Beneath the Skin(84)

Charlie missed the funeral. His desperation to be there mucked up his blood pressure, which then upset his blood sugar and the doctors wouldn’t let him out of the hospital.

‘Tell me again,’ he says frequently to Rupert, wanting every little detail of who was there and who said what. ‘Robin Hudson, are you sure it was him? I thought he was in Nigeria. Trevor Foster, really? He’s MP for Plymouth. Simon Dunthorne? Bald? You’re joking. We used to call him Sid.’

It brings Charlie back to thoughts of school and especially to the death of David’s parents. One didn’t cry at school. David didn’t cry when he heard the news. He stayed in bed and refused to move but he didn’t cry. Yet Charlie can still clearly recall finding him alone at the fives court, sobbing in a corner. Such a beautiful boy, with long tanned limbs and hair so blond it was almost white. David was a new boy then. His parents had recently been posted to Singapore and his aunt had taken his dog to the vet and had her put down.

‘Lucky was mine,’ the boy sobbed in Charlie’s arms. ‘My aunt had no right. She was mine.’

Charlie shakes the water off the umbrella in the porch and sighs. He loved that boy, the boy he held tightly in his arms until the hurt and the anger and the shaking subsided. The boy had grown into a man, a big broad man with many flaws, but he loved him dearly too.

There’s the inevitable spat between Sophie and Norma. ‘Go away. I don’t need the bloody doctor. I need to be left alone. I’m tired,’ Sophie sulks, turning away in the bed.

‘Then you can tell the doctor that,’ her mum replies firmly. ‘As well as about the drinking, the anxiety and the mood swings. You’ve wallowed long enough now. It’s time to make some decisions about the future. Staying in bed all day isn’t going to cure anything.’

‘I didn’t think it would last long.’

‘What wouldn’t last long?’

‘Nothing,’ Sophie mutters. She can hear the quaver in her mother’s voice. This has got to stop, she thinks morosely. I must stop blaming her.

Sophie pulls up the pillow and squints towards Norma. The room is warm and the teddies stare. She feels as though she’s ten years old. ‘Mum, I really don’t want to go to the doctor’s. Please don’t make me go.’

Norma sits down on the bed, her face set. ‘You know what to do. You put on a brave face and you go. It’s as simple as that.’

‘But I’m not brave, that’s just the problem. People think that I’m courageous and confident, but I’m not.’

Norma sighs, her face wrinkled and worn. She smooths the duvet cover with her hand.

‘I know that, love. Now more than ever.’

She still wears her wedding ring, Sophie notices. Does she miss him? Does she still yearn for Barry? Her husband, her lover. The man who betrayed her and not just the once? Like Sami, her Sami. Is he missing her now? Or has he shrugged her away from his thoughts as she fears? He hasn’t called, he hasn’t texted. ‘Don’t bother coming back,’ he had said.

Norma is looking at her. Her green eyes are still bright, but her auburn hair is now streaked with grey. Like mother, like daughter, in so many ways. She reaches out and tightly grasps Sophie’s hand. ‘In life nobody is going to help you unless you help yourself. You’re being self-destructive.’ She gives a small smile. ‘How can I put it? There’s no point expecting CPR if you unplug your life support. That’s what you’re doing now, Sophie. You aren’t helping yourself by lying here and feeling sorry for yourself. And you’ve alienated the people you love. It’s time you got up and started building bridges.’

Sophie smiles despite her need to cry. ‘You and your bloody metaphors,’ she says.

‘So, it’s a return to school next week, now I’m back home, Rupe. Bet you can’t wait to get back into the swing and see all your friends. You’ve been such a good lad. All this hard work.’

Rupert is sitting at the old dining table, his school books spread out. He’s been there all morning, his fringe tucked behind his ear and his face taut with concentration.

‘Yeah, but I’m not like you, Dad. It doesn’t come easily. I’m not that …’ His face colours and he looks down at his writing pad. ‘Academic.’

‘Of course you are,’ Charlie starts to say, but something holds him back. There’s a feeling of déjà vu, an echo of conversations gone by. Then there’s that question too, always in his mind, that comes to the fore when he walks. Oh, David, did we push you too hard?

Rupert sighs, his head still bent. ‘And they push you so hard at school.’

Charlie flinches at the repetition of the words, then pulls out a chair, sits down and stares at Rupert’s scratchy left-handed scrawl. His initial reaction is to defend the school, his school and his father’s school before him, but Rupert looks close to tears. It isn’t what Charlie expects. ‘I thought you were happy there,’ he says instead.

Rupert’s fringe falls forward. ‘The sport’s OK, but if you’re not clever, it’s just embarrassing,’ he mutters. He lifts his head for a moment and he glances at his father. ‘Sometimes I just wish I was normal.’

Charlie sits back, feeling slightly breathless. He wants to ask more questions, but feels that perhaps he should already know the answers. Should have noticed. Should have seen. He opens his mouth to speak but his son pre-empts him.