Coming of Age (5 page)

“Do you think I haven't asked myself that question, every single day, for six years?”

Six

“So …” Dad said the following evening. “What did you think of Hannah?”

Amy stared straight ahead. “All right I suppose.”

Dad bit his lip. “Only all right?”

Amy shot him a glance. “What d'you want me to say?”

Dad flushed. “That you liked her. She certainly likes you.”

“No, she doesn't. I could be anybody. She's just trying to cosy up to you.”

“That's a very cynical thing to say.”

“As far as Hannah is concerned –” Amy's voice was full of sulk –“I'm merely your daughter, part of the package whether she likes it or not.”

Dad flung back his chair. “That's not fair. If you must know, I thought you gave her a very hard time. You talked endlessly about Mum. It got quite embarrassing.”

“So now you're embarrassed to discuss your own wife!”

Dad said coldly, “You know exactly what I mean.”

“What you mean is that Hannah Turner's going to eclipse everything.”

Dad looked her squarely in the eyes. “For a girl who's almost sixteen, you can sometimes talk the most ridiculous childish rubbish I've ever heard.” He stood up. “I'm taking Tyler for a walk. And if you
don't
mind, I'd rather go alone.”

Amy shrugged. “Suit yourself. See if I care.”

At the beginning of July, Dad announced he wanted to have the house decorated.

“If we start it now,” he said over breakfast, “it'll be ready for the end of term and Julian coming home and your birthday party. I want the house to look fabulous. By the way –” his voice warmed – “Hannah says she'd love to help with the party. In any way she can.”

Amy found it impossible to swallow another mouthful of Dad's concocted muesli. “This stuff is tasteless.”

“Cut an apple into it,” Dad said cheerfully. “Or a banana.”

He pushed a bowl of fruit in Amy's direction. Amy ignored it.

Dad persevered. “So, what do you think?”

He's doing this for Hannah, just to show off, to impress her. He'd never bother if it weren't for her.

“I like the house as it is.”

“It's grubby and frumpy. I haven't bothered with it for years.”

“Dora does a brilliant job.”

“Dora's wonderful at keeping it clean, but it needs more than that. Everything needs a lick of paint. The walls, the woodwork. The downstairs rooms need new wallpaper. Then we can choose some good-quality carpet, run it right through the house. Tyler's scrabbled at so many corners and the stairs are threadbare.”

Amy stood up, dumped her bowl in the sink. There was something childlike and endearing about Dad's enthusiasm. She relented.

“Can I help choose the wallpaper and the paint?”

“Of
course
, sweetheart.” Dad sounded relieved. “I'll bring some samples home tonight. We can look at them together.”

That afternoon, after school, Amy and Ruth take the bus to Guildford. Ruth has to go to a concert her parents are giving that weekend. She needs what her mother calls a “posh frock”.

It takes them two hours of fierce shopping in the crowds to find an outfit Ruth likes: a long blue chiffon skirt with an off-one-shoulder top. By the time Amy gets home it's half-past six. She's hot, tired and dusty. The heatwave louring from grey skies is oppressive.

The house looks as if an army has plundered it. Paint-­spattered dust sheets cover the hall. The furniture in the living room is piled into the centre. Three of its walls are stripped, revealing rough, bare patches. Cans of unopened paint, rolls of sandpaper and bundles of brushes cluster in corners, along with an old radio and empty lunchboxes. The tang of paint-stripper drills into the air.

Amy looks at the stairs. Dust sheets flow over them like a waterfall. Dread grips her heart.
They've been in Mum's room. I'd no idea the work would start so soon
. . .

She races up the stairs to the landing, then up the second flight. The dust sheets, sliding beneath her feet, reach into Mum's study. Amy pauses in the doorway, afraid to look. The furniture is piled into an ugly central huddle. Mum's portrait is missing; the grate yawns, empty of flowers. A filthy tartan rug sprawls across the hearth. The window gapes, as if someone thought the room needed a good airing.

A knot of anger clenches Amy's stomach.
This is a special place. Now strangers have poked about in it, as if it belonged to them. How dare they?

She slides across the floor to the window. The paint on the ledge has been scraped away; scrolls of it lie like snail shells along the skirting board. She glances down at them, bends to pick one up, feels it crack.

And then she notices.

Wedged between the dust sheet and the skirting board, against the wall where Mum's desk had stood, is a postcard. Faded, bent, lucky to have survived.

Only half curious, without thinking, Amy picks it up.

On the front, thick with dust, is a photo of Michelangelo's
David
. The head is beautiful, the limbs ripple with energy, the voluptuous mouth pouts, firm and silent, the eyes stare into space.

A black foreboding throbs in Amy's throat.
I should throw this away. Tear it up, fling it out of the window, watch it flutter into the sky.

Instead, she turns the card. She looks at the message.

The pale-blue handwriting, delicate, flowing, stretches the width of the card. There is no date, no stamp and no address, so it must have been posted in an envelope.

I'm prying. I'm dipping without permission into Mum's private world.

But she cannot resist. One by one, the words sear into her eyes:

Lauren, my darling

I cannot believe you have left. Florence is now for me like an empty tomb. I am lost without you. It has been the happiest three days of my whole life. When can I see you again? Any time, any­where. Just tell me and I'll be there.

I am ever your own

Marcello

Amy feels colour flood her face.

She reads the words over and again, turning the card in her hand as if she is cooking it over a spit. Frantically, she scrabbles at the edges of the skirting board in case they conceal another trophy.

They do not.

She stands at the window, trembling.

Florence.

Mum went to Florence the summer before she died. Amy frowns, desperately trying to remember. Mum had taken Julian with her, to look at paintings. Dad had been too busy to leave the practice. He and Mum had thought Amy was too young to go trailing around art galleries.

Mum had needed to see a landscape designer she'd met in London, to check the details of his Italian house and garden that featured in a book she'd been writing.

One she'd never finished . . .

Their trip had been the beginning of Julian's passion for paintings and the Italian language.

But that's as much as Amy can remember. She cannot recall ever having talked to Mum or Julian about their trip. Nothing had seemed any different when they'd returned. They hadn't brought back any photos – or none that she remembered.

So who is this Marcello and what happened in Florence? When had he written to Mum? Had they met again, after that summer? In England? In London? Even, perhaps, in Grayshott? Did Dad know of Marcello's existence?

Dad . . .

From far away in the house, the front door slams.

Amy jumps.

“Amy?” Dad calls. “Are you up there, sweetheart?”

Amy skids over the dust sheets to the door. “I'm coming down.”

“I've got some colour charts. Isn't this terrific? The decorators have made a great start!”

Amy races over the dust sheets, slithers down the stairs. She darts into her room, stares at it wildly, shoves the card under her pillow, smoothes the bed neat and tidy. She turns to leave the room, catches sight of her reflection. Her eyes stare out at her, green-black with shock.

In the kitchen she says coldly, “Why d'you have to muck about with Mum's study?”

Dad glances at her from a pile of letters. “We're doing up the whole house, Amy. I told the decorators:begin at the top and work down. And start on the living room.”

“You could have left Mum's room alone.”

“Look, sweetheart.” Dad flings a weary arm over Amy's shoulder. “They're giving the room a simple coat of paint.” He stabs at the chart. “How about this duck-egg blue? Then they'll put everything back exactly as before. You won't notice the difference.”

Amy pulls away from him.

I already notice the difference. I've found a postcard and everything has changed.

Amy had been counting the days until Julian returned from Cambridge.

He'd rung the night before. “I'm on my way, sis, first thing tomorrow.” She doodled through morning classes, ducked out of afternoon tennis and cycled home.

He was sitting on the terrace, under the shade of the birch. Amy saw him before he saw her. “Jules!”

He leapt to his feet. “Hi, sis! How are you?” He whirled her in his arms. “Nearly sixteen! I can't believe it.”

Amy returned his hug. “I'm so glad you're home.”

“Me too.” Julian grinned at her. “You look great!”

Amy blushed. “Thanks.”

“So does the house! What a difference!”

“Yeah,” Amy said reluctantly. “It looks OK.”

“You don't sound very enthusiastic.”

“You know why Dad's done it, don't you?”

“It was grotty, that's why. Nothing had been touched since Mum . . .”

“It's nothing to
do
with Mum.” Amy dumped her school bag on the terrace table. “It's because there's a new woman in his life.”

Julian laughed. “You're kidding.” He followed Amy into the kitchen.

“I wish I was.” Amy took a jug of lemonade from the fridge and poured some into two glasses. She handed one to Julian. “Her name's Hannah Turner.”

“But she's the new doctor.”

Amy flushed. She gulped at the cool liquid. “How did you know?”

“Dad wrote to me. Said he'd found somebody brilliant to take over from Brian Cooper. You don't mean he's
seeing
her?”

“
Exactly
. I bet that's why she got the job. He fancied her.”

“Good for Dad!”

“He's trying to lose weight, he's become a total health freak, he goes jogging at the crack of dawn, he's turned the garage into a gym . . . He's even dyeing his hair.”

“I'm impressed!” Julian said wryly. “All that for a woman . . . Have you met her?”

“She came one Sunday,” Amy said sulkily. “For lunch.”

“Wow!” Julian ran his fingers through his hair. Amy noticed it was longer, lay smooth and flat almost to his shoulders. “So what's she like?”

Amy met his eyes. “Young.” She swallowed. “Fifteen years younger than Dad. And beautiful.”

“Oh,
well
,” Julian said teasingly. “I can't
wait
to meet her!”

“This isn't a
joke
, Jules . . .”

“Lighten up, sis. Isn't it about time Dad had some fun in his life?”

Amy said stiffly, “He has plenty of fun. He loves his job, he loves Grayshott, he loves you and me . . .”

Julian looked at her. “Yes, sis.” There was a note of patience in his voice which made Amy feel patronised. “But maybe he needs to love someone who isn't a patient, a neighbour – or one of his own kids!”

“I don't think he
should
.” Amy's voice sounded shrill, as if she were talking to a crowded room, not merely her brother in his jeans and crisp white shirt. “I think he should honour Mum's memory.”

Julian stroked her shoulder. “He's
done
that. For six years.” His voice was gentle now, sympathetic. “That's one hell of a long time, sis. He's only human, isn't he?”

Amy waited for two days before she summoned the courage to show Julian the card. She'd kept it in her desk, peeped at it, slid it guiltily back into its hiding place.
Perhaps I should pretend I never found it. Tear it up. Burn it. Forget about it.
A proverb echoed in her mind:
Let sleeping dogs lie
.

But something crucially important stood between Amy and the card. Her loss of memory; knowing that her mother's death was still, all these years later, shrouded in mystery. Suppose the card held a vital clue to what had happened that January morning?

She'd tell only Julian. Not Ruth. To tell Ruth would feel cheap and nasty, like betraying Mum to an outsider. And she certainly couldn't tell Dad. Fat chance of getting the truth out of him, even if he knew it. Just Jules.

Because he'd remember that summer in Florence, wouldn't he? Dad hadn't even been there. So it was up to Jules to tell her the truth. Even if it did mean digging up the past, with all its pain.

She read the card for the umpteenth time . . .

After supper that evening, Dad received an urgent call from an elderly patient. He rushed out to see her. Amy grabbed Julian's hand, pulled him into the garden.

“Come on,” she said firmly. “We're taking Tyler out on the Common. I need to talk to you. Somewhere private, where we won't be overheard.”

“What's the big secret?” Julian opened the garden gate for her. “Is it about Hannah? Dad does seem besotted.”

“For a change,” Amy said bitterly, “this is nothing to do with Hannah Turner.” She slid her hands into her skirt pocket to make sure the card was safe. “It's to do with someone Mum knew. Someone I never met.”

Julian shot her a startled glance. “What the hell are you on about?”

There'll be no going back once I've asked him. Get
on
with it.

She took a deep breath. “Does the name Marcello mean anything to you?”