Beneath the Skin(82)
‘Were they black?’ Antonia asks, her eyes on the trees through the office window. ‘The men who beat him up?’
Mrs Jones pauses, thoughtful. ‘No, I’d have remembered. What a strange question. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ she replies.
They fall silent for a while, then Mrs Jones leans forward, her voice softer than before. ‘Have you ever thought of talking it through with someone? About your parents and your childhood. Maybe a counsellor? Perhaps I’m making assumptions, but I get the impression of self-imposed isolation, of hiding away.’
Her tiny eyes are kind, but Antonia’s thoughts are elsewhere with her father, once a young man from a council estate, but with talent and hopes for the future. Hopes that were cruelly dashed. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine. Really,’ she replies, her voice choked with unexpected emotion.
‘The only child of a mother who kills a father. I shouldn’t think so. That alone …’ Mrs Jones stares at Antonia, an intense sharp look. ‘There must have been more. There must have been a reason for a religious caring woman like Candy to kill a man she obviously still loves, even now after all these years.’
Antonia stands. ‘Thank you for telling me about Jimmy. You’ve been very kind. I’ll pop and say hello, chat to Mum for a while.’
‘Talk to someone,’ Mrs Jones calls after her.
Ten minutes later Antonia is pencilling her time of leaving in The Ridings visitors’ book and heading for the exit. She feels ridiculously rejected. After the coffee with Mrs Jones and on a high, she dared to peer into the patients’ dining room. Candy was sitting at a round table with other residents. Her head was down and she was shovelling mashed potato into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten for a week.
She waited until her mother looked up, then smiled and lifted a hand by way of a greeting. Candy’s eyes shifted. Then she looked back at her plate and continued to eat without any acknowledgement.
‘Sorry, they like their routine,’ one of the regular carers said, guiding Antonia away by her elbow. ‘And of course their lunch! Best leave it until Sunday.’
The dismissal by both her mother and the carer stung. It still stings as she leaves. She doesn’t really know why. Her mum is entitled to her life, just as she’s entitled to hers. It’s been a worthwhile visit too, to learn about another side to her father, one she didn’t know. The recollections from Mrs Jones excited her, yet the high of discovering that there’s more to her father than the drunk she knew has almost evaporated already. It’s been replaced by the sting of rejection and by a memory long forgotten, triggered by just one word: routine.
‘It’s not religion, Candy, it’s routine. You’re like a thick half-breed dog with your bloody routine. Fuck off to church then. Go to your beloved God. Likes them black, does he?’
As she walks towards her car the cold November wind hits her hot cheeks. She’s trembling uncontrollably, not just from the cold but from a combination of emotions and thoughts. Release and relief from tension, but a flood of memories too.
Talk to someone, she thinks. But there’s no one, there’s no one, and there’ll never be David.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
There have been occasions, particularly when Sophie first moved into his flat, that Sami wished she wasn’t there. That feeling continues to surface from time to time, but it’s only a question of space. Sami likes his space. He was used to it when he lived alone in his flat, when he’d escaped from Martha and all his noisy sisters. And Sophie is big, not in terms of size particularly, but in terms of personality. Laughter and chatter, untidiness, hair. Like the colourful furniture and furnishings she likes to buy, she uses up a lot of room.
Sami keeps busy at work and tries to be positive. She’ll come back and if she doesn’t then it’ll be like it was. I’ll get a place of my own, he thinks. Space. I’ll go walking like I used to, eat out, meet up with the lads, buy some new gear and a bike.
On Sunday he walks. Puts on his new trainers, flicks up the collar of his thick jacket and walks to Fletcher Moss park. Past the weathered tennis courts, the memorial benches and the cafe, past the winter peonies and pansies and down into the woods. He folds his hands in his pockets, kicking the rust-coloured crispy leaves, wondering what people might think of a man alone among the bowed trees, without friends or even a dog. He stops on the way home for coffee under the heated canopy of a cafe bar in the village to read the Sunday Telegraph and all its supplements. Talking to no one but himself.
At work it’s easier to be distracted by clients and by colleagues and in quieter moments to think about food. I can do what I want, eat what I fancy! What do I fancy for dinner? So on the way home he stops at the village deli and buys chilled slices of meat, salami and sausages from the counter and freshly baked bread. The fridge at home is full of the delicacies one would hope for in a hamper: smoked salmon, potted prawns, paté and dips. Treat food, weekend food. Only Sami realises too late that the crusty bread goes stale by morning and that he’s buying too much food just for one.
He scrolls down his list of contacts and calls Mo, Pete and Salim. But the conversations are short. Their kids are going to bed or there’s the washing-up to be done. Their promises to meet up very soon sound hollow. So Sami calls his parents’ home to chat with his dad, but Martha intercepts. ‘Why are you calling so often? What’s going on, Samuel? Isn’t Sophie at home?’