Beneath the Skin(80)

Her visit to The Ridings is on a whim, Antonia tells herself, a rather long diversion from her planned trip to Waitrose. Even as she drives into the small car park, she isn’t sure if she’ll actually get out of the car, or struggle with a hurried five-point turn to retreat. But by the time she places her finger on the front door buzzer, she’s praying that Mrs Jones, The Ridings manager, will be there. She doesn’t want her resolve to fade.

‘Hello, Mrs Stafford. We don’t usually see you in the week,’ Mrs Jones starts to say with her practised smile. Then she pauses and Antonia notices a flash of embarrassment in her eyes. She’s just remembered about David, she thinks. She wishes people would forget.

The taint of death. Again. She recently tried to read the novel Heart of Darkness, but struggled to get even halfway. She abandoned it for Sylvia. She always comes back to her. Chooses which poem to relish next by its title. ‘Death & Co’ it was last night, read over and over until she thought she understood.

Antonia stands at the office door of the care home, both hands clutching her handbag to keep them still. ‘I’ve come to speak to you, actually, if that’s OK.’

Antonia has decided to have a project for every day, no matter how small. It was letter writing on Monday, on the embossed notepaper she and David were bought as a wedding gift.

Just a note to thank you for your kind condolences.

She wrote them in her best handwriting, careful to check the spelling and hoping for the best with the grammar. She doesn’t know if a thank you letter is the done thing, but it felt right. Then on Tuesday she took the long walk from White Gables to the village post office and the newsagents. There she scrutinised the postcards offering work, the ones randomly displayed in their dusty windows. She hopes for a shop job, but it doesn’t really matter, anything will do if there are people. ‘I long for workmates! People to talk to, to laugh with,’ she would confide to Mike, knowing that he’d understand, but she hasn’t seen Mike for days.

Of course her visit to The Ridings isn’t on a whim. It’s something which has pestered her since having coffee with Olivia all those weeks ago. ‘They fuck you up.’ More so since David’s death. She didn’t know him, her husband of five years, not really. The speeches at the funeral, the stories and banter at the wake and of course the Misty revelation were proof of that. What of her own flesh and blood? ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’ She’s grown up now, it’s time to find out.

She continues to clutch the handbag as she waits for the manager’s reply.

‘Oh?’ Mrs Jones says. She puts her hands in her lap, her face a polite blank.

Poor woman, my request could be anything, Antonia thinks. It could be a complaint, an argument or a demand she can’t fulfil. It can’t be easy doing her job.

‘I just wondered if I could talk about my mum. Or, I don’t know, look at her file or her records or whatever you call them.’

It clearly isn’t what Mrs Jones expects. ‘Oh,’ she says again, her eyebrows raised. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that. I’m sure you realise that under the Mental Health Act …’

Antonia nods, not wanting to listen today about Candy’s mental health any more than she has previously. ‘Mental capacity assessment; section one-one-seven; case conferences; mental health team; best interest meetings; social circumstances report.’ They’re words and phrases she’s heard many times before, but she was too young, too scared and too powerless at the beginning. Then as she grew older, she both appreciated and resented having all the responsibility taken out of her hands.

Mrs Jones’s small eyes are fixed on Antonia. She’s struggling to hide her curiosity. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, why the interest now? Your mother’s very settled here.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing like that.’

It suddenly occurs to Antonia that Mrs Jones might think she wants to take her mother home. To live with her now that David has gone. She doesn’t know if it’s possible in the circumstances, even if Candy hadn’t been sectioned all those years ago.

‘I was wondering more about my father, actually.’ Antonia glances up at the woman before dropping her gaze again. It’s hard, hard saying the words, even harder asking for help.

She can hear his words now, as though he’s in the room: ‘Eat your fucking food.’ She shakes them away. How should she put it? ‘Growing up. Well, he wasn’t the best father in the world.’

Mrs Jones says nothing but waits, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes on Antonia.

Antonia tries to swallow but her throat feels too dry. She considers getting up from the clamp of a chair she’s sitting in and leaving. But she’s come this far, she’s been very brave. She lifts her head and meets the cool, inquisitive eyes of the manager.

‘He was a drunk, actually. Violent at times. That’s all I really know about him.’

‘That didn’t come out at the trial.’

‘I know.’

Mrs Jones’s thin eyebrows shape a frown and she holds out her hands. ‘There was a guilty plea from Candy and then silence. She wouldn’t say anything further. The social workers were tearing their hair out, desperate for your mum to defend herself. At least to explain why. For mitigation, a reduced sentence.’

Antonia remains silent. She doesn’t want to hear what she already knows. Her head is bent, but she can still feel the heat of Mrs Jones’s interest.