeman's shirt, fingers thrumming.

“It's about my father . . . It's him I've come about.”

“Dr Grant?” Philip's eyes light up. “
Such
a lovely man! When my sister was dying, Dr Grant sat with her all night long. Aren't many doctors you can say
that
about.”

“You don't understand,” Amy says wildly. “My father isn't what he seems.”

“How d'you mean?”

“My father,” Amy says slowly. “The accident. When my mother died.”

“Ah, yes. That
was
unfortunate.”

“He kkk . . .” The verb sticks in her throat. She tries again. “He's a mmm –”

The telephone peals in Philip's office. “Would you excuse me a minute? I'll be right back.” He trots off.

Amy kicks the doorstep. She hops up and down. She flicks at her hair and hugs her body. The night air smells thick with early autumn.

Philip pops his head round the office door. “Got an emergency on my hands . . . Would you like to come back in the morning?”

“But my father's getting
married
in the morning.”

“I see.” Philip grins. “
That's
what you've come about.”

Amy grabs her bike and wobbles furiously down the road.

The lights are on in Hannah's flat. She leaves the bike sprawled across the pavement, thunders on Hannah's door.

“Who is it?”

“It's Amy . . . Let me in!”

Hannah opens the door. Her hair is smeared with conditioner, her face covered in mud pack. “Amy? This is
not
a good time to call!”

Amy pushes past her. “Good time, bad time, what the hell does it matter?”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“I've remembered everything.” Amy clenches her fists, screws up her eyes, bites her lip. “Every single bloody little moment.”

A silence hangs between them.

Hannah sighs. “Ahhh . . . I
see
what this is about.” She draws her robe more tightly around her. “You'd better come in and sit down.”

Amy flings herself into a chair. She looks up at Hannah. “It was my father on the Common that morning. It was him.”

Hannah slides gracefully on to the sofa. “I know.”

“What?”

“He told me everything. When we were in Wales. When he asked me to marry him. I know the whole story.”

Amy scrambles to her feet. “I don't believe it. You mean,
you
knew but I didn't?”

“He was only trying to protect you. You'd been traumatised. What good would it have done to go over all that old ground?”

“What
good
!”

“Look, Amy. It was an accident. It's over and done with. There's nothing anyone can do about it, not now, not ever.”

Amy wobbles across the room. She stands by Hannah's slim body, seeing the outline of her bare breasts under the robe, her mud-packed face, her gleamy shining hair.

“I hate you,” she says.

Hannah flinches.

“I won't be at your wedding tomorrow. I don't want to see you again. You can
have
my father. I hope you both rot in hell.”

She marches out of the room and down the hall.

Hannah calls, “Wait! Amy, please, don't leave like this.”

Amy slams the door behind her and races for her bike.

She throws it back in the garage. It hits the trampoline, shudders to a halt.

Inside the house, Tyler barks.

Dad says, “Ahh, Amy . . . You
did
go out.”

Julian flings an arm round Dad's shoulders. “I'm taking Dad for a quiet drink . . . An orange juice. He's already got through several bottles of wine.” He looks pointedly at Amy. “This is supposed to be his stag night, after all.”

“Thass's sright. S'my
thstag
night . . . Here's to all thstags.”

Amy looks at Chris. “That's fine by me.”

Dad holds on to Julian. “You can keep Chrisss entertained fra while, can't you, my darlin' liddle gurl?”

“Oh, yes.” Amy slips off her coat. “I can do
that
all right.”

The door slams.

Julian's car drives away.

Tyler curls into his basket and snuffles into sleep.

Chris leaps across the hall.

He takes Amy in his arms.

Amy clings to him, to his gentle, comforting warmth.

Tears begin to rack her body.

They catch in her throat and sting her eyes.

They taste dark as the starless night.

Nineteen

They were still talking on the sofa, an hour later, when Julian's car pulled up.

They listened as he helped Dad up the stairs.

“Juss wanna thay goo'night to mah darlin' liddle gurl,” Dad growled.

“No, you don't.” Julian's voice was firm. “You let her sleep.”

Doors banged, taps ran, the cistern grumbled and died.

Amy whispered, “I should go up to bed.”

“Not yet.” Chris stroked her hair from her forehead, took her once again in his arms. “Not quite yet, my darling little girl.”

She sleeps.

Not an ordinary sleep, but one free at last from the nightmares of her mind.

When she wakes it is dawn. She pulls on a tracksuit, slips down the stairs and out into the cool grey air.

As she cycles down the lanes, fog sucks in spirals from the grass. She hears the creak of her pedals, the insistent purring of wood doves, her own panting, impatient breath.

She rounds the corner to the farm. Golden calves sleep in the field, their tails twitching. She can smell the horses, sees them standing, watching her, in the fields beyond.

She leaps over the metal gate into the stable yard, hears herself call, “Cadence? Cadence, I'm back. I am here for you.”

As she runs, she remembers: her mother's laugh, Mary's welcome, the dappled coat and silver mane of her first and only.

On the way back to Terra Firma, Amy stopped at Ruth's.

She hung on the doorbell, woke everybody up, talked to Ruth for a few moments alone in her room.

Then she cycled home.

At eight o'clock she opened her wardrobe.

She took out the dress and the jacket; the shoes and the bag. She lay in a deep bath and washed her hair. She ran down to the kitchen in her bathrobe; fed Tyler;made tea and toast.

Her father called, “Good morning,” but she did not answer him.

She ran back to her room. She dried her hair, put on lipstick, slid swiftly into her underwear and then the dress; the shoes and then the jacket. She filled her bag. She looked at herself in the mirror.

Yes, she would do.

She sat at her desk and wrote:

Dad, I can't come to the Register Office. I don't want to see you marry Hannah. I'm sure you'll understand why. Chris and Jules are still asleep. Please tell them for me.

I'll wait for you in the churchyard. I have things to say to you, things we must discuss, before the blessing. If you don't agree to what I want to do, I shall not attend the blessing and I shall never see you again.

Amy

She pushed the note under her father's door and walked out of the house.

Amy shivers.

The dress is short and the jacket barely touches her waist. Her hands are freezing and the wedding party are late. She paces around the churchyard. The shoes have high heels and she cannot move all that fast. The odd passer-by stares at her and wanders on.

The cars start to arrive. Her father gets out of the first.

He is wearing a pale-grey suit and an embroidered blue waistcoat. He has slicked his hair back from his forehead but Amy knows it isn't going to stay like that. Not for long.

She sits on the bench and waits.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks.”

He holds out his hand. “Hannah and I are married.”

She looks at the wedding ring, biting into his flesh. “So I see.”

“Thank you for letting me –”

“Sit down. There are things I need to say.”

“Of course . . . Anything.”

Amy swallows. “I know it was an accident.”

He drops his head into his hands. “Thank God.”

“But the fact you never told me the truth – and that you left Mum lying there – I think that was despicable. I can never feel the same way about you. But you're my father and I want you to get on with your life. As best you can.”

“Thank you.”

“I shan't tell Jules and I shan't tell Chris. I shan't tell anyone.” Amy smiles wryly. “It'll be our little secret.” She clenches her fists. “But in return you must agree to what I want to do.”

“Anything.”

Amy stands up. “I've written to Marcello.”

“What?”

“I posted the letter last night.”

“So
that's
where you –”

“Yes.” Amy stares at the gravestones, at the way they heave from the ground. “I've told him I want to go back to the Villa Galanti. To read the book. His and Mum's book. I want him to publish it . . . It's what Mum wanted . . . I think we should honour that request.”

Her father is crying now; his body racks with sobs.

“If you want me to be your maid of honour you will have to say yes.”

“Yes,” her father moans. “Yes, of course . . . What else can I say?”

“Good.” She opens her bag and gives him her handkerchief. “Here. Wipe your face and pull yourself together.”

He blows his nose. It sounds like a trumpet singing over the graves of the dead.

“This morning, very early, I did something else.” Amy bites her lip. “I went to find Cadence . . . She's just the same as ever. Just as beautiful. I rode her down the lanes. It was wonderful.”

Her father's face glitters through his tears. “Can we –”

“Yes. I want us to open the stables. I want to ride again.”

Dad stumbles to his feet.

“No, don't touch me.” She turns away from him. “I've got something else I need to do . . . Go and find your wife.”

Amy walks, slowly, into the centre of the yard of graves.

Crunch, punch
snap the stones beneath her heels. An autumn wasp zooms viciously against her cheek.

Her mother's gravestone winks up at her from waves of grass that nobody has cut. The granite shimmers in the light, grey flecked with black. Amy bends towards it. The sleeves of her jacket rustle against her arms.

She strokes her fingers over the edge of the stone. Its roughness bites. She gasps. The granite has drawn blood. She opens her mouth and coughs. Fluid rises from her lungs. She swallows it down again.

“I've come to say ‘hello',” Amy says.

She recites the words to herself, as if she is learning how to read:

In memory of Lauren Grant

Wife to William

Mother to Amy and Julian

Sister to Charlotte

We who live on will always love you

“I'm going back to Fiesole.”

Amy fights back the tears but loses the battle. She straightens her back.

“And then I'll come to talk to you again.”

In the church there are flowers and music, crowds of heads and hats, the scent of lavender.

Dad and Hannah try to smile at her. They turn and start to walk down the aisle.

Amy hesitates.

She stares at the flagged floor.

She longs to back away, to race out of the church, out of the village, on and on, into the wind and the sun, until she reaches nowhere.

She raises her head.

In front of her, holding her garden in her arms, glimmers the stained-glass image of Saint Elizabeth.

Amy hears Mum's voice:
“What I love about her is her strength . . .”

She bows her head, willing herself to move.

Slowly, stiffly, with all eyes upon her, she walks down the aisle.

She moves towards Christopher's side and slips her hand in his.