Coming of Age Read online

  COMING OF AGE

  Valerie Mendes

  LBLA Digital

  Praise for Coming of Age and Valerie Mendes

  “Amy is an attractive heroine and Mendes’ tantalising tale unfolds in an atmospheric and engaging way.” The Observer

  “This is a beautiful portrayal of a girl on the edge of adulthood and a lovely follow-on to Girl in the Attic. … Mendes displays a fantastic ability to delve deep into the hearts and minds of her characters. As a reader you really get to know Amy, and just as she finds it hard to let the past go, I found it hard to let her go. A truly inspiring read for any teenager.” Waterstones

  “Childhood tragedy means that growing up is tough for Amy. As she begins to come to terms with what happened, she discovers a mysterious postcard which threatens to further undermine her rocky family life. … An Italian journey of discovery follows for Amy in this superb teenage story from the author of the outstanding Girl in the Attic.” Ottakar’s

  “This gripping story covers six years and a gamut of emotions in Amy’s life. Two weeks after finishing it, I look back as on a film, so vivid are the characters, the situations, and the changing scenes. Also the dialogue and conversations always ring true. The author creates memorable, visual set pieces.” The School Librarian

  “An exquisite first novel … An unusual ghost story set in Cornwall, it is beautifully written, with a rich understanding of love and friendship.” Daily Telegraph

  “Gripping.” Daily Mirror

  “The story is well-written—sometimes tense, sometimes atmospheric, sometimes particularly descriptive. A sound read.” Carousel

  “This great read gives you a boy’s point of view on what it’s like to have a total crush.” Mizz

  “If you’re into gripping, mysterious and slightly sinister stories, this is definitely the story for you. Girl in the Attic is a masterpiece!” Teen Titles

  “The sense of place, the frustrations of the protagonists, and the development of the mystery all contribute to a page-turning read.” School Library Association

  “... Mendes is a mistress of plot-weaving, skilfully introducing characters at a comfortable speed for the reader and yet never patronising her teenage target audience. … Adults writing for older children often have trouble pitching the tone of their writing and can end up sounding like children’s entertainers. Mendes avoids any danger of this through her obvious respect for her readers. … The novels are accessible and highly enjoyable for anyone from a mature pre-teen upwards, male or female.” The Oxford Times

  “ ... gripping, fast-moving, delicate and touching. I thought the shifting perspectives offered by the different narrative voices added a whole new dimension to your work ... .” Sam Mendes

  About the Author

  Valerie Mendes wrote her first short story when she was six years old. It was published in her school magazine. Reading it that night, she decided she wanted to be a writer. After North London Collegiate School, where she was awarded a State Scholarship in English and History, she went to Reading University and gained an Honours Degree in English and Philosophy. She began a long career in publishing, initially as a journalist and then in book publishing itself.

  The publication of two of her short stories in Puffin Post encouraged her developing passion in writing for children. Two picture books followed: Tomasina’s First Dance and Look at Me, Grandma! Then, several years later, four critically acclaimed novels for young adults allowed her to explore in powerful story form many of the current issues that affect the lives of teenagers today: Girl in the Attic, Coming of Age, Lost and Found and The Drowning.

  Larkswood is Valerie’s first historical novel for the adult marketplace. It is a gripping family saga about the Hamilton clan, set in 1897 and 1939.

  Valerie lives and works in Woodstock, Oxfordshire. She is proudly the mother of the theatre and film director Sam Mendes CBE, and Granny Vowel to Mia and to Joe.

  You can visit her website www.valeriemendes.com

  Books by Valerie Mendes

  Young adult novels

  Picture books

  Tomasina’s First Dance

  Look at Me, Grandma!

  Adult novel

  Larkswood

  Copyright © 2003 Valerie Mendes

  First published as an e-book in the United Kingdom by LBLA Digital in 2012.

  First published in paperback in the United Kingdom by Simon & Schuster in 2003.

  This e-book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  All rights reserved

  Artwork copyright © Louise Milidge using images supplied by Dreamstime

  ISBN 978-1-908879-03-5

  For Stephen Cole, a brilliant editor and a beloved friend

  COMING OF AGE

  Valerie Mendes

  Acknowledgements

  My gratitude and love go to Sam Mendes for his generous financial support and unwavering encouragement, without which writing this novel would have been utterly impossible; his continual right-hand woman, Tara B. Cook, for masterminding my trip to Italy – and only she knows how much more; Janine Gray for her sweetness and light on all matters personal and domestic; Maurizio Ammazzini, Carlo Soldani and the miraculously restored White Cat at the Villa San Michele, Fiesole, Florence, for their immaculate help and hospitality; Pamela Cleaver and Maggie Hamand for their constructive reading of early synopses; all the staff of Grayshott Hall, Hindhead; my Grayshott drivers – Jean, Tom and Michael – who made possible many research expeditions; Mary Peters of Mayfair Farm and Riding Stables for her knowledge, experience and caring empire; and Major Jeremy Whitaker and his family in the Land of Nod for taking the time and trouble to read the final draft.

  My thanks also go to the professionalism, enthusiasm and expertise of the Simon & Schuster Children’s Books publishing team, without whom I should undoubtedly still be sitting in the slush pile of some sleepy office; and to our copy-editor Lesley Levene.

  Last, I need to thank Robert McKee for his outstanding story seminars, which guide, inspire and live on.

  One

  Amy grips her father’s hand, as hard as her frozen fingers will allow.

  Dad’s hand feels plump and hot and sweaty. Amy looks up at him, noticing for the first time the flutter of grey eating into the thick brown waves of hair above his ears.

  I want to be glued to Dad for ever, so he’ll never leave me. Wherever I go, he’ll be close to me, so nothing can happen to him. Nothing can take him away from me. Or, if it does, I can go with him.

  The January wind bites across the Surrey sky over the graveyard, drifting into Amy’s face a cold sleet that clings to her lips and eyelashes. When she blinks, pale drops splash to her cheeks, her neat, shining chestnut plaits which flick forward over her shoulders, down on to her smart navy Sunday-best coat.

  The coffin bumps and rasps against the sides of the hole, settles on the earth with a dull thud. Sleet finds the wooden surface and licks it shiny wet.

  It’s Mum inside that box. Her eyes are closed, her neck is white with those spidery-thin lines. Her hair, all her lovely dark-red hair, is curling on her shoulders. I wonder what she’s wearing, what they’ve put her in.

  Amy bends forward so she can see past Dad to her brother, Julian. He’s thirteen, four years older than her, and she adores him. He stands stiffly by Dad’s side, his head bent, his hands thrust into his coat pockets. He’d returned to Grayshott yesterday from his Oxford boarding school, driven by one of the masters, a tall, thin man with a red nose and embarrassed eyes who hovered in the hall and then vanished back to his car with obvious relief.
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  Julian had looked pale, dry-eyed. He hugged Amy, said, “Hi, sis,” and stared wretchedly into her silent face. Then he ran up to his room and shut the door. Amy followed him and paused outside. She knocked, but got no answer. She hadn’t dared go in. Instead she ran into her bedroom, stood at the window looking out at the garden. Mum’s garden, the one she’d designed and made, cared for so lovingly, now bleak and winter-wet.

  Dad came home from the surgery, rushed up to see Julian. Their voices mumbled on for ages behind the door.

  Now a strange sound breaks from her father’s mouth, a kind of cry, but choked and muffled, as if it had escaped without permission. He clears his throat.

  “Lauren, my love,” he says.

  Amy blinks and looks around the graveyard. For a wild moment she thinks she can see the dead rising from their graves. Their faces are pale, their clothes drab, their hair flutters in the wind. One of them, a woman dressed in black, carries a baby in her arms. Then the creatures sigh. They dissolve once again into the ground.

  Frightened, Amy grips Dad’s hand tighter still. She tugs at it, makes him look down at her. His eyes, pink around the edges, grey with tiredness, stare at her, but they don’t see her. Sunk in misery, they look back into his own head.

  Amy opens her mouth. She wants to say, “Don’t cry, Dad.” She tries to say, “I promise I’ll remember what happened. One morning, soon, I’ll wake up and I’ll be able to speak again. My voice will sound just the same as before and I’ll tell you what happened, because every minute will have come back to me.”

  The words ring in her head. They climb up her throat, but something swallows them before they reach her mouth.

  Dad tries to smile at her and Amy tries to speak.

  Both of them fail.

  “Poor little mite.”

  Amy hears the whisperings about her begin as the scrapes of earth crunch on the coffin. Rooks cling and caw insistently among the giant firs; the mourners huddle into groups against the wind.

  “She’s only nine years old, you know . . . Terrible thing to witness . . . She ran for help. Got off her pony and stumbled across Ludshott Common. Flung herself at the door of the nearest house, fainted dead away.”

  “How terrible . . .”

  “When she came round, she couldn’t say a word. Just shook her head and pointed to the Common, crying as if her heart would break but not making a sound. Her dog, Tyler, was with her, barking fit to burst. They followed him and found Lauren lying on the path . . . Nothing they could do to help . . . too late for anything.”

  “And Amy still can’t –”

  “No, not a word. Hasn’t said a word since that dreadful day.”

  “Where was Dr Grant at the time?”

  “Dreadfully ill. Flu epidemic all winter. Hit the village hard. He’s such a lovely man, do anything for anybody – home visits, weekends . . .”

  Restlessly, the mourners begin to shift away from the grave, down the tarmac path shot through with patches of ice and sharp yellow moss, towards Terra Firma, the Grant family’s house.

  Amy feels hands stroking her shoulders. Aunt Charlotte bends to kiss her. She’s older than Mum and not a bit like her – very thin, with beautiful clothes. “Come on, my darling. Let’s get back into the warm.”

  Amy lets go of Dad. She buries her face in the softness of Aunt Charlotte’s coat. It smells of sugared almonds. Wisps of mohair find their way into her mouth.

  Back at Terra Firma, the hall fills with damp coats and the spikes of dripping umbrellas. Tyler skitters up and down, yapping excitedly at the strangers who throng the living room. Bottles chink, glasses fill, sherry scents the air.

  Someone rings a spoon against a glass. The voices hush.

  “I want to thank everyone for making time to come to Lauren’s funeral and for being here with us this afternoon.” Dr William Grant’s voice falters. “Lauren and I were childhood sweethearts. She was my wife and dearly beloved partner for fifteen years . . . For me, she will never die. And I know that many of you here, her good friends and neighbours, whose gardens she designed and helped create, will always have those to remember her by. I hope that by tending them in future, you too will be able to keep her memory alive.”

  His voice almost breaks.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”

  Murmurs of sympathy fill the room.

  “But –” Dr Grant takes a deep breath and perseveres – “Amy and Julian are by my side, and Lauren’s dear sister, Charlotte, will stay with us until we are strong again.”

  He smiles at Charlotte through tearful eyes.

  “And of course my job as your GP will continue. In fact –” he swallows – “my partners and I will work harder than ever to ensure your health and welfare are looked after in the best possible way.”

  Appreciative cluckings.

  “And now,” Dr Grant says, relief in his voice that he has managed the words he had so carefully rehearsed, “please raise your glasses to the memory of Lauren. May she rest in peace.”

  “Lauren!”

  The cry lifts to the ceiling. Tyler barks. Mouths drink.

  Nausea rises from the pit of Amy’s stomach and threatens to engulf her.

  It was all my fault. It must’ve been. Mum fell off Duchess and I must’ve been to blame. Maybe I saw something that frightened me and Mum tried to protect me. Maybe I shouted at something and scared Duchess. Maybe Cadence started to bolt after a rabbit and Duchess threw Mum off her by mistake. Why, oh, why can’t I remember?

  Last night I had that dream again. I’m out on the Common and the sky is black. A strip of lightning shivers silently across it. I can hear the thunder of horses’ hooves, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I’m terrified. I know something terrible is going to happen and I want to scream. But when I open my mouth, I can’t make a sound. I wake and sit up in bed. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out of it.

  Dad’s arm slides across her shoulders. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  Amy nods.

  Dad bends to whisper in her ear. “Soon they’ll be gone. These kind people who’ve come to pay their respects. They’ll all go home. Then you and me and Jules and Aunt Charlotte – we can have a quiet time around the fire, just the four of us.”

  Amy can smell alcohol on Dad’s breath. Just the four of us doesn’t mean with Mum any more. It can never mean that again.

  The room becomes jumpy with noise. Tyler has found a fur hat on the pile. Amy is sure it belongs to Frances, their vicar. She’s been so kind to them since Mum died. The hat looks damp and bedraggled. Tyler is joyfully tugging it through the clusters of legs.

  I can’t even say “Bad dog!” to him.

  She looks at the faces peering down at her, their pitying watery eyes, their wagging chins. She can’t bear them a minute longer.

  She ducks under Dad’s arm, pushes against the bodies, crashes on all fours up the stairs into the silence of her room.

  Tyler comes bounding after her.

  She flings herself on her bed, face down. She remembers how she used to fling herself across Cadence to ride her, pulling at her solid, welcoming warmth, feeling the soft fall of her silvery mane.

  Cadence.

  She’d never ride her again. Not now. Not ever again.

  Tyler jumps on to Amy’s bed. He nuzzles at her ear. When there is no response, he sighs. He settles himself across Amy’s back to guard her through the night.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come yesterday,” Mary says.

  She kneels on the floor, beside the fire where Amy is crouching, and takes her hands. The wonderful scent of horses drifts from Mary’s clothes.

  “Ballard’s been off her feed all week. The vet got delayed and I had to deal with it myself.”

  Amy wants to say, “Is Ballard going to be OK?” but the words rattle in her head instead of coming out.

  “She’ll be fine.” Mary strokes the flop of Amy’s hair away from her face. “I thought about y
ou all day. Everybody did . . . You know that, don’t you?”

  Amy nods.

  “Look.” Mary swallows. She turns her face towards the gentle flicker of fire. “I’ve come with the van and I’ll take Duchess away. Of course I will. And your dad’s wonderful Marathon.” Her voice hardens. “I know it’s what Dr Grant wants.”

  Amy nods more vigorously. The flames dance into energetic life.

  “Duchess and Marathon can join the other thoroughbreds in my fields. They’ll have a marvellous life. I’ll look after them for as long as you want . . .”

  Rigid as a stone, Amy stares at Mary.

  “For as long as your dad wants . . .”

  Amy thinks, Oh, God, I know what’s coming.

  “But your beloved Cadence. Are you quite sure you want me to take her too?”

  Amy freezes. Her head will no longer even nod.

  “I mean, you two have grown up together.” Mary smiles, except her eyes don’t match her mouth. “Remember when I taught you to ride?”