Beneath the Skin(97)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Olivia stands in her hallway and looks at her watch. Rachel has netball after school and Hannah’s going to a friend’s house for tea, so she has time to either attend an aqua-natal class at Chorlton swimming baths or to assuage her conscience by visiting Antonia. She prefers the idea of the former. It’s a life saver to make friends with other pregnant mums, not only for the pre-birth gripes and fears, but particularly for after the birth. The support and camaraderie of someone else with stinging stitches and leaky nipples is invaluable. But she most definitely feels guilty about her failure to visit Antonia properly since the funeral. She’s been so sweet to Rachel too, taking her bowling or to the cinema and then to Nando’s. It’s the sort of thing Olivia would do had there not been such a large age gap between Rachel and Hannah. ‘Though, would I?’ she asks herself, as she studies the clutter of trainers and fairy wings, music stands and jigsaws under the stairs. It’s difficult to really know the answers to all the ‘if’ questions. She’s told herself firmly to stop beating herself up, to concentrate on ‘scot-free’, whatever that actually means, but sometimes it’s much easier said than done.
‘Antonia. Decision made,’ she says out loud. ‘After the veg.’
She runs the kitchen tap, dislodging the soil from the vegetables with her fingertips as random thoughts flow through her mind. A dead body. What would you do? How do you know it was dead, even? Arranging a funeral, a wake. Where do you begin? Money, death certificates, probate. Loss of your husband, the person you love. Loneliness, grief, guilt. Living in the same house. Using the bathroom, the bath? It must be overwhelming.
Perhaps she’ll find out the answers from Antonia this afternoon. Not that she’ll ask, naturally. But maybe the information will be offered. The conversation had flowed all those weeks ago when Antonia stayed for lunch. It’ll do so again, she’s sure. They’re friends after all.
The veg duly prepared and covered in cold water, Olivia picks up her padded jacket and heads for the front door. She’s about to close it as the telephone rings.
‘Oh, hi Sian. Yes, aqua’s on today as far as I know. Chorlton baths this week, Withington next.’ She pauses, listens, umms and aahs. ‘I was in two minds actually, but if you’re going, I’ll definitely come too. We haven’t caught up for ages.’
Forgetting the guilt, she pulls the door to. It’ll make no difference if she visits Antonia tomorrow.
‘Shattered Dreams!’ the South Manchester Reporter headline from the mid-seventies declares from the photocopy in Antonia’s hand. Since returning from Withington she’s studied the black-and-white photograph endlessly. David never betrayed her, thank God. There’s relief and joy mixed with the sadness, but the visit has unsettled her too. Not just the tragedy of a man living with a hidden hole in his heart, or the way Misty seemed to see inside her head, but the memory of the guy in the pub, drinking his life away.
Although it’s stuck to his head with sweat, the thickset young boxer in the snap has light hair, maybe ginger, she thinks. The boxing gloves are at the fore of the photograph, partly covering the face which is slightly blurred and distorted by the gum shield. It’s difficult to tell if it’s truly her dad.
‘That’s Jimmy!’ Candy immediately declared on Sunday in her bedroom, delight brightening her face and diverting her from the television screen.
Despite her desire to cut to the chase as she showed Candy the newspaper article, Antonia bided her time. She let her mum chat and reminisce about old times. But her memories emerged like patchwork. Candy talked of people and places and events which didn’t appear to be connected and meant nothing to Antonia.
A middle-aged woman with ruddy cheeks tapped at the open door. She was carrying a mop made of strips of blue cloth and a bucket. ‘Sorry to interrupt, love. Do you mind if I do your loo now, Candy?’
‘Rose, look it’s Jimmy!’
Rose put down her carry box of rags and disinfectants and leaned over. ‘Good looker, eh Candy! You said he was a boxer.’ Her eyes scanned the article. ‘What a terrible shame. I remember you saying. His legs got broke and the rest. Worse than in the ring. Still, it didn’t stop you and Jimmy having this smashing lass here.’
Antonia listened to the exchange and smiled. The polite fixed smile of a daughter who didn’t know as much about her mother as the care home cleaner. Because she never asked, because she never really listened. Like David, like David.
She turned to her mother and picked up her chubby hand. ‘Why did it happen, Mum? Why did they beat him up?’
But Candy leaned forward and balled up her body. She wept and rocked and keened and it took some time for Antonia to hear her words and to understand what she was saying.
‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have told him. It was only name calling. I should have been used to it. But he was so angry when I told him. He wanted to shut up their dirty racist mouths. He did it for me. Because he loved me, he adored me. It was all my fault.’
Antonia props the photocopy against a framed photograph of her and David from their wedding day and sighs. As much as she’s tried, she can’t reconcile the young boxing champion in the picture with the father she remembers. She and Sophie burned the photographs, not just of Jimmy, but of the whole family, on her seventeenth birthday.