Beneath the Skin Page 17

‘Sure, love. I’ve really got so much catching up to do. Send my love to Margaret and Liam.’

  Mike contemplates Olivia as he drives in the balmy lull of the car towards Chester. It’s his monthly visit to see his mum and dad. Hannah is asleep on the back seat, Rachel sits next to him in the front, gazing out of the window. Olivia doesn’t always come to the monthly visits, so that’s fine, though Mike idly wonders what she’ll do all day. He would like them all to be together as a family today. Safely together. When death’s been so close, it haunts, makes you appreciate what you have, and realise how lucky you are. But it’s frightening too. Life can change in a moment and you might not be looking. And David’s death was so lonely, leaving Antonia lonely too.

  ‘Why did he do it, Dad?’

  Rachel’s small voice interrupts his thoughts. He smiles, squeezes her hand and looks back at the road. Why did David do it? Why did an apparently happy and successful man take his own life? He hasn’t asked the question, nor has Olivia, but he’s sure it’s what everyone is thinking. Especially Antonia. ‘I wonder what he was thinking. I wonder what went through his head,’ she whispered that night. He can still picture her face, her huge perplexed eyes.

  Mike clears his throat. ‘I really don’t know, love. Probably best not to mention it to Grandma.’

  Rachel rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not stupid, Dad.’ Then after a moment, quietly, her blue eyes troubled as she looks at him. ‘You wouldn’t … you wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  ‘No, absolutely not, Rach.’

  He takes her hand, but she’s turned her head and is staring at the yellow countryside through the passenger window. She’s wearing her new boots, pressed neatly together in the footwell where the black dog used to sit, the black dog he hasn’t seen for days. His happiness seems wrong. Unfair. David is dead. There’s nothing more final than death. Unless you believe.

  He squeezes again. ‘Love you lots, you know, Rach.’

  ‘Dad!’ It’s said with embarrassment, but he can tell that she’s smiling.

  Helen says goodbye to Antonia, replaces the telephone receiver carefully and stands in the cold conservatory looking out to the garden for several moments, thinking.

  She’s shocked to hear the news of David’s death, but she isn’t surprised. ‘Little David’ the Proctors always called him, even when he became an adult. He’d been there at the Proctors’ the first time she was introduced to her future in-laws, not long after meeting Charlie on a blind date. ‘And this is little David,’ Charlie’s mother Valerie had said, glancing indulgently at a good-looking, exceedingly tall youth. She assumed David was Charlie’s gregarious younger brother. She assumed there would be a big David too, but wasn’t put right for some considerable time.

  Helen had liked the young David well enough, but there were times when he’d got in the way of her budding relationship with Charlie. It wasn’t David’s fault. Charlie insisted that he came along too, to the theatre, or the cinema, then later to the pub, like an overgrown poodle. She often wondered if the relationship was healthy and at one time it troubled her sufficiently to put her foot down and insist that they left little David out of the loop. Charlie looked hurt. ‘He’s not as strong as he looks,’ he said in a low voice, though no one else was there. ‘You know … emotionally.’ Of course when she quizzed him, Charlie clammed up immediately. An early indicator of his truculence, Helen now muses, twenty-two years later, as she thinks how best to deal with the dreadful news.

  A tiny part of her mind dwells for a moment on her last conversation with David at the hospital, but only a tiny part, which she quickly dismisses. People who commit suicide are selfish, she thinks. A final act of spite. They don’t hurt themselves, but everyone else around them. They’re cowardly, that’s the reality. She knows it isn’t very politically correct, but that’s how she feels and she’s not afraid to say it.

  ‘What was that all about, Mum?’

  Rupert’s voice makes her flinch. He’s been in the dining room all morning with his school work spread out on the table. He’s had an aura of determination about him since seeing his father in hospital. But here he is in the doorway of the conservatory with a frown on his face.

  ‘That was Antonia. Uncle David has killed himself,’ she replies, pushing back her glasses, her voice matter-of-fact. She nods, her mind already made up. ‘But we won’t tell Dad. Not until he’s well enough to come home.’

  Rupert sucks in his breath, lowers his head and slaps his hand against his forehead. For a moment Helen wonders if he’s crying, but he lifts his head and stares, his eyes blazing from beneath his fringe. ‘What are you like? Uncle David is dead and you couldn’t give a fuck, could you?’ he roars. ‘You get things so fucking wrong, Mum. I’m calling Dad now. He needs to know. You can do whatever you want.’

  He lifts the phone and they wrestle with it for a moment, before Rupert stands back with folded arms and starts to shout. Helen stares, feeling breathless. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised at Rupert’s rage, after all he is Charlie’s flesh and blood, but still she is shocked. Not so much at his use of a whole host of expletives (some of which are surprisingly new to her) but at his truculence. He’s usually compliant, in a taciturn way, with her directives. But Rupert argues fiercely that Charlie needs to be told about David’s death now.

  She almost laughs at the stony set of his face, so very unusually like his father’s for once. ‘Not found under the gooseberry bush after all,’ she mutters as her heart slows. But Rupert brings her back to reality with a ‘Gooseberry bush? For fuck’s sake, Mum. Don’t you ever just listen?’

  She sits down and pats the side of the wicker sofa. ‘I know you think I’m an old witch,’ she says, ‘but let’s give Dad another night of rest. He’ll be devastated, of course, but you know what he’s like, he’ll want to be up, sorting things out and there’s nothing he can do at a weekend anyway.’

  Rupert flops down next to her. ‘What’s to sort out?’ he responds, his posture showing defeat. ‘Uncle David is dead. I just can’t believe it.’

  She wants to open her arms and pull him close, but she can’t. He’s too tall, too old to be hugged. Both of those could be her excuses. But the truth is she’s not a demonstrative person. Or emotional. Even though she liked David, she doesn’t feel any urge to shed a tear for him and doubts that she will. It’s Charlie she worries about. Since their first blind date at the Science Museum cafe, Charlie’s the only one who’s ever really mattered and she has no idea how he will take this dreadful news.

  Sophie’s in bed, the duvet over her head. She’s woken on and off throughout the morning, but has no intention of getting up ever again. She can smell her own breath. It’s rancid and bitter, disgusting. She was actually sick at some point. Alleluia! But of course she’ll feign memory loss about that. And the rest.

  She doesn’t want to think about last night when Sami came home. The whisky glass and the cut. She lost it, really lost it. But why didn’t he telephone to tell her about David? Why didn’t he come home sooner? Other husbands would have. It’s his own fucking fault.

  The modern bedroom is warm. Sophie is sweating and her head throbs. She turns on to her stomach and spreads out her arms and legs, starfish-like. She can still picture the look of horror on Sami’s face when he examined his fingertips and saw the blood. Pathetic really. The cut bled out of all proportion to the injury or to the offence. That’s all. But her heart is thrashing loudly. Sami didn’t sleep in their bed last night. She has no idea if he slept in the spare bedroom, or downstairs, or whether he came back home at all. She’s too afraid to look.

  ‘Cry as much as you want, Chinue. It’s good to cry. There’s no shame in it.’

  They were her mother’s words when she was young. Candy always said that everyone had a reserve of tears and that once they were done, they were done. Like Baby Annabelle: Antonia’s dad bought her the doll and the pram when she was very small, or so he said.

  ‘I bought you that dolly, you know. And clothes to
match. From a toy shop in London,’ Jimmy said from time to time.

  They must have had money then, Antonia muses as she sits in her kitchen and steadies herself for the next telephone call. Or perhaps just money that for once wasn’t squandered on booze.

  She’s been going through the address book and making calls all morning to advise those she supposes need to know that David has died. ‘Passed away’, she’s put it. It has been surprisingly easy. And quick. Astonished and embarrassed, she supposes. Only Helen has asked for further information, asking for specific details, her questions bordering on rude. But this is a more difficult call that has to be made, and she has to do it.

  Taking a deep breath, she picks up the telephone, dials the number for The Ridings and asks for Candy. She knows she’ll be disappointed with her mum’s response even as she waits the five minutes for her to reach the office phone.

  ‘Chinue, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, it is. I’ve some terrible news, Mum.’ She tries to steady her voice but there’s an involuntary quaver. ‘David has passed away.’

  ‘Oh, love. I’m so sorry. I’ll come straight away.’

  The ache in Antonia’s chest almost prevents her from speech. ‘That would be so lovely, Mum. But don’t worry, I’ll see you on Sunday as usual.’

  A pause and then Candy’s voice again. ‘All right, love. Was he a friend of Jimmy, this David fella?’

  Antonia’s tears haven’t come. Instead she’s consumed by an overwhelming chill of loneliness. Her reflections are jumbled and random, punctuated by poetry. She sits in the lounge reading from Poem for the Day, though she’s studying them half hourly rather than daily.

  She tries to float above the image from the bath, but other thoughts jump in with no pattern. Perhaps I should’ve called for Sophie when I found him. The razor blade. Oh God, the hidden razor blade. What did he think? Perhaps that’s why he did it. Realised about the cutting. Thought it was his fault. Helen was so cold. I shouldn’t have interfered by taking Rupert to the hospital. But what a sweet boy. Will she tell Charlie? God, Charlie, poor Charlie. Sophie, so horrible. Never seen her so drunk. But why did he do it? Was it my fault? The cracked telephone on the floor. Who was David calling? I never told him I loved him. I never told him. Never told him.

  Trying to push the thoughts away, she stands abruptly, walks to the hall and picks up Ruth’s calling card. She seemed to be a nice lady, solid and sympathetic and not too intrusive, but still just a stranger. She seemed satisfied by Antonia’s assurance that friends would be around, almost constantly, to see her through the shock and the grief, for some time to come. But the truth is she only has one friend, a friend who spat insults at her face. She shakes her head at the memory, Sophie’s face, her shocking words. ‘You married that prat David, so we both know you’ll fuck anything.’

  Going back to the sofa, she wraps the blanket around her legs, but the lonely chill is still there as she turns the page of her book. She’s on February 8th, ‘One Art’. She’s read the poem before and likes it very much, but this time she studies the editor’s notes, not surprised to discover the poet was an alcoholic and her mother was confined to a mental hospital. What a small world it is.

  ‘Call any time you need us,’ Mike Turner texted earlier today. She lifts up her mobile and scrolls through her list of contacts. Finds his number, and Olivia’s too. But she pictures Sophie’s face and then shakes her head, knowing she won’t do it. Help is like a crutch; once it’s there you cling on, never regaining your own balance. Besides, she’s never asked for help in all her life. Now isn’t the time to start.

  Olivia finally sits down. She’s been absently tidying and cleaning but hasn’t been able to focus on anything else but her pregnancy all morning. ‘You don’t mind if I skip Chester this time, do you?’ she asked Mike earlier. ‘I’m sure Margaret and Liam won’t mind and I really need to catch up.’

  She held her breath as she waited for Mike’s reply. He looked thoughtful. ‘Course not. But how about a bit of “you time” rather than catching up? You look tired.’

  ‘“You time” eh? Been reading Cosmopolitan again?’ she laughed, deflecting his comment.

  He hugged her then. The type of hug they used to have, which almost became a dance. Oh Mike, I do love you, she thought, though she didn’t say it. It wasn’t something she said as often as she should and she didn’t want to seem odd.

  The internet is the obvious source of information. A Google search first: how to arrange an abortion. She turns on her laptop. It was once state of the art but now it’s huge, heavy and takes an age to get going. Like me this morning, she thinks wryly as she stares at the screen.

  It occurs to her that she’ll have to carry out another search before the search: how to delete your search history. Rachel would know, Hannah too, probably, but she’s never had the need to hide anything before now.

  She has many questions for Google: Does your GP have to know? Can you pay privately? How long does it take? Does there have to be a medical reason? Am I the worst woman on earth? Staring at the ceiling, she sighs. Mike and the girls will be at the in-laws’ house in Chester by now. They’ll nod to crucified Jesus on the wall and say grace before lunch. She wonders if their god is laughing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Rupert shakes the rain from his head and follows his mother along the stifling hospital corridor. There’s a strong smell of disinfectant, mould and urine, not unlike the sports hall’s changing rooms and bogs in his school.

  His mum turns and looks at him before they enter the ward, the nose twitch hitching up her spectacles the only sign of her anxiety.

  ‘It’s David, isn’t it?’ Charlie says immediately he sees their pale and strained faces.

  ‘Yes, Charles. I’m afraid it is,’ Helen replies. She goes on to tell him clearly and concisely what Antonia told her, as Rupert listens and waits and watches near the door. His father pays heed and nods, like he pays heed and nods to his clients, a finger of concentration on his lips. His parents are silent then, before his dad clears his throat and asks Helen about the garden and the house, the news and the weather. It’s only much later that Charlie abruptly puts his hand to his mouth. ‘Dear God, say it’s not true, Helen, say it’s not true,’ he sobs, and Rupert is so relieved.

  Rupert runs to the bed and holds on to his father tightly for a long time. His father’s whiskers are white, he notices, and he smells strangely of pear drops.

  Helen leaves eventually, saying she has essays to mark for Monday morning. But Rupert stays. He’s anxious about his father, who looks so grey. ‘I’ve brought money this time, Dad,’ he says, waving his wallet. ‘For us both.’

  Charlie sleeps intermittently. The hospital staff come and go. They glance at Charlie, examine the monitors, pick up the chart at the end of his bed. Then pull out a bitten Biro from a top pocket and scribble something. Rupert sits and observes, wondering what they’re writing. He’s too afraid to pick up the chart for a peek, let alone ask. The thought that his father might die was always a vague possibility, like the iCloud facility for his iTunes. There but not defined. But David’s death has given it shape and breath and it frightens him enormously.

  ‘They died when he was twelve,’ Charlie mutters.

  Rupert pulls off his headphones and leans forward. His father has done this all morning. Waking up and recalling snatches of conversation, or moments with David, before nodding off again.

  ‘He was due a weekend leave-out from school, but his parents never arrived. He was the youngest in my study and we teased him about the scarf. We were all a little jealous, I think. His mother was so exotic. Yes, exotic, that’s the word. The scarf was red, silk I should imagine, and someone caught him putting it to his face when he went to bed. Smelling it, I suppose.’ He pauses for a moment, then starts again with a sluggish voice. ‘But they were in Singapore then and he deflected all the ribbing. With humour of course. Even then, the great deflector, never really showing how he felt about anythin
g negative or sad.’

  There’s a plastic container slowly filling with his father’s urine by the side of the bed. Rupert doesn’t want to look, but finds it helps to stare at the steady flow of yellow drops as they drizzle down the tube. It stops the tears which stab at his eyes, threatening to explode.

  Struggling to clear his throat, his father speaks again. ‘When the news came that they’d died, he curled up into a ball on his bed and wouldn’t move when they told him to, when they chivvied. You know the sort of thing, “Moping around won’t do any good, you’re a young man now, not a baby.” Then eventually the matron lost patience. She tore the scarf from him and never gave it back. As if that would have made a difference …’ He stops, his eyes drooping. ‘I did what I could. I was nearly eighteen, almost an adult. So, I tried to be there for him. A big brother, I suppose …’ he finishes, closing his eyes again.

  Rupert replaces the headphones, waiting and watching, but after a time he turns off the music and stands. His father’s mouth is open and he’s sleeping solidly, so he decides to look for a shop or a cafe, anything that sells food. He’s starving.

  Charlie is on his side, facing the window, when Rupert returns, but he isn’t asleep. His chest is heaving up and down. Rupert knows that he’s crying.

  ‘Dad?’ he asks, collecting a wad of green hospital tissue from above the sink. He puts down the carrier bag, his appetite clean gone. ‘Dad. Dad. Don’t cry.’

  ‘“Get out of my sight,” that’s what I said. You were there, you probably heard. My last words to him. I was so angry. He was my friend. My best friend, Rupert. How could I? How could I?’

  Rupert sits back, not knowing what to say, but wanting to say something, anything. As though he is the adult, the one with all the answers. He takes a breath, but his father holds up his hand to stop him.

  ‘But that isn’t the worst of it, son. At school … David went missing one night from the dormitory. His bed was empty.’ He covers his face with his hands. ‘I found him in the bell tower, ready to …’ Parting his fingers, he stares without focusing. ‘I was an adult. I should’ve said something to the matron, the housemaster. But I didn’t. I talked him down, took him back to House and it was all forgotten. Suppose—’