Beneath the Skin(70)

‘My mother has no idea whose funeral it is, you fool,’ Antonia wanted to say. But the manager continued to speak in a syrupy voice that she had never heard before. ‘It must be a terrible thing to lose your husband, Mrs Stafford. I’m very sorry. I hope having your mum there will give you some comfort.’

Antonia wanted to cry at that moment, but only for a moment, as anxiety set in. No one knew her mother here. No one knew about her history and her illness. The way she looked, the way she acted. Except Sophie.

‘Of course a carer will come too, drive her over, keep her company and bring her back. You’ll have other things to worry about,’ the manager continued. ‘I hope in some small way that helps.’

There’s good in everyone, Antonia now thinks. Candy’s wise words. Perhaps she’s right.

There is a tremor in her hand as she scrutinises her list of finger foods yet again. She feels slightly nauseous. Like the dinner parties of old, she wants to impress. She knows Sophie will laugh at her for doing the catering herself. That she’ll sneer and say no one appreciates a ‘bloody martyr’. But what Sophie doesn’t understand is that some things in life are a labour of love. Antonia didn’t enjoy the dinner parties, not one bit. They were for David. Today is for David too.

‘What are you doing, Sophie?’

Sami’s frame fills the bedroom door. He’s home earlier than Sophie expects. She has stuffed some clothes into a holdall, but she’s found it difficult to concentrate on the task. Her mind only goes so far down her mental list of things to pack, toothbrush, knickers, glasses, before it bounces back to the beginning.

‘What does it look like?’ Sophie replies, but not in a challenging way. She just doesn’t have the energy to explain, even if she tried to understand it herself.

‘The funeral starts in an hour, Sophie.’

‘I know. I’m not going.’ She stares at the holdall. It looks deflated. There must be more she should pack. But her mind feels like jelly.

She glances up at Sami. His jaw is clenched. His knuckles are prominent on the metal bedstead.

‘What am I supposed to say? To Antonia, to Mike and Olivia, to Charlie. To our friends, Sophie. What am I supposed to say?’ His voice is tight, controlled.

‘That I’ve gone away for a few days, of course.’

She can feel his anger like a hot burning coal in her chest. She doesn’t want him to be angry. She wants everything to be OK. Only it isn’t. She turns and looks at Sami’s beautiful face, then lifts her trembling hand to touch the small scar on his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I just need to get away.’

She knows Sami will flinch from her touch, even before he jerks away and stalks from the room. ‘Don’t you want to know where I’m going?’ she calls after him.

‘I don’t give a shit,’ he shouts. ‘And this time, don’t bother coming back.’





CHAPTER THIRTY


The day of the funeral is like flash photography. It gallops by, leaving only a few mental images. An album of moments and snatches of conversation stored temporarily in Antonia’s mind.

David’s coffin is brass and mahogany, an elegant dark box covered in an exquisite wreath of white lilies that someone has chosen. Today is surreal; his death doesn’t feel real. She didn’t see him after the bath. She declined when they asked if she wanted to. A dead David wasn’t David. Even to say goodbye.

The weather is wrongly dressed for a funeral. It’s bright, far too bright for October. But unusually chilly too, there’s a thin covering of frost on the gravestones. Grace, Elizabeth, Ethel, Margaret. Names she might have chosen instead of Antonia.

The church is her local Anglican. A proper old stone church with a steeple, an archway and a choir. A kind place, she senses. The pews are scratched and worn, the hymn books are tatty and the sun shines colour through the stained-glass windows. It feels warm and welcoming. Not the cold and impersonal crematorium at Southern Cemetery with one in and one out like a take-away shop. David deserves far better than Jimmy. Thank goodness for that.

There are many people in the small crowded apse as she walks to the front. People she knows, people she doesn’t, faces she recognises but can’t name. She sees a row of young lads at the back, their heads bowed as they whisper. Two of the girls from the book club. Then little Rachel in a hat, squashed between Olivia and Mike, her eyes huge in her small face.

David’s work partners and their wives sit to one side. They’re chatting. Too much chatting, she thinks, and too loud. Charlie isn’t there but his mother and her brother sit solemnly. Valerie has a violet handkerchief to her face and the uncle looks ashen and frail. A slim, attractive older woman with red ginger hair sits on one side of Helen. A huge man on the other. Then there’s Rupert, lovely Rupert, tapping his leg, his fringe in his face.

She glimpses Colin Green and his wife, plain and pregnant, next to Candy and her carer. Does her mum look bewildered? She said hello and gave her a reassuring kiss earlier, but it’s difficult to tell. There are too many faceless hands and cheeks to know what anyone might be thinking. Their words are murmured and instantly gone. But Sami is there. Solid Sami, his face set. He’s waiting for her on the front pew and he holds out his hand to take hers. He’s alone.

Antonia doesn’t think she’ll cry, but the burning at the top of her nose starts the moment Rupert rises and walks to the front of the church. He stands next to the coffin holding a sheet of paper, his face white with nerves. He’s wearing a too-short school suit. She had no idea he would speak.