Beneath the Skin(81)

‘There must have been a reason why she refused to speak,’ the manager says, still studying Antonia. She pauses. The room is stifling. ‘You didn’t give evidence at the trial, did you?’

Antonia pulls back the chair to stand. ‘As I said, I was just wanting to know more about my father, but obviously …’

‘Well, the file won’t tell you anything.’

Mrs Jones sits back. She looks smug, what an absolute cow. Antonia sighs inwardly and turns to leave.

‘But I think I can, Mrs Stafford. Shall we get a coffee?’

‘I promised I’d drop by to see Judith’s baby on the way home,’ Mike said at breakfast.

‘That’s nice,’ Olivia replied. ‘Say hello from me, would you?’

Eggshells and explanations, forgiven but not forgotten, Olivia thought. Then she realised she hadn’t even bought a card, let alone a gift. Judith’s first baby too.

‘Sorry, Mike. I should have sorted out a present for the baby, shouldn’t I?’

‘It’s not a problem. You’ve had other things on your mind.’

He kissed the top of her head and then picked up his briefcase. ‘I almost said I’d get Judith to sort it for me. Only …’ He grinned. ‘They’re taking bets at the office, apparently. Name the father.’

‘That’s awful!’ Olivia replied vehemently.

Perhaps a little too vehemently, Olivia now thinks, alone in the house. But it is awful, the uncertainty, the not knowing. It’s fucking, fucking awful. Like a heavy stone in her chest. It’s entirely her own fault too.

Perhaps she should’ve lied when Mike asked if she was pregnant. She was caught on the hop, sure, but still, she knew in that instant she couldn’t lie to him. Not to his face, his concerned, lovely face.

She presses down the iron. It’s a steam iron so she doesn’t need to press, yet she can’t escape the notion that clothes fare better with pressure, any creases totally obliterated.

Olivia sighs. She’s aware that she likes to iron out all the blips in life, to tackle any problems head on and as soon as she can. Yet with Mike and her suspicions about Judith, she not only hesitated, but ignored them completely and then hurled herself in the opposite direction. As The Archers theme tune wafts by her consciousness, she vaguely wonders why.

Hanging Mike’s shirt, creases totally obliterated, on one of the yellow plastic hangers from the dry cleaners, she grimaces. She hates those hangers, but they always appear at the top of the ironing basket, disposable and yet very useful. She sits down for a moment, her cheek resting on her hand. When she was a teenager she swore she’d never wash a man’s shirt, let alone iron it. She almost laughs at the memory. That girl was so certain.

The baby is suckling at Judith’s breast so Mike can’t see her tiny face.

‘She’s beautiful, Jude. Congratulations. How did it go?’ he asks. He feels slightly embarrassed at being in such close proximity to a breastfeeding mother who isn’t Olivia.

‘Bloody awful, since you ask. It’s a terrible conspiracy, isn’t it? No one tells you just how painful it’s going to be. I said to Mum that there was no way I was going to grin and bear it, but they wouldn’t give me a flipping epidural. They said it was too late so I had to push her out cursing and screaming. Poor kid, the first words she heard from her mother were swear words.’

‘Or square words, as Hannah calls them,’ Mike adds with a small smile. He’s forgotten just how little and fragile newborn babies are and he wonders how Hannah will deal with such an impostor when the new baby arrives.

Judith cocks her head. ‘Anyway, why are you asking? Men usually shy away from the blood and gore sagas. You’ll be asking me whether my nipples are sore next, which, by the way, they are.’

Mike smiles again. He misses Judith. ‘Well, as it happens, it’s topical. Olivia is pregnant again.’

‘Wow, that’s fantastic news. Was it planned, or was it a little surprise?’ Judith asks.

Mike glances at the baby. He knows Judith is looking at him. Seeing into his soul. Bloody Gypsy Rose.

‘A big surprise, actually. I’m still getting my head around it, if I’m honest.’

‘Ah.’ Judith nods. ‘Best not be honest with Olivia, though.’

Mike gazes through Judith for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere, before coming back to her quizzical eyes.

‘Best not be honest with Olivia about getting your head around the pregnancy, I meant,’ Judith explains.

‘Yeah, I know.’ He pensively looks back to the newborn. ‘Have you decided on a name yet?’

The baby is asleep. He watches as Judith inserts the tip of her little finger into the corner of the baby’s mouth to detach her nipple. Then she looks at him carefully, a concerned frown on her face. ‘What’s up, Mike?’ she asks.

Antonia clutches the coffee mug and watches the manager’s animated face. She’s learning a little about her father, the young Jimmy Farrell, a boxer from Wythenshawe with promise, real promise to make it big in the boxing world. But his career ended suddenly. He was beaten up badly by a gang of youths from the estate.

‘Ironic,’ Mrs Jones says sadly as she sips her coffee, ‘with him being such a good fighter. But there was only him against six or so of them. He had no chance. He was lucky to survive. My dad was a huge boxing fan. I remember him saying that it was a terrible loss to the sport. I read about it in the local newspaper. Perhaps you should try the central library in Manchester, see if there are back copies.’