Beneath the Skin(59)
Norma pours a second mug of tea – ‘Tea so strong you could stand your spoon in it,’ as Grandma used to say – and then adds half a spoonful of sugar. She pulls up the other bar stool and sits, looking far too top-heavy. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall over, Sophie thinks, just managing not to say it.
‘Now, Sophie,’ Norma says, eyes still on her child. ‘Time to tell me what’s wrong.’
Claustrophobic is the only way Sami can describe it as he picks at the Sunday newspapers. He’s had two nights under Martha’s roof in Yorkshire, two days of being overfed and too many hours of not-so-subtle inquisition.
‘It’s Friday night, Samuel,’ Martha said when he turned up unexpectedly. ‘You always go to the pub. Why aren’t you there?’
‘One of the guys. Well, he’s dead. Long story, Mum.’
‘Why aren’t you at home, then?’
‘Sophie’s away for a long weekend.’
He looked at the face his mum always pulls when it comes to Sophie. A face of disbelief and distaste, combined.
‘What’ve you done to your head, Samuel?’
‘Got bumped with a squash racquet.’
The same face from Martha but her eyebrows at a slightly less incredulous angle.
‘You look too thin. Is she feeding you?’
He was unbelievably angry as he accelerated from home towards the motorway on Friday evening. He pulled over in a petrol station, sent a few texts to people, which he immediately regretted, then drove on to his parents’ house in Yorkshire. But as the evening drew on, his anger abated just a little and then by the morning he was willing Sophie to text or to call.
Sami now looks up to the mantlepiece clock his dad winds every evening and sighs. He doesn’t want to know why, he doesn’t want to go into it or dwell on it, but he understands that Sophie is putting herself under pressure. As usual she’s snapped, exploded, burst. It’s what she always does, eventually. But she’s never thrown a glass at him before. That’s worrying. Worse, he’s left her alone and she’s probably still boozing. Perhaps he should telephone, but he’s firmly decided that she must call first.
He goes back to the newspapers. He wanted to leave immediately after the full English breakfast Martha put under his nose first thing this morning, but his dad’s silent eyes implored. ‘It’s raining heavily,’ they said. ‘There’s no escape to the garden! Please don’t go.’
Sami had hesitated. He was itching to get into his car, back into the driving seat to sort out his head. But then two of his sisters appeared at the front door, kids in tow, and he was struck by the noise they all made. Happy noise, it may have been, but even he might have been tempted into gardening if he still lived there. So he stayed for lunch. Moral support for his dad.
Sophie hasn’t texted or called. Throughout yesterday and again this morning he’s fingered the Elastoplast on his forehead, a reminder of resolve. But Martha has fussed, unbearably so. ‘There’s a spare inhaler in the cabinet if you get chesty, my boy. What do you fancy for your tea? I’ll wash your shirt and trousers while you’re here. I’m baking a chocolate cake. With fudge, just as you like it. You just relax and let your Momma spoil you.’
He’s so stuffed, he can’t move, like the fat little boy who used to lie on this very sofa and be fed food ‘to cheer you up, my boy’. It was food as a cure for unhappiness. Temporary sweet comfort from bullying. As though making him fatter would help. And here is Martha, still watching him with little glances, just like she did back then.
He turns the page of The Times Sunday supplement and sighs again. Claustrophobic’s the word. He’ll talk to Sophie, he’ll even forgive and forget. He touches his plaster. But she has to make the first move.
Still perched at the breakfast bar, Norma waits for Sophie’s reply. Her daughter is pacing now, opening a drawer and examining kitchen utensils randomly, before moving on to select another drawer or cupboard.
Norma understands that she and Sophie are a little too alike, too ready to impose an opinion, too fond of being right about everything. She tried to let Sophie win their frequent stand-offs as she was growing up on the basis that she was the adult and Sophie the child. But it was difficult to do, not only because Sophie drove her to distraction at times, but because Norma fundamentally believed in strict parenting. Unfortunately, Barry didn’t particularly agree. He was ambivalent on the point. It all depended on how he felt at any given time. Which made him the good cop, Norma the bad.
She’s never worked out how Barry’s ‘seeing the bigger picture’ works when both parties are adults, which is why she and Sophie don’t speak for months at a time. Unfortunately the strict parent part is still there, as important to Norma as ever. It’s a desire, she always reasons, to help your child, to stamp out the bad bits, make room for the good. But as she watches Sophie’s distracted look and as she examines her heavily made-up face, she understands that something is seriously amiss and it distresses her. She should have noticed, she should have known. She’s been a nurse for over thirty years. She’s seen that look before.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sophie answers eventually, stooping to examine the wall under the breakfast bar. ‘I feel great, actually. Buzzing. I might go out for a drive. Stop at a pub for a drink.’