Beneath the Skin(56)

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 anything 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—’