The Silent Wife(35)
So the next time Massimo was talking about our annual trip to Italy, I took the opportunity to suggest that we should perhaps abandon swimming lessons for the time being and try again in August, when we’d be on holiday in the sunshine and he might be motivated to learn so he could join in with Sam and Francesca.
The chatty ‘Maybe this year we could try and get tickets to the Palio?’ husband vanished instantly. He slammed his hand on the table. ‘Do you know how I learnt to swim? My dad pushed me in the deep end a few times. I soon learnt to keep my head above water so I didn’t drink half of the pool. And trust me, if Sandro doesn’t pull his finger out and start putting some effort in, I’ll be doing the same in Italy this summer.’
As always I’d made things worse by trying to help. Now, I not only had the insurmountable problem of persuading Sandro to continue his lessons but a deadline for success as well.
As a result, that Thursday when Maggie came walking up the road, Sandro was sitting on the kerb, his face buried in the swimming bag on his knee. ‘Please don’t make me go, please don’t make me go, please don’t make me go.’
I was kneeling next to him, drilling into every last resource to find the magic sentence to make Sandro summon up the courage to get into that hated pool. If I didn’t insist he went, Massimo would think up a horrendous reprisal that would make an afternoon at the leisure centre look like an outing to the funfair: ‘That boy’s got to learn to do as he’s told!’
Maggie wandered over. ‘Lara? Is everything okay?’
I dredged up a smile. ‘We’re fine, Sandro’s not very keen on going to the pool today. I think he’s a bit tired.’ I felt him waver between leaning into me for comfort and resisting in case I tricked him and hauled him to his feet.
Maggie crouched down to Sandro. ‘Hey you. Can you ride a bike?’
Sandro nodded.
‘Swimming is a bit like that. Before you get the hang of it, it feels like you’ll never ever get it. And then suddenly, wham! You just click and you’re off.’
Sandro’s head had gone down again. Something slumped inside me. Maggie was trying to be kind but my whole parenting life had been a long round of people who thought they had the answer, the wave of the wand to make Sandro into what we wanted. What Massimo wanted. Everyone had a simple solution to get him to toughen up, to be brave, to join in, to enjoy sport, to not be afraid of insects, of speaking up, of life. But what if that’s who he was? What if he never managed to be any of those things that society demanded he must be to gain approval?
I forced myself to smile at Maggie. I tried to push away the nagging doubt that I had made him like this, always seeing the pitfalls, the result of years of living with my dad’s well-intentioned warnings. I’d even lived at home while I’d studied for my accountancy degree, commuting to London, heeding my dad’s advice there was no point in running up a lifetime of debt to live in a hovel of a flat. ‘Besides, London’s not safe at night.’ Yet again I’d been the odd one out, leaving for my evening train just as the fun was starting.
As I started to haul Sandro to his feet, my mobile went. No doubt Massimo checking up to see that we’d gone to the leisure centre.
But it was the number for Dad’s nursing home. I jumped to my feet, my heart hammering. No Dad-related phone calls ever brought good news.
‘Mrs Farinelli? I’m calling because your dad’s had a fall and hurt his ankle. We’ve got the doctor in with him now. We’re not sure if he’s broken it, but he’s not very compliant and keeps asking for you.’
‘Oh God, oh God.’ I felt everything go loose in me, as though my second chances were running out. There was so much I needed to say to Dad, to articulate, before the ghost of what was left disappeared completely. I kept trying to pin down Massimo to a time to take me to see him, but he was always so busy. But I had to go now. My mind flitted between the practicalities and possibilities of only having ten pounds in my purse. I glanced at Maggie, who was still huddled up with Sandro. I’d have to ask her to lend me some money.
She looked up. ‘Is there a problem?’
I filled her in. ‘I’m going to have to get a bus over to Dad. Is there any chance you could look after Sandro for me for a couple of hours?’
‘A bus? Isn’t he in the middle of nowhere though, near Worthing? That’ll take you ages.’
‘Yes, but Massimo’s in London today so he can’t take me. The bus will be fine.’ I didn’t even know when they ran in the afternoons or how far ten pounds would get me. I tried to come up with an excuse for not having a cash card to get any money out. I couldn’t tell her the truth: that the last time I’d taken a taxi to see Dad, Massimo had cut up all my bank cards, then scratched ‘Bitch’ with one of the sharp edges into my lower back until it bled. I’d resolved to leave him, but then Sandro got a chest infection and Massimo had been so concerned, helping me steam his chest every day, buying vaporisers for the room, ringing the doctors, that I’d missed the moment. I was so wrung out by the time Sandro was better, I didn’t have the energy to fight Massimo’s decision to dole out a daily allowance, left in cash on the table after breakfast every day, much less to pack my bags and go.
My mind was whirling. I’d have to pretend I’d lost my purse. I could hear the panic in my voice, the fear that Dad’s distress would be growing, spiralling down into confusion, thinking his daughter couldn’t be bothered with him, not even when he was in pain.