Coming of Age

by Valerie Mendes

  Daniel stepped across the courtyard. “Here, let me help.” He stared at the glistening puddle of honey, lit by shards of glass.

  “You can’t do much with that.” The woman stooped to stare at the globby mess, as if trying to see her reflection, and poked her finger tentatively into it.

  He looked down at her head, at the pile of grey hair shoved into a lopsided doughnut. “I’ll get someone to clean it up.” He hesitated, reluctant to commit himself. “And then I could help carry the rest of your shopping home.”

  “You could?” She seemed to register his existence, sucked at a sticky finger.

  “That is, if you want to buy some more honey.”

  She squinted at him sideways, appraising him. “I do. I eat it straight from the jar.”

  “So do I.”

  “It’s by far the best way, isn’t it? Even if it does make you fat.” She ran an eye up and down his body. “’Course, you’re skinny as they come.”

  He fought through his embarrassment. “The thing is, our school have organised something for today.” He swallowed. “It’s a special Saturday.”

  “Special?”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath to make sure his voice didn’t wobble. The scent of honey seeped into his throat, making him want to cry. “It’s ‘Adopt a Granny Day’.”

  The woman gave a snort of laughter. “You mean you’re trying to adopt me?” Her flush deepened. “What a bloody nerve!”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked at the tiny lines creeping around her eyes. The July sunlight seemed to magnify the wrinkles which crisscrossed into a spidery web. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I might look eighty but I’m only fifty-five.” Her mouth twitched. “You can’t march up to people and make vile assumptions about their age. Who do you think you are?”

  The energy began to seep out of Daniel’s hands. They pricked with pins and needles. They’d done that a lot since …

  “That’s exactly what I said at school.”

  “What did you say?” Sweat trickled down the sides of her cheeks, hung there as if trying to decide where to go.

  “That I thought it was a lousy idea.” Daniel’s voice rushed out louder than he expected. “But Hugo Dodds got up in class and said he thought it would work and that he knew a lot of old people who needed a helping hand. Mr Anderson, he said he thought it was a wonderful idea, so kind and thoughtful and all that crap.” His voice choked. “Look, why don’t we forget the whole thing?”

  “Why don’t we!” The woman tugged at the dog’s lead. “Leave that mess there. It’d serve somebody right if they trod in it.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?” Daniel imagined Hugo Dodds up to his ankles in the sticky pink sludge , getting one of his shoes stuck, hopping around on the other leg. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. The pins and needles softened.

  “My read gran,” he said, “she was my only family. … She died two months ago.”

  He looked into the woman’s eyes, a speckled grey, bright, attentive, like a bird’s. He heard the soft intake of her breath.

  “It was the first of May. I got up at dawn to cycle into Oxford, to listen to the Magdalen choir, join in the celebrations. Gran loved doing that. She made me promise I’d go and tell her about it. Later, I went to see her in hospital. It was five o’clock. When I said goodbye, she was still alive. When I looked back from the door she …”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” The woman shoved at her hair with sticky fingers. “Oh, go on then. There’s a first time for everything. Adopt me. Let’s give it a whirl.”

  “Thank you.” Relief swept through him. At least I’ll have something to report in class. He slid his notebook from his pocket, cleared his throat in a professional way. “Right. Would you mind giving me your name?”

  “Now look here.” She bit her lip. “If you put me down as Granny Watkins, I’m off, and so is this stupid pooch of mine. We come as a package, and what’s more there’s another member of this distinguished entourage back at my place. My cat.”

  The dog gave a dirty-sounding whine.

  “I see.”

  “That’s right.” She threw back her head. Her hair, which had been threatening to escape the doughnut, slithered down her back. “I’m Laura. He’s Barnaby. And madam back home, her name’s Muffin.”

  The dog howled.

  “Shut up,” Laura shouted. “Muffin exists whether you like it or not, you stupid pooch.”

  She turned to Daniel. Her hair hung all over the place, some grey, some a mustard yellow. For a fleeting moment he saw her as a young girl, playing by the river, a dimpled sandy bank rippling behind her.

  He removed the pencil from the excruciating groove it had dug into his skull. He could smell the pencil’s lead, Laura’s hair, the pool of clover honey. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, the light in the Blenheim courtyard seemed brighter, clearer, more significant.

  He said, “My name’s Daniel.”

  Laura gasped as if she had been shot. “My father was a Daniel. He died last year. He was my only family. Still can’t get used to it, don’t suppose I ever will. It was always him and me.” Her mouth crooked in a brave attempt at a smile. “Right then, Daniel the Second … Who needs more honey? Let’s go home.”

  “I haven’t really got a home,” Daniel said. “Not any more.”

  Outside the courtyard, the Blenheim landscape stretched calmly away, the lake smooth and glittering. Seagulls swooped languidly down to it, cawing satisfaction.

  “I mean, I’ve got somewhere to live and people to live with, but it’s not the same.”

  “Let’s go the longer way. Over the bridge, round by North Lodge. We can watch the ducks. And a pair of swans I particularly like.” Laura pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. My parents died in a car accident when I was three. I’ve lived with Gran in Oxford ever since, in Chalfont Road.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ve moved over the road. Clare and Martin took me in. They were friends of Gran’s. I’ve known them all my life, it’s what she wanted. A couple from social services came to talk to us. I’m seventeen, too old to be fostered, so without Clare and Martin I’d be living in a bed and breakfast. … I suppose I should count my blessings.”

  “I assume you like them, this Clare and Martin?”

  “Yeah, sure. They’re kind and all that – but it feels weird. I can’t settle. I keep thinking it’ll only be for a few weeks.” His face burned. “I think about Gran a lot, little things remind me. She was a great cook. Everything I’ve eaten since she died has tasted of grey mush.”

  Like that ghastly stuff, in hospital, on her plate.

  They walked briskly now, Barnaby tugging at his lead. It was easy to talk to Laura. She was still a stranger, so he felt he could tell her anything, what would it matter? But she was listening, too, as they crossed the bridge, took the path towards the Lodge. A clutch of white geese with fastidious yellow beaks stood, silent for a moment, on the grass to watch.

  “After the funeral,” he clutched Laura’s two remaining shopping bags more tightly, the words spilling out fast as if he had very little time to talk, “I helped to clear the house. Clare and Martin and I, we dumped the furniture into storage, cleaned the carpets, put the house up for sale. … It was bought inside a month.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Sad. The money’s in trust for me until I’m twenty-one, and I’ve got a weekly allowance. But every time I go to the bank, I just want to have my house back with Gran in it.”

  “It must be hard, living over the road.”

  “It is. The new family moved in yesterday. It was horrible. I saw the van arrive before I went to school.”

  Laura pointed to the lake. “Look, the swans. Aren’t they glorious?”

  The birds glided past, necks curved and sooty black, feathers a deep gleaming grey, beaks tomato red, eyes watchful and aloof.

  “Yes.” He stared
at their dark reflections in the water. “You kind of expect swans to be white, don’t you?”

  “Things are never what you expect, Daniel. Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

  “Here we are. Chaucer’s Lane.”

  They turned left from the High Street just outside the spread of Blenheim’s arch.

  “Mine’s the tumbledown Cotswold-stone cottage at the end. …” Laura shoved a key into the battered paint-crumbling door. “Come in. Ignore the mess. I can’t be bothered with housework.”

  He picked his way over a pile of muddy boots and stared into the untidy living room. On a faded sofa sprawled an enormous ginger cat. She peered up at them, stretching her front legs, claws out, gaping her mouth into a wide pink yawn.

  “This is Muffin.” Laura stroked the cat’s nose. “My beloved ancient heap of orange fur.”

  Barnaby waddled up to them, growling jealously. Muffin snarled.

  “Thanks for carrying the bags, Daniel – or what’s left of them. … Have a seat.”

  He squashed on to the sofa beside a pile of newspapers, three much-thumbed paperback novels, a dirty teacup and a handful of toffee wrappers. He glanced around the room. A basket of logs spilled into the grate. Shabby curtains, half drawn, looped across grubby windows that overlooked an unkempt garden.

  He felt suddenly and gloriously at home.

  Laura emerged with glasses of lemonade.

  “My father was a spick and span kind of man.” She gave him a glass. “This place used to be immaculate.” She grimaced. “It’s frightening how fast things can get out of hand.”

  “How did he—”

  “Peacefully in his sleep.” Laura collapsed into a chair. “You may have heard of him. Daniel Latimer, famous historian. He wrote six history books, all bestsellers. He was halfway through a new edition of the third one – a history of Europe since the Second World War. Said he felt tired, went to bed early. Never woke up.”

  The lemonade caught the back of Daniel’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “I was his chief researcher. Trundled into Oxford, to the Bodleian Library, every day. Loved it. Always sat in the same seat, had a sandwich lunch at Blackwell’s. Came home, cooked supper for Daddy, gave him my notes, discussed their finer details. … Not the same any more.”

  “I know how you feel.” Wham! goes the dart. Nothing will ever be the same.

  “His publishers want me to finish the book. Only four more chapters to go. I know exactly what he wanted to say.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  Laura flashed him a warning look. “Easier said than done, young man. No Daddy, no energy. No motivation.” She gulped the lemonade. “Gets bloody lonely on my own.”

  “Where did he work?”

  “Next door. Haven’t touched a shred since he died. Come and see.”

  He followed her into the adjoining study, dominated by an enormous table laden with maps, papers and books. More books lined the walls, tumbled into piles on the floor. The air smelled of dust and old tobacco.

  “It’s a wonderful room.”

  Laura looked startled, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “I suppose it is.” She picked up a handful of papers, peered at them, hesitated. “Maybe I should pretend Daddy’s still here, waiting for my notes on the next chapter.”

  “Yes.” I’ve been pretending Gran is still alive. … It doesn’t work.

  “So,” Laura said, “now you’ve adopted me, what’s the form? I mean, what do we have to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Daniel felt embarrassment creeping over him again. “Suppose I’ll have to stand up in class next week and tell them how I found you, where you live, all about you.”

  “Will you indeed!” Laura bridled. “Or the little you’ve managed to find out so far.”

  “Yes.” He held out his hand. Laura’s felt warm and damp. “Thanks, Laura. For letting me adopt you. Stupid idea, really. Never thought I’d pull it off.”

  “But you did. I’ve enjoyed it. Sorry I gave you a bit of a hard time. Haven’t got any young people in my life. Forgotten what it’s like.”

  “Goodbye, then—”

  “Tell you what,” she cut in decisively. “Why don’t we stay in touch? Next Saturday. Come to lunch.”

  Startled, he said, “That’s very kind of you—”

  “Leg of lamb, salad, treacle tart and cream.” She grinned. “I promise it won’t taste of grey mush.”

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Coming of Age and Valerie Mendes

  About the Author

  Books by Valerie Mendes

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Read an Extract of Lost and Found . . .

  Prelude

  Daniel