Beneath the Skin Page 25

  She continues to clutch the handbag as she waits for the manager’s reply.

  ‘Oh?’ Mrs Jones says. She puts her hands in her lap, her face a polite blank.

  Poor woman, my request could be anything, Antonia thinks. It could be a complaint, an argument or a demand she can’t fulfil. It can’t be easy doing her job.

  ‘I just wondered if I could talk about my mum. Or, I don’t know, look at her file or her records or whatever you call them.’

  It clearly isn’t what Mrs Jones expects. ‘Oh,’ she says again, her eyebrows raised. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that. I’m sure you realise that under the Mental Health Act …’

  Antonia nods, not wanting to listen today about Candy’s mental health any more than she has previously. ‘Mental capacity assessment; section one-one-seven; case conferences; mental health team; best interest meetings; social circumstances report.’ They’re words and phrases she’s heard many times before, but she was too young, too scared and too powerless at the beginning. Then as she grew older, she both appreciated and resented having all the responsibility taken out of her hands.

  Mrs Jones’s small eyes are fixed on Antonia. She’s struggling to hide her curiosity. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, why the interest now? Your mother’s very settled here.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that.’

  It suddenly occurs to Antonia that Mrs Jones might think she wants to take her mother home. To live with her now that David has gone. She doesn’t know if it’s possible in the circumstances, even if Candy hadn’t been sectioned all those years ago.

  ‘I was wondering more about my father, actually.’ Antonia glances up at the woman before dropping her gaze again. It’s hard, hard saying the words, even harder asking for help.

  She can hear his words now, as though he’s in the room: ‘Eat your fucking food.’ She shakes them away. How should she put it? ‘Growing up. Well, he wasn’t the best father in the world.’

  Mrs Jones says nothing but waits, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes on Antonia.

  Antonia tries to swallow but her throat feels too dry. She considers getting up from the clamp of a chair she’s sitting in and leaving. But she’s come this far, she’s been very brave. She lifts her head and meets the cool, inquisitive eyes of the manager.

  ‘He was a drunk, actually. Violent at times. That’s all I really know about him.’

  ‘That didn’t come out at the trial.’

  ‘I know.’

  Mrs Jones’s thin eyebrows shape a frown and she holds out her hands. ‘There was a guilty plea from Candy and then silence. She wouldn’t say anything further. The social workers were tearing their hair out, desperate for your mum to defend herself. At least to explain why. For mitigation, a reduced sentence.’

  Antonia remains silent. She doesn’t want to hear what she already knows. Her head is bent, but she can still feel the heat of Mrs Jones’s interest.

  ‘There must have been a reason why she refused to speak,’ the manager says, still studying Antonia. She pauses. The room is stifling. ‘You didn’t give evidence at the trial, did you?’

  Antonia pulls back the chair to stand. ‘As I said, I was just wanting to know more about my father, but obviously …’

  ‘Well, the file won’t tell you anything.’

  Mrs Jones sits back. She looks smug, what an absolute cow. Antonia sighs inwardly and turns to leave.

  ‘But I think I can, Mrs Stafford. Shall we get a coffee?’

  ‘I promised I’d drop by to see Judith’s baby on the way home,’ Mike said at breakfast.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Olivia replied. ‘Say hello from me, would you?’

  Eggshells and explanations, forgiven but not forgotten, Olivia thought. Then she realised she hadn’t even bought a card, let alone a gift. Judith’s first baby too.

  ‘Sorry, Mike. I should have sorted out a present for the baby, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not a problem. You’ve had other things on your mind.’

  He kissed the top of her head and then picked up his briefcase. ‘I almost said I’d get Judith to sort it for me. Only …’ He grinned. ‘They’re taking bets at the office, apparently. Name the father.’

  ‘That’s awful!’ Olivia replied vehemently.

  Perhaps a little too vehemently, Olivia now thinks, alone in the house. But it is awful, the uncertainty, the not knowing. It’s fucking, fucking awful. Like a heavy stone in her chest. It’s entirely her own fault too.

  Perhaps she should’ve lied when Mike asked if she was pregnant. She was caught on the hop, sure, but still, she knew in that instant she couldn’t lie to him. Not to his face, his concerned, lovely face.

  She presses down the iron. It’s a steam iron so she doesn’t need to press, yet she can’t escape the notion that clothes fare better with pressure, any creases totally obliterated.

  Olivia sighs. She’s aware that she likes to iron out all the blips in life, to tackle any problems head on and as soon as she can. Yet with Mike and her suspicions about Judith, she not only hesitated, but ignored them completely and then hurled herself in the opposite direction. As The Archers theme tune wafts by her consciousness, she vaguely wonders why.

  Hanging Mike’s shirt, creases totally obliterated, on one of the yellow plastic hangers from the dry cleaners, she grimaces. She hates those hangers, but they always appear at the top of the ironing basket, disposable and yet very useful. She sits down for a moment, her cheek resting on her hand. When she was a teenager she swore she’d never wash a man’s shirt, let alone iron it. She almost laughs at the memory. That girl was so certain.

  The baby is suckling at Judith’s breast so Mike can’t see her tiny face.

  ‘She’s beautiful, Jude. Congratulations. How did it go?’ he asks. He feels slightly embarrassed at being in such close proximity to a breastfeeding mother who isn’t Olivia.

  ‘Bloody awful, since you ask. It’s a terrible conspiracy, isn’t it? No one tells you just how painful it’s going to be. I said to Mum that there was no way I was going to grin and bear it, but they wouldn’t give me a flipping epidural. They said it was too late so I had to push her out cursing and screaming. Poor kid, the first words she heard from her mother were swear words.’

  ‘Or square words, as Hannah calls them,’ Mike adds with a small smile. He’s forgotten just how little and fragile newborn babies are and he wonders how Hannah will deal with such an impostor when the new baby arrives.

  Judith cocks her head. ‘Anyway, why are you asking? Men usually shy away from the blood and gore sagas. You’ll be asking me whether my nipples are sore next, which, by the way, they are.’

  Mike smiles again. He misses Judith. ‘Well, as it happens, it’s topical. Olivia is pregnant again.’

  ‘Wow, that’s fantastic news. Was it planned, or was it a little surprise?’ Judith asks.

  Mike glances at the baby. He knows Judith is looking at him. Seeing into his soul. Bloody Gypsy Rose.

  ‘A big surprise, actually. I’m still getting my head around it, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Ah.’ Judith nods. ‘Best not be honest with Olivia, though.’

  Mike gazes through Judith for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere, before coming back to her quizzical eyes.

  ‘Best not be honest with Olivia about getting your head around the pregnancy, I meant,’ Judith explains.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He pensively looks back to the newborn. ‘Have you decided on a name yet?’

  The baby is asleep. He watches as Judith inserts the tip of her little finger into the corner of the baby’s mouth to detach her nipple. Then she looks at him carefully, a concerned frown on her face. ‘What’s up, Mike?’ she asks.

  Antonia clutches the coffee mug and watches the manager’s animated face. She’s learning a little about her father, the young Jimmy Farrell, a boxer from Wythenshawe with promise, real promise to make it big in the boxing world. But his career ended suddenly. He was beaten up badly by a gang of youths from the e
state.

  ‘Ironic,’ Mrs Jones says sadly as she sips her coffee, ‘with him being such a good fighter. But there was only him against six or so of them. He had no chance. He was lucky to survive. My dad was a huge boxing fan. I remember him saying that it was a terrible loss to the sport. I read about it in the local newspaper. Perhaps you should try the central library in Manchester, see if there are back copies.’

  ‘Were they black?’ Antonia asks, her eyes on the trees through the office window. ‘The men who beat him up?’

  Mrs Jones pauses, thoughtful. ‘No, I’d have remembered. What a strange question. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason,’ she replies.

  They fall silent for a while, then Mrs Jones leans forward, her voice softer than before. ‘Have you ever thought of talking it through with someone? About your parents and your childhood. Maybe a counsellor? Perhaps I’m making assumptions, but I get the impression of self-imposed isolation, of hiding away.’

  Her tiny eyes are kind, but Antonia’s thoughts are elsewhere with her father, once a young man from a council estate, but with talent and hopes for the future. Hopes that were cruelly dashed. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine. Really,’ she replies, her voice choked with unexpected emotion.

  ‘The only child of a mother who kills a father. I shouldn’t think so. That alone …’ Mrs Jones stares at Antonia, an intense sharp look. ‘There must have been more. There must have been a reason for a religious caring woman like Candy to kill a man she obviously still loves, even now after all these years.’

  Antonia stands. ‘Thank you for telling me about Jimmy. You’ve been very kind. I’ll pop and say hello, chat to Mum for a while.’

  ‘Talk to someone,’ Mrs Jones calls after her.

  Ten minutes later Antonia is pencilling her time of leaving in The Ridings visitors’ book and heading for the exit. She feels ridiculously rejected. After the coffee with Mrs Jones and on a high, she dared to peer into the patients’ dining room. Candy was sitting at a round table with other residents. Her head was down and she was shovelling mashed potato into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten for a week.

  She waited until her mother looked up, then smiled and lifted a hand by way of a greeting. Candy’s eyes shifted. Then she looked back at her plate and continued to eat without any acknowledgement.

  ‘Sorry, they like their routine,’ one of the regular carers said, guiding Antonia away by her elbow. ‘And of course their lunch! Best leave it until Sunday.’

  The dismissal by both her mother and the carer stung. It still stings as she leaves. She doesn’t really know why. Her mum is entitled to her life, just as she’s entitled to hers. It’s been a worthwhile visit too, to learn about another side to her father, one she didn’t know. The recollections from Mrs Jones excited her, yet the high of discovering that there’s more to her father than the drunk she knew has almost evaporated already. It’s been replaced by the sting of rejection and by a memory long forgotten, triggered by just one word: routine.

  ‘It’s not religion, Candy, it’s routine. You’re like a thick half-breed dog with your bloody routine. Fuck off to church then. Go to your beloved God. Likes them black, does he?’

  As she walks towards her car the cold November wind hits her hot cheeks. She’s trembling uncontrollably, not just from the cold but from a combination of emotions and thoughts. Release and relief from tension, but a flood of memories too.

  Talk to someone, she thinks. But there’s no one, there’s no one, and there’ll never be David.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  There have been occasions, particularly when Sophie first moved into his flat, that Sami wished she wasn’t there. That feeling continues to surface from time to time, but it’s only a question of space. Sami likes his space. He was used to it when he lived alone in his flat, when he’d escaped from Martha and all his noisy sisters. And Sophie is big, not in terms of size particularly, but in terms of personality. Laughter and chatter, untidiness, hair. Like the colourful furniture and furnishings she likes to buy, she uses up a lot of room.

  Sami keeps busy at work and tries to be positive. She’ll come back and if she doesn’t then it’ll be like it was. I’ll get a place of my own, he thinks. Space. I’ll go walking like I used to, eat out, meet up with the lads, buy some new gear and a bike.

  On Sunday he walks. Puts on his new trainers, flicks up the collar of his thick jacket and walks to Fletcher Moss park. Past the weathered tennis courts, the memorial benches and the cafe, past the winter peonies and pansies and down into the woods. He folds his hands in his pockets, kicking the rust-coloured crispy leaves, wondering what people might think of a man alone among the bowed trees, without friends or even a dog. He stops on the way home for coffee under the heated canopy of a cafe bar in the village to read the Sunday Telegraph and all its supplements. Talking to no one but himself.

  At work it’s easier to be distracted by clients and by colleagues and in quieter moments to think about food. I can do what I want, eat what I fancy! What do I fancy for dinner? So on the way home he stops at the village deli and buys chilled slices of meat, salami and sausages from the counter and freshly baked bread. The fridge at home is full of the delicacies one would hope for in a hamper: smoked salmon, potted prawns, pâté and dips. Treat food, weekend food. Only Sami realises too late that the crusty bread goes stale by morning and that he’s buying too much food just for one.

  He scrolls down his list of contacts and calls Mo, Pete and Salim. But the conversations are short. Their kids are going to bed or there’s the washing-up to be done. Their promises to meet up very soon sound hollow. So Sami calls his parents’ home to chat with his dad, but Martha intercepts. ‘Why are you calling so often? What’s going on, Samuel? Isn’t Sophie at home?’

  He ambles down the road in the evenings, strolls along the wet pavements lit by pretty street lamps and shops, looks into the windows of the bustling restaurants and cafe bars and sees people he recognises, but doesn’t really know. Ends up nursing a pint alone in the front bar of a pub, listening to the highs and the lows of the football fans watching the match on a large screen in the back.

  Sami has as much space as he could ever want. He has the whole of Didsbury village and Fletcher Moss park beyond. He has a tidy house, a high-definition television, boxes of bottled beer, his car magazines and Sky. But Sami is struggling, especially in the mornings when he first awakes. Even now, the realisation that Sophie isn’t there feels like a punch to his stomach. Freedom aplenty, but aching emptiness everywhere.

  Norma sits in the garden on a rusted metal chair, wrapped in her padded coat. She’s drinking coffee and smoking her first cigarette of the day. Her eyes focus on the iron table top. It’s rusty too, but nothing that a lick of enamel paint won’t cure. The boys used to paint it, a different colour each summer, eager to have tea outside as soon as the weather permitted. ‘Please, Mum. Can we have burgers on the barbecue? We’ll clean it, we promise!’

  Of course the boys never cleaned the barbecue. She loved her boys and still does. She misses having them around the house with their affectionate jibes, even if they leave the bathroom grimy, their bedrooms bedraggled and eat unbelievable quantities of food. But what do they say about sons? They’re yours until they find a wife. Neither son has married, as it happens, but both live with their girlfriends, who seem pleasant enough.

  Norma takes a drag of her cigarette and sighs; she gave them up for years. But she’s put on weight that no diet will shift and so she’s gone back on the fags in secret, berating herself each time she lights up.

  A daughter’s a daughter for all your life, she muses. It’s lovely to have Sophie home. They’ve been talking, really talking. Probably for the first time ever.

  My thirty-year-old baby, she thinks, feeling that she can, perhaps, forgive herself a little for somehow failing Sophie for all those years. Maybe she was just better with boys. Or perhaps she was envious, jealous of Sophie’s devotion to Barry right from the start. ‘
Darling little Sophie, Daddy’s princess.’ She felt excluded, she supposes, and withdrew her demonstrative love to protect herself from that awful feeling of rejection. ‘But you’re the adult.’ Barry’s words. Her own words too, internally.

  Norma stubs out the cigarette and stands up. OK, enough psycho-babble for one day, she thinks. Time for action.

  She looks up at Sophie’s bedroom window and sighs. The curtains are still closed. Sophie has slept most of the week or so she’s been there. The initial camaraderie has faltered slightly into occasional bickering, mostly as a result of her attempts to chivvy Sophie along. To get up and get dressed. To brush her hair and her teeth. Even to eat.

  Norma walks slowly up the stairs, a feeling of gloom making her legs seem heavy. She doesn’t want to be the baddie, yet again, but someone has to do it. She opens the bedroom door, yanks back the curtains, expecting the inevitable, ‘Mum! That hurts my eyes. Go away.’

  ‘Come on, Sophie,’ she says, trying for her nurse’s best brisk voice. ‘Time to get up. You’ve felt sorry for yourself long enough. I’ve made an appointment. We’re off to the doctor’s at ten.’

  Three laps of the garden in the drizzle, three more to go. Charlie is dismayed at how shaky he is on his legs. Still, it’s only day two, it’s a very large garden and the walking gives him thinking time away from Barbara, the cook slash cleaner. Of her own volition she’s taken on the additional chore of loitering. Wherever Charlie is, she is too. He suspects Barbara has orders from ‘on high’ to keep an eye on him. But if anyone’s going to drop dead on the spot it’s the octogenarian Barbara and certainly not him.

  ‘Who were you talking to in the garden?’ Rupert asked yesterday.

  ‘Uncle David,’ Charlie replied.