Coming of Age (7 page)

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.”

“Jules told me about her.”

“Yeah . . . And Aunt Charlotte . . . and neighbours, people from the village . . .”

Chris edges his chair closer to Amy's. “I thought you might have a boyfriend.”

Amy thinks of Pete Franklin. “No. The boys at school are, well,
boys
!” She bites her lip. “Nothing special. Nothing romantic . . . But what about you? You must be spoilt for choice. All those glamorous students, the girls you act with?”

He grins. “I haven't been short of offers. But nobody's really taken my fancy. There's no one I –”

Julian returns to the terrace. “Just somebody for Dad.”

Chris straightens his back. “I was sorry you couldn't come to see me in
Cyrano de Bergerac
,” he says more loudly than necessary.

“So was I.” Amy collects the teacups. “My exams got in the way of everything.”

“But they went well, yeah?”

Amy catches the half-smile in Chris's eyes. It implies: I'm merely making idle chat. There are other things I'd much rather say to you.

She says hurriedly, “The exams were fine. No problem.”

Julian says, “Chris was brilliant as Cyrano. Did I tell you? An agent from London came to see him. Met him backstage and signed him on the spot. We may yet see his name in lights.”

In my head, Christopher's name has always been in lights.

“He's
gorgeous
,” Ruth said.

She'd met Chris in the hall as she flew upstairs to Amy's room.

Amy laughed. “See? What did I tell you?”

“When did he arrive?”

“Yesterday. It's been fantastic. We had supper with Dad and Hannah. I hardly noticed her!”

Ruth laughed. “Poor Hannah!”

“And then we took Tyler for a walk, and this morning Aunt Charlotte arrived and we left her and Dad together, and Julian took us for a drive to show Chris the countryside and we had lunch at the Bishop's Table in Farnham . . .” Amy paused for breath. “It's been the best.”

Ruth sat down on the bed. “I can't believe it.”

“He makes me laugh. He's got the most beautiful speaking voice.”

“You're well and truly smitten!”

“Yes.” Amy flopped down next to Ruth. “I'm crazy about him.”

“I'd begun to wonder.”

“Whether I'd ever feel like this? Well, I do.” Amy blushed. “I want to be with him all the time, listening to him, looking at him. I could hardly get to sleep last night, knowing he was upstairs.”

Ruth said quietly, “That's great, Amy. And happy birthday. You look beautiful.”

“Are you sure the dress is OK?”

“It's stunning.” Ruth rustled in her bag. “Here. These are from Mum and me.”

“Ruth! You shouldn't have.”

Amy unwrapped a pair of earrings in softly glinting pearl. She caught her breath. “I don't know what to say . . . Thank you!” She clipped them on. “What d'you think?”

“The perfect finishing touch. Are you ready, birthday girl?”

“I'm ready . . . Here I come!”

Ruth rushed down to join Eddie, who'd begun to organise the music.

Amy stood for a moment on the landing, listening to the buzz of happy voices. And suddenly two others, dark, bitter, coming from Dad's bedroom. Her heart leapt. Perhaps Dad was arguing with Hannah, telling her to get out of his life?

“But you
promised
me.”

Amy froze. Aunt Charlotte was in Dad's bedroom. Her voice sounded thick and smeary, as if she'd been crying.

“I'm sorry, Lottie,” Dad said, low, urgent, as if he were trying to get rid of her. “I'm grateful to you for all your help, all your –”

“Grateful!”
Amy heard a slap. “You're a lying
pig
, William Grant. Why d'you think I've bothered to love you all these years?”

“I've no idea.”

“You
promised
you'd marry me, after a decent time had passed, after Lauren . . .”

“My dear Lottie, I did nothing of the kind.”

“You mean, after all these
years
of being so discreet and hiding my real feelings from the children, making sure they never found us together . . .”

Amy walked past the door and stiffly down the stairs, her heart thudding against the silk of her dress.

Good God. Dad and Aunt Charlotte. So
that's
why she kept on coming here, year after year . . . All that comforting she did when Mum died . . . I remember now . . . Always the first to say, “Don't cry, dear William, don't cry.”

Chris met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Hey!” he said. “Just look at Jules's little sister now!”

The downstairs rooms thronged with guests. Tyler, banished to the kitchen, chewed miserably on a bone. Eddie's music filled the house, floated to the starry summer sky. Plates of food scented the terrace table.

The fairy lights had triumphantly survived the deluge. Now they swung and glittered from the trees, painting the garden magical rainbow colours.

Aunt Charlotte handed out drinks from a tray, her eyes dark with rage whenever she glanced at Dad and Hannah laughing together. Later, Dad said Aunt Charlotte wasn't feeling well and had driven back to London.

Amy stared at him with hardened eyes.

Dad insisted on making a speech.

In the moment of silence before he spoke, Amy remem­bered Mum's funeral, how they had toasted “Lauren”, her own wretched muteness – and Aunt Charlotte's comforting presence.

The room darkened at the memory.

“I wanted to say thank you, to everyone, for being here. And happy birthday to my best and darling daughter, who looks so beautiful tonight. We wish you the happiest year of your life.” He raised his glass. “Amy. Happy birthday.”

“Amy! Happy birthday!”

Amy's eyes filled with tears. “Thanks, Dad.”

Christopher says, “I've got a present for you.” He grips Amy's hand.

His touch charges through her body. “I didn't expect . . .”

“Come into the garden, away from all these people. I want to give it to you before your birthday's several days old!”

He slides an arm around her waist. They cross the terrace and the lawn, wander through the sweet dampness of the rose garden to the edge of the Common. A curved sliver of moon hangs like a midnight jewel, parting the clouds around it.

“Here.” He gives her a small flat parcel.

Amy tears at the wrapping. It's a book, slim in its leather binding. “Chris! But I can't see what it is!”

He chuckles. “It's an edition of
Shakespeare's Sonnets
. I love them. I wanted you to have a copy.”

“
Thank
you.”

“Hold it carefully. I've put something inside to mark my favourite.”

“Which one is it?”

“Aha! You'll have to open it and see in the quiet of your room.”

Amy runs her fingers over the smooth leather.

“Amy?”

“Yes.” She looks into his face, half hidden in the shadows.

“I think you know how I feel about you.” Chris moves a step closer. His eyes glitter in the moonlight. “Ever since the cricket match.” The tips of his fingers touch her bare shoulders, stroke them like the wings of a butterfly. Her skin sparkles. “Ever since last year. Do you remember?” Closer still. “That afternoon on the river?”

Amy feels the warmth of Chris's body against her, the crispness of his shirt beneath her hands. “Of course I remember.”

“I've thought about you such a lot.” His lips brush her hair. “I wondered –”

Amy stiffens. Suddenly the only thing she can hear is the murmur of two other voices. One of them laughs. It's Hannah. Hannah and Dad.

Nausea rises up Amy's throat and into her mouth. She pulls out of Chris's arms. “I'm sorry,” she says abruptly. “I have to go in.”

Amy runs back across the garden.

She pushes through the guests, races up to her room. She stands with her back to the door, her legs trembling, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her heart beats like pounding rain.

Chris will think I don't want him. I want him so much I can hardly stand up. But the thought of Dad and Hannah kissing makes me feel sick. It's supposed to be Chris and me under those fairy lights, not Dad and Hannah.

It's
my
garden. Mum's and mine
.

Amy sinks on to the bed, looks down at the book in her hand. Under the light, the leather binding gleams a luxuriant crimson. Slowly she opens it, reads the inscription:

For Amy, now you are sixteen. With my love, Christopher

In the centre of the book lies a carefully crushed, pale yellow rose, its stem stripped of thorns. Chris must have chosen it from the ones she'd put on his bedside table. Underneath the rose lies Sonnet 116. The words blur into each other as she reads:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments, love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Nor bends with the remover to remove.

O, no, it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempest and is never shaken

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken,

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come,

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

With infinite care, Amy closes the flower into its page. Hot tears burn behind her eyes.

She lies awake, staring into the dark, filled with a confusion of feelings. Wanting to talk to Aunt Charlotte, to confide in her – to hear her story. Anger at Dad. Resentment of Hannah. Longing for Christopher, for the stroke of his fingers, the touch of his lips. Bitter remorse that she ran away.

She hears Chris and Julian come up the stairs, hears them mutter, “Good night,” on the landing. She wills Chris to tap at her door, whisper, “Amy? Are you awake?”

Instead, silence throbs into the darkness. An owl hoots, mournful, complaining. In the garden, cats spit fresh animosities. On the Common, the foxes scream for food.