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.