Coming of Age by Valerie Mendes

girl who’s almost sixteen, you can sometimes talk the most ridiculous childish rubbish I’ve ever heard.” He stood up. “I’m taking Tyler for a walk. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather go alone.”
    Amy shrugged. “Suit yourself. See if I care.”
    At the beginning of July, Dad announced he wanted to have the house decorated.
    â€œIf we start it now,” he said over breakfast, “it’ll be ready for the end of term and Julian coming home and your birthday party. I want the house to look fabulous. By the way –” his voice warmed – “Hannah says she’d love to help with the party. In any way she can.”
    Amy found it impossible to swallow another mouthful of Dad’s concocted muesli. “This stuff is tasteless.”
    â€œCut an apple into it,” Dad said cheerfully. “Or a banana.”
    He pushed a bowl of fruit in Amy’s direction. Amy ignored it.
    Dad persevered. “So, what do you think?”
    He’s doing this for Hannah, just to show off, to impress her. He’d never bother if it weren’t for her.
    â€œI like the house as it is.”
    â€œIt’s grubby and frumpy. I haven’t bothered with it for years.”
    â€œDora does a brilliant job.”
    â€œDora’s wonderful at keeping it clean, but it needs more than that. Everything needs a lick of paint. The walls, the woodwork. The downstairs rooms need new wallpaper. Then we can choose some good-quality carpet, run it right through the house. Tyler’s scrabbled at so many corners and the stairs are threadbare.”
    Amy stood up, dumped her bowl in the sink. There was something childlike and endearing about Dad’s enthusiasm. She relented.
    â€œCan I help choose the wallpaper and the paint?”
    â€œOf course , sweetheart.” Dad sounded relieved. “I’ll bring some samples home tonight. We can look at them together.”
    That afternoon, after school, Amy and Ruth take the bus to Guildford. Ruth has to go to a concert her parents are giving that weekend. She needs what her mother calls a “posh frock”.
    It takes them two hours of fierce shopping in the crowds to find an outfit Ruth likes: a long blue chiffon skirt with an off-one-shoulder top. By the time Amy gets home it’s half-past six. She’s hot, tired and dusty. The heatwave louring from grey skies is oppressive.
    The house looks as if an army has plundered it. Paint-­spattered dust sheets cover the hall. The furniture in the living room is piled into the centre. Three of its walls are stripped, revealing rough, bare patches. Cans of unopened paint, rolls of sandpaper and bundles of brushes cluster in corners, along with an old radio and empty lunchboxes. The tang of paint-stripper drills into the air.
    Amy looks at the stairs. Dust sheets flow over them like a waterfall. Dread grips her heart. They’ve been in Mum’s room. I’d no idea the work would start so soon . . .
    She races up the stairs to the landing, then up the second flight. The dust sheets, sliding beneath her feet, reach into Mum’s study. Amy pauses in the doorway, afraid to look. The furniture is piled into an ugly central huddle. Mum’s portrait is missing; the grate yawns, empty of flowers. A filthy tartan rug sprawls across the hearth. The window gapes, as if someone thought the room needed a good airing.
    A knot of anger clenches Amy’s stomach. This is a special place. Now strangers have poked about in it, as if it belonged to them. How dare they?
    She slides across the floor to the window. The paint on the ledge has been scraped away; scrolls of it lie like snail shells along the skirting board. She glances down at them, bends to pick one up, feels it crack.
    And then she notices.
    Wedged between the dust sheet and the skirting board, against the wall where Mum’s desk had stood, is a postcard. Faded, bent, lucky to have survived.
    Only half