Beneath the Skin(55)
‘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.