Coming of Age Read Online Free PDF Page A

and a knee-length skirt. She’s tying a scarf round her neck, talking to Dad. More than talking – they’re laughing, standing close together, he’s looking into her eyes.
    They turn and start to cross the road. Dad flings an arm in front of her, pulls her back from an oncoming Land Rover. It looks as if they’re going to the surgery . . .
    â€œAmy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou haven’t listened to a word. What are you staring at?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œCome on, tell me.”
    Amy swallows the last of her cone. It tastes bitter. She glances at Ruth. “I thought I saw my dad with someone.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA woman. I’ve never seen her before. They came out of the Manzil, walked off down the road arm in arm.”
    â€œWhat’s so extraordinary about that?”
    Amy says quietly, “Dad didn’t tell me he was taking anyone to lunch.”
    Ruth stares at her. “For goodness’sake, Amy. Does he have to tell you everything?”
    â€œNo, he doesn’t have to . . . He just does .”
    â€œThat’s daft.” Ruth takes another swipe at her unruly hair. “He’s got a life of his own, hasn’t he? Maybe she’s one of his patients.”
    â€œShe didn’t look ill. I didn’t recognise her. I’m sure she’s not from round here.”
    Ruth pushes her bike into the road and straddles it. “There’s only one way to find out. You’ll have to ask him at that supper of yours tonight.”
    Amy stirs the rich casserole, sniffing at the pungent, honest tang of garlic which cuts like a knife through the steamy air.
    â€œThat smells wonderful!” Dad puts his head round the door. “Can I help?”
    â€œIt’s all done.” Amy reaches to kiss his cheek. It feels rough with a day’s growth of beard. “Good day?”
    â€œVery good.” Dad smiles. His dark eyes beneath their heavy brows look brighter than usual. “Twenty out of ten.”
    A pang of alarm shoots through Amy’s heart. “I had a good day too.”
    â€œOf course!” Dad spins round from the sink. “How was biology?”
    â€œI could answer all the questions standing on my head.”
    â€œGreat!” Dad hugs her. “I’m sure you’ve done brilliantly. Here, let me take the casserole.”
    Amy carries a bowl of new potatoes and green beans into the dining room. The scent of the roses she’d arranged on the table is drowned by the aroma of chicken.
    â€œSo,” she says carefully when they’ve eaten. Her heart thumps uncomfortably. She forces herself to ask. “Did you find time for lunch today?”
    â€œThat was delicious, Amy. You’re an excellent cook.” Dad looks at the flowers. “We need to plant more roses. Keep replenishing Mum’s rose garden. Maybe we could drive to the garden centre, check their new stock.”
    â€œI’d like that.” Amy stands up. She stacks the summer-pudding plates. Her legs feel surprisingly weak. She says flatly, trying to seem nonchalant, aware she’s doggedly repeating the question, making it into a statement, “So you didn’t have lunch.”
    Dad folds his serviette, pushes it through the ring. He does not look up. “Guess I had a sandwich at my desk.”
    â€œHe lied.”
    Amy sits in the hall talking to Ruth on the phone. Dad had vanished in the car on an errand and taken Tyler with him.
    â€œAn out-and-out lie. A sandwich at his desk. Why would he say that?”
    â€œHe must’ve had a reason.”
    â€œYeah. He doesn’t want me to know what he’s doing any more.”
    â€œNonsense. P’raps it’s a question of patient confidentiality.”
    â€œDon’t give me that! Not in the Manzil at lunchtime!”
    â€œMaybe that lunch is a weekly date. We’re not usually in the village so early in the afternoon. It was only