Beneath the Skin(101)

Olivia swept in with the cold. Then she turned towards Antonia, her hands on hips and her face livid. ‘What the hell was Mike doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I just saw him leave. What the fuck are you playing at?’

Taken aback, she replied, ‘It was just a visit, he popped in to see if I was OK. Mike’s so thoughtful. I’m really grateful.’

‘Thoughtful, like fuck. In the middle of the day when he’s meant to be so bloody busy at work? You don’t take off your jacket and tie to be thoughtful,’ Olivia retorted. ‘You’re a fucking liar!’

‘You’re as good as the next man. Be proud. Turn the other cheek,’ Candy always said. Why should she explain about a blocked sink? In her own home too. So Antonia turned away.

‘I think you should leave, Olivia.’

‘I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.’

Olivia put her hand on Antonia’s shoulder and dragged her round. ‘Look at me. Tell me. Why was Mike here? What were you doing?’ Spit sprayed from her mouth. Her eyes looked electric.

‘There’s nothing to tell, Olivia. Please leave my house.’ Tense but calm; thinking of Candy’s words, taking the higher ground.

But Olivia’s voice was insistent and shrill. ‘What sort of person are you anyway?’ Her mouth moved and bile spilled. It was as though she couldn’t stop. ‘Your husband kills himself so you decide to take mine.’ Olivia laughed, a deep laugh that seemed to belong to someone else. ‘We’re all wondering why. It’s what everyone wants to know. It must be her, they say. She’s weird. She must have driven him to it. Well, keep away from Mike. Leave us alone. I’m having his child in six weeks, for God’s sake.’

That was the final straw. The hypocrisy of the woman.

‘His child?’ Antonia asked with icy calm. ‘Are you sure? Not Sami’s?’ Then slowly, digging in the knife. ‘I know about you and Sami. I saw you, I heard you at David’s wake.’

Olivia’s face lost its colour. ‘No. No, Sami is—’

‘Infertile? The sperm count story was a lie. Sophie’s lie, to suit Sophie. Sami isn’t infertile. When the baby is born and Mike finds out, what then, Olivia? What sort of person does that make you?’

Antonia lifts her head, breathes deeply and stares at her shaking hands.

It’s not your fault, her mind repeats. They were only words. They were truthful words. Words can’t kill. It’s the deed which counts and her hands are clean.





PART THREE





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


It’s her mother’s hands Antonia dreams of, her mother’s hands pressed on to her father’s chest and then lifting them, dripping with blood, to her face.

Sunday mornings were always bad at Chinue’s home in Northern Moor because Candy was absent. She was at church. At church before the morning Mass to dust, to carefully put out the prayer books, to lovingly arrange the flowers and then to attend the service with a proud smile. Afterwards she’d stay to scrub away the footprints of her fellows until the next service, happy to do it all again with joy. She’d pop home when she could, her eyes shining with fervour and purpose and fuss over Jimmy. ‘I was up at six to bake you a cake, love. Lunch is in the oven. Here’s your newspaper. I’ll make you a cuppa before I go. I won’t be long.’

But this day was a Holy Day and not just any Holy Day, but Easter Sunday. There were Masses at church all morning and then again at night. Chinue had been to the early service, then she’d slipped in the house, lingering in her bedroom and browsing through old hair magazines borrowed from the salon, wishing she could have escaped to Sophie’s. But even if she had been invited, she would’ve said no. The Easter Bunny visited Sophie’s house, the boys hunted for chocolate eggs in the garden and ate them for breakfast and lunch. Then family visited, aunties, uncles and cousins. They ate roast turkey with all the trimmings for dinner and then played games. She’d have been in the way.

Chinue turned over a page and studied a photograph of Twiggy’s bob from the sixties. If only, she thought, but her hair would curl, the blow-drying impossible.

Her mind flitted to Sophie. She wondered if her brothers had found the Mini Eggs she’d left under their pillows, if they felt sick yet. The Farrells didn’t have family round, not even at Christmas. Jimmy had fallen out with his brother, over the drinking, probably. Auntie Thandi wasn’t welcome, not since she married.

Chinue was hungry, her stomach rumbling. She knew there was Irish stew in the oven on a low heat. ‘Eat it when you want, love. It likes to be cooked,’ Mum had said at church. But she was reluctant to go downstairs. She didn’t know what sort of temper her dad would be in. She’d spent so much time out of the house since starting work at the hairdressers that she’d lost track of his moods. Sometimes he was fine, he went for walks with the dog and told a few jokes at tea. But his mood could change ‘on a sixpence’, as her mum put it. Something on the television or in the newspaper he’d found comical only yesterday would enrage him today. That’s when he’d reach for the Guinness.

Hunger overwhelming, Chinue sighed and headed quietly down the stairs.

‘Wondered when you’d appear. Sacha needs a walk,’ her dad said as she entered the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with the newspaper. The ashtray was full but there was no sign of beer cans.