Coming of Age Page 2

  Amy’s hands, locked between Mary’s, feel cold and hard as the ice she used to break on Cadence’s water trough early on a winter’s morning.

  “You were only three.” Mary’s eyes begin to flicker in the firelight. “Remember?”

  How could I forget?

  “The moment I saw you on Cadence, I knew you were going to be a beautiful little rider.”

  I couldn’t get out of Mum’s car fast enough . . .

  “I thought, That little Welsh pony and that Amy, they’re made for each other.”

  I raced into the stable yard to find Mary, to find the new pony she’d bought for me. Mum laughed. That wonderful trill, like a bird singing. I heard her call, “Not so fast, young lady! Wait for me!”

  “And now,” Mary said, “you really want me to take Cadence away?”

  Amy wrenches her hands out of Mary’s. She stands up, steps backwards like a dancer, very carefully. One, back; two, back. She pulls out of her pocket a crumpled piece of paper. She throws it on the floor, as if it stings her skin. It flutters on to Mary’s knees.

  PLEASE, says the paper, TAKE CADENCE AWAY.

  Mary reaches for the message. She smoothes out the crumples, but her hands are shaking. Her eyes flick, flick, pause, flick over the words. She looks up at Amy.

  “I understand.”

  She throws the paper on the fire. It flares yellow and sooty black.

  Amy spins round. She crashes out of the room, across the hall, up to the top of the stairs. She hears Dad walk out of the kitchen to the living-room door.

  “Any luck?”

  “None, Dr Grant.” Mary’s voice comes grim and sad. “Amy won’t budge an inch.”

  “Didn’t think she would.”

  There is a rustling.

  “This is for their livery, Mary. Thank you . . .”

  Dad’s voice breaks.

  “They’re all yours now. Take them away.”

  Two

  Amy learned to live silently inside her own head.

  She returned to her private school in Hindhead two weeks after the inquest and the funeral. She’d missed the first three weeks of the spring term and was dreading going back, but Dad said the longer she left it, the harder it would be. By the time she got there, the whole school knew what had happened. The girls in her class were great. They each gave her a hug, while the boys stood about looking uncomfortable.

  The teachers were sympathetic and patient. Some of them spoke to her more loudly and more clearly than to anyone else, as if she’d suddenly gone deaf and needed to lipread. To her great relief, none of them asked her questions in class, where her silence would have been so embarrassing she’d have died.

  Her best friend, Ruth Manning, talked to her incessantly, told her not to worry, that her voice would come back, she promised. Amy nodded, wrote her a note: I’m planning to talk non-stop for a week when it does, so stand by. But going to Ruth’s noisy, untidy, friendly house, where everyone played music all day long – Ruth’s dad hammering away at their grand piano, her mum sawing at her cello, Ruth’s older sister singing like a plaintive flute, Ruth herself bending and swaying to her violin – made Amy feel more silent and lonely than ever.

  Dad said he wasn’t a bit worried about her, he was sure everything would be “just hunky-dory, you’ll see”, but Amy often caught him looking at her. He started reading books called Childhood Trauma: Its Possible Long-term Effects, and Memory Loss and How to Cope with It. If Amy came into the room, he’d swiftly push them under a pile of newspapers. When he left, Amy would ferret them out and stare anxiously at the titles, biting her lip.

  Julian returned to school the day after Mum’s funeral. Amy wrote him long letters – she had so much time on her hands now she couldn’t talk to Ruth – and sometimes Julian answered: quiet, careful letters, beautifully written with his fountain pen. He was teaching himself Italian; hating football; making friends with a boy called Christopher who’d just arrived at school.

  He never mentioned Mum.

  Amy missed her mother every day, but more sharply at certain times. Nobody bustled around the kitchen in the morning, humming bits of Mozart, making breakfast. Aunt Charlotte never ate breakfast. Amy quickly learned to make her own. Mum wasn’t there to meet her after school in her battered Mini the colour of school custard, terracotta plant pots and muddy shoes heaped in the boot. For weeks it sat in the garage and then one day it vanished. Dad said he’d given it to someone in the village, but Amy never saw it again. Aunt Charlotte’s posh silver Ford with its immaculate shine made the other kids stare.

  Coming back to the house after school wasn’t the same with Aunt Charlotte. The fact that Amy couldn’t tell her about her day made the long silences between them more painful than anything.

  The stables were closed. Dad said they could sell the land, but he never got round to it. Amy avoided going anywhere near horses. The smell of hay made her vomit.

  Dad gave Mum’s clothes to Oxfam. Suddenly he looked ten years older. Amy saw the strain etched in new lines on his face, spotted his forced cheerfulness when he reached out his arms.

  “Thank God you’re still with me, darling girl,” he’d whisper, but Amy often heard him crying in the night. When that happened, Aunt Charlotte would go into Dad’s room.

  “Don’t cry, William, dear,” she’d murmur. “Lauren wouldn’t want it, would she?”

  Everything would go quiet again and Amy would drift back into sleep.

  After the first week, Amy carried a small notebook with her everywhere. She wrote brief messages in it for Dad and Aunt Charlotte:

  Taking Tyler out for a walk.

  Can Ruth come for supper?

  Need some new trainers. Could we go to Guildford tomorrow?

  She left notes for Dad on the kitchen table to try to cheer him up:

  Hope you had a good day.

  You’re the best Dad I’ve ever had.

  Mrs Bryant gave me top marks for my English essay.

  On Valentine’s Day, she propped a card decorated with an enormous heart stuffed in shiny pink satin outside Dad’s door. It said, Love you most in the whole wide world. She pretended not to hear when Dad burst into tears and went back to his room.

  At first when the phone rang, Amy raced to answer it. Then she realised she couldn’t even say, “Hello.” She’d mouth, “Sorry!” when Aunt Charlotte or Dad rushed to grab the phone instead, and stand feeling useless and pathetic while they asked relevant questions, scribbled notes and signalled to Amy that it wasn’t in the least her fault.

  Tyler didn’t understand why she couldn’t call to him. He’d look up at her with questions blazing from his round black eyes. She’d bend to stroke his silly, floppy spaniel ears, trying to reassure him.

  Aunt Charlotte stayed on. She said she needed a break from London, but several times Amy heard her on the phone to her business partners, promising to return “as soon as possible”. Once the conversation grew heated. Aunt Charlotte told the person on the other end of the line, “Don’t interfere. I’ll come back all in good time . . . and I’ll be the best judge of when that is!”

  One afternoon, during a dull half-term day when she had nothing much to do and she was missing Julian, Amy wrote a letter:

  Dear Aunt Charlotte

  Please don’t feel you need to stay because of me. You’ve been great, but I’m perfectly all right now and Dad can look after me. I know your job is really important to you . . .

  But she tore it up.

  It seemed so ungrateful, as if she were implying she no longer wanted her aunt to stay with them. Secretly, that was true. Amy longed to have Dad to herself, just him and her around the fire at the end of the day, in their own private world, with Tyler watching them approvingly from his basket.

  And anyway, she knew why Aunt Charlotte was still with them, what she was waiting for. She wanted Amy to “get better” – to wake up one morning with a voice that could say, “Good morning”, that could laugh, hum, cough, sing, scold Ty
ler, answer the phone, talk to Ruth. And with a memory that could give Charlotte what she most needed: an explanation – a minute-by-minute account – of her beloved sister’s accident.

  At the end of the spring term Amy breathed a sigh of relief. Over the Easter break, she planned to spring-clean her room, read lots of books, walk with Tyler on the Common, spend time at Ruth’s, help Aunt Charlotte to cook. They were going to make a special simnel cake and decorate some chocolate eggs.

  She’d learned that if she took each day as it came, she could get through it.

  But on the Thursday morning before Good Friday, Aunt Charlotte rose abruptly from the table, though she hadn’t drunk her tea.

  “Going into Guildford to get bits and pieces,” she said.

  Amy saw her look quickly at Dad, then noticed him give her the smallest nod, as if they had planned something between them.

  Dad ate the last of his scrambled eggs. Aunt Charlotte bustled about the hall, then the front door slammed. There was a faintly uncomfortable silence.

  Dad cleared his throat.

  “Before I go to the surgery, sweetheart, there’s something I want to say.”

  Amy looked at him steadily. He’s nervous. He’s trying to butter that toast, but his hand’s shaking.

  “Thing is, Amy, we were wondering . . . I had a word with your headmistress and one of your teachers yesterday. They kindly met me at the surgery.”

  A shiver of alarm shot through Amy’s heart.

  “We discussed the possibility of your – of our – learning sign language. We thought it might help you . . . give you a practical way to communicate with us again.”

  Amy’s mouth fell open.

  Dad rushed on. “The teacher I met yesterday – her name’s Yvonne Parker, you know, she teaches remedial classes – she can already use the system and she told me it isn’t difficult.

  “She showed me some simple words, gave me a book about it. I’d love to learn it with you. We thought the Easter hols would be a great time to start.”

  Amy stared at Dad, her eyes wide and dry.

  “Lots of people, if they’re born deaf and can’t talk –” Dad spoke rapidly now, as if he’d been practising a speech – “they use the system all the time. It’s marvellous because it links them with the real world. They can do anything they want.”

  Amy stopped looking at Dad. She concentrated on reading the label on the jar of marmalade. Her mouth felt dry as dust.

  I can just imagine what they must’ve said. “Thank you for making time to see us, Dr Grant. Amy’s obviously no better. We’re concerned about her. It’s our job to watch our pupils, monitor their progress. Such a pity, Dr Grant. Amy had been doing so well. Although we still have high hopes for her future.”

  Dad took a deep breath. “If you don’t like the idea –” his voice shook – “tell me and I’ll forget about it. It’s only a suggestion.” He put down his knife. “I want us to face up to the fact that –”

  Amy clenched her hands, forced herself to answer.

  “NO,” she mouthed. She pulled her notebook from her pocket and scribbled NO, NEVER on it. She tore out the note, pushed it towards him.

  Dad glanced at it. He seemed to shrink a little. “OK,” he said gently.

  He reached across, opened Amy’s fist, stroked her palm. “I understand. If I were you, I’d probably feel the same.”

  He came round the table to give her a hug.

  Amy clung to him.

  “But think about it, sweetheart. Don’t dismiss it out of hand.” He looked into her face. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

  When Dad had gone to the surgery, Dora arrived. She was a neighbour who came three times a week to help with the chores. Amy waited until she heard hoovering from the bedrooms. She shut herself in the downstairs loo and burst into tears.

  She knew Dad was doing his best, but the pain in his eyes this morning had cut her to the quick. As if things weren’t hard enough for him without Mum. She was making everything worse. A lot worse.

  She wanted to scream, make the walls rattle with noise. She couldn’t even sob.

  She held on to the edge of the basin. It felt cold. Her tears fell in hot splodges on to her hands. Dad’s right. I might never be able to speak again. Maybe Ruth could learn sign language and we could get videophones . . .

  After twenty minutes she dried her eyes, looked at her face in the mirror. A pair of grey-green eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, stared back.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Pull yourself together,” she mouthed.

  She ran the cold tap, smoothed water on her forehead, over her shining plaits.

  When she opened the door, Tyler was waiting for her, that reproachful “You haven’t taken me for a walk” look in his eyes.

  She mouthed at him, “You win, Tyler,” and slid into her duffel coat. She scribbled a note for Dora: Taken Tyler out on the Common, and left it on the draining board.

  Amy runs with Tyler down through the back garden and scrapes open the battered wooden gate. Then she turns left on to Ludshott Common, up the short, steep path towards the part where it gets all sandy and it’s like walking along the beach. She can see for miles. The wind whips into her hair and through her clothes as if she isn’t wearing anything.

  Nobody’s ever going to treat me as if I were permanently dumb. Because I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. I will talk again, I’ve promised Dad and Aunt Charlotte and Jules and Ruth . . . I must not let them down . . .

  She has not been back to the spot where the accident happened: a narrow, stony, badly kept path bulging with thick, snarly tree roots which snakes away from the thick wood and links the edge of the Common to her back garden. It’s easily avoided, even if Tyler often starts to run there out of habit. It’s as if an impenetrable wall blocks off that part of the Common, forbidding her to cross into it.

  For the first time in ten grey days the sun clears through the clouds, the sky winks a newly washed blue. A breeze strokes Amy’s face, shifting the fur on Tyler’s back as he races ahead. Dew glitters on a thousand spiders’ webs that cling to the hawthorn and the gorse, lifting and glinting.

  Amy’s spirit lifts with them.

  When she hears the sound of horse’s hooves behind her, her heart begins to thud against her ribs. It has become an immediate response to the sound haunting her recurrent nightmare.

  She does not look round, but moves aside to allow the rider to pass. A brown stallion gallops by, a woman rider urging it on. Red curls dance beneath her cap.

  She’s got hair just like Mum’s. It was so thick and curly, always escaping from any knot she tied, any hat she crammed over it.

  A wave of longing to hear her mother’s voice shakes her body.

  Tyler races ahead. Amy turns the corner with the path and begins to jog. The words “Mum, Mum, I want you back. Mum, Mum, I want you back” thump in her throat.

  Tyler stops to sniff another dog, a ginger Labrador called Hovis.

  “Morning, Amy,” Jimmy calls cheerfully. “Lovely day at last!”

  Amy smiles and nods dumbly back at one of their neighbours. It is a lovely day. It’s spring and Easter tomorrow and Jules will be home this afternoon and I can’t wait to see him.

  Then she sees Tyler’s body stiffen as he spots a rabbit lolloping under an oak. He starts to bound after it. Without thinking, Amy opens her mouth.

  “Tyler,” she shouts. “Here, Tyler, here!”

  Tyler stops dead in his tracks. He turns to look at her and then comes racing back as if blown by the wind.

  Amy collapses against the nearest tree, her hands at her mouth. She says slowly, as if testing the truth of the words, “I can talk again.”

  Her head fills with the sound of her own voice. Blood flows to her cheeks, her legs shake with relief and joy. Tyler hurtles towards her, pawing the ground at her feet. He seems to give her strength. She picks him up and swings him in the air.

  “Tyler! I can talk again! Just wait until I tell Dad and
Ruth and Aunt Charlotte and Julian. They’re in for such a surprise.”

  She puts Tyler down. He waits at her feet, looking up at her expectantly.

  “Good dog, Tyler . . . If it wasn’t for you I’d still be silent as a stone.”

  The relief at being able to say anything I want. I’ll never take it for granted.

  “Come on, Tyler. Race you home . . .”

  Amy runs into the house. She rushes for the phone, grabs it with shaking hands. She’s almost forgotten Ruth’s number. Then it comes pattering back.

  “Ruth! It’s me!”

  “Amy?” Ruth’s voice squeals with amazement.

  “Yes! Isn’t it brilliant? I can talk again!”

  “I can’t believe it! When did you –”

  “I was out on the Common with Tyler. He was behaving like an idiot as usual, chasing a rabbit!”

  Tyler yaps excitedly. He pats a stray ping-pong ball across the hall.

  “And there I was, yelling at him to come back!”

  “God, Amy, I’m over the moon . . . I’m coming round straight away!”

  “I’m going to talk for a week.”

  Amy puts down the phone, her hand shaking.

  She flings her arms in the air.

  She starts to sing, to dance along the hall.

  Then she freezes.

  Sure, she can talk.

  Her voice has come back.

  But not her memory.

  That morning remains a total blank . . .

  Six Years Later

  Three

  “Our last GCSE!” Amy leans her bicycle against her neat, narrow hip, shades her eyes against the afternoon sun. “I can’t believe it. Do you realise we’ve worked years for this moment?”

  “Never worked so hard in my life!” Ruth runs a hand through her dark untidy curls. She props her bike against the gutter. “It feels weird and wonderful! Ice creams to celebrate? My treat.”