Beneath the Skin(37)
David scrunches up his eyes, willing reality to disperse, wanting to climb back into his dream, the dream he hasn’t had for many years. The one of a small boy gliding to and fro on a pond thick with ice. A smiling fir tree glistens in the middle, its lights like warm eyes winking. Then the ice begins to crack, a thunderous black noise in his ears. But despite the screams all around him, the boy isn’t afraid. He doesn’t fear the face slowly rising to the surface, or the hand, white with death, reaching to pull him in. For the man-boy has been in this dream before. He knows not to fear the stinging slap of the icy water but to welcome the touch, the comfort and love as he slides into death. Not into the cold black ice of a pond, but hand in hand with his mother, into the warm soapy sleep of the ocean.
‘No, he’s stable, he’s alive, love,’ Antonia says, still standing beside the bed. ‘Why would you think that? But you need to wake up. Rupert’s all alone, so I’ll drop you at the hospital and then drive on to Hale.’
David averts his eyes from his watchful wife as he climbs from the bed and reaches for some clothes. He feels leaden with grogginess and his head hurts badly, from the alcohol, from the impact. He fumbles with the buttons on his shirt then gives up, rips it off his hot torso and pulls a jumper over his head. He can feel Antonia’s eyes on him, wondering what he meant. Eyes like saucers, he thinks.
‘Divine justice,’ he mutters in reply. But it’s fine. He doesn’t mind divine intervention. It all makes sense really.
‘I do love you, you know,’ Mike says as he leaves the house. A glint of sunshine through the clouds catches the top of Olivia’s face. He means it. He really means it. ‘I’m not always good at showing it, but I do.’
‘I know,’ she replies, rearranging his ruffled hair with a half-smile. ‘It’s a good job I love you anyway.’
He grins as he climbs into his car. His heart hasn’t felt this light for as long as he can remember. The black dog is missing, gone for now at least. He arrived home from work yesterday evening as usual, trying to leave his feelings of boring, dull despondency in the car for the sake of the girls, but immediately he stepped into the house, Olivia pulled him into the kitchen, away from the girls who were watching television in the lounge. ‘Let’s be friends again. I’ve missed you,’ she rushed, putting her arms tightly around him and burying her head against his chest until Hannah appeared and elbowed into the hug.
Mike is loath to leave the house and drive into Manchester today. His feelings of contentment and relief spread like osmosis, giving the whole house a party atmosphere throughout last night and again this morning at breakfast. It made him realise just how much his happiness or otherwise with Olivia affects the girls.
He thinks back to his own childhood as his car crawls with the other early commuters into town. It was happy, both parents loving and supportive, his sister joyful despite her disabilities, but he can still remember the cold dreadful atmosphere when his dad was in one of his dark moods. It was never physical, there was only shouting and stomping, but still it frightened the family into silent submission every time. Mike doesn’t generally shout, instead he withdraws, which he now understands can be just as bad. His father was vocal, so at least the family knew what was eating him. Silence is infinitely more difficult to interpret.
I must try harder, he muses, as he bounds up the stairs into work. Family is everything.
Antonia’s mind is buzzing as she drives from the hospital to the Proctors’ house in Hale. David was quiet in the car on the way to see Charlie, far too quiet. She put her hand on his and gave it a squeeze. He smiled in reply, a soft shy smile, but he was miles away. She wanted to apologise, to say the words of love that had been snatched away, but it felt too indulgent when Charlie was in hospital. Then there’s Sophie. Bloody Sophie. Antonia called her to say that she wouldn’t be able to go round to her house this morning, perhaps not all day, but Sami answered the telephone and it was strained, embarrassing.
‘What does she want at this time?’ Antonia heard Sophie grumble from the background. There was a muffled conversation between Sophie and Sami; Sami’s voice was raised. Then Sophie came on the line, angry and petulant. ‘He’s a teenager, isn’t he? Why does Rupert need you to hold his hand? You promised you’d be here. I thought we’d go out for lunch.’
Antonia ended the call without saying goodbye. First time ever and so easy. ‘You’re being completely selfish, Sophie. I’m not speaking to you when you’re like this.’
Then there was last night, when David got home in the early hours. The sharp memory of her words and her actions needles her as she drives. She was still in the dream with her father; she thought David was him. Oh God, what she said, what she did. There’s no point thinking about it now. But still she does.
‘He’s asleep,’ Helen says flatly. She’s swung from an intense fear that Charlie is going to die, to a mild irritation that bloody diabetes might put a spanner in the works (an expression she does understand) of New York. The stress of it all has created an irresistible urge to sleep, but here’s David, his sheepish face unshaven and bruised. ‘What on earth …’ she begins, but David is staring down at Charlie with a look of sheer hopelessness on his pallid face. ‘Sit down, David, before you fall down. You look worse than he does. He isn’t dead or dying. At least they don’t think so.’