Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  She gave Jack a sympathetic smile. For all his years of hard work, he too was something of a rebel, and he, if anyone, might sympathize with her own desire to break free. Though she had decided not to broach the subject of becoming part of a house-share, at least not until they were back home. Scott’s portrayal of Camden Town as a drug-infested hellhole was probably still ringing in their ears – hardly the best inducement for a move there. Besides, she found the golf club ambience inhibitingly formal. The dining-room seemed stranded in a time warp, with its dark-oak panelling and heavy velour curtains, and gilt-framed portraits on the walls of past bewhiskered captains. And most of the diners looked so old and staid; men in plus-fours or regimental ties, their bald heads gleaming beneath the soft pink-shaded lamps; ladies (never ‘women’ here) in Jaeger suits and pearls, with corrugated perms.

  The waitress glided up to take their order, smartly turned out in her black and white livery, with a black bow on her hair. A wonder she wasn’t wearing starched white gloves, Catherine thought, breaking off a piece of bread roll. She knew from past experience that the service was incredibly slow and they might not finish lunch until half past three or four. It was all part of the formality; an attempt to ape the gracious lifestyle of earlier, less harassed decades. Such a contrast with the market – traders burning their mouths on scalding mugs of coffee, or dashing off between customers to snatch a bite to eat. She wished she could talk about her day’s work in the market, but Andrew and Antonia would probably be shocked. And there were other subjects she couldn’t talk about: the night with Simon, her lottery win yesterday, and the long session in the pub, followed by her communing with the gin bottle. She had never felt the need to hide things from her family before. It made her feel a black sheep.

  ‘Now, my dear.’ Maureen turned to her, as if she’d read her mind. ‘Tell us what you’ve been doing with yourself.’

  ‘Oh, this and that. I … I went to a gig with Darren the other night.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A sort of … concert. Darren plays bass guitar in a rock band.’

  ‘So that explains his appearance,’ Maureen said, shaking her head. I can never understand why young people do themselves up in all that dreary black. You see these pretty young girls, barely out of school, looking as if they’re going to their own funerals.’

  ‘And how’s the cat?’ asked Jack, sipping his wine appreciatively.

  ‘Oh, he’s miles better now, thanks. I’ve been dosing him with vitamins. I got them from this amazing pet shop near Nicky’s. It looks a bit of a dump, but it’s one of the oldest in the whole of Europe and they sell all sorts of weird creatures – things I’d never even heard of, like plumed basilisks and poison-arrow frogs. And a fantastic range of snakes. I almost came home with a boa constrictor.’

  Antonia gave a delicate shudder.

  ‘It’s all right – I’m only joking. I was there for the vitamins, that’s all, and cat food. That was exotic, too. They had Kit-e-Kat and stuff, of course, but also designer meals – salmon in cream sauce or breast of guinea-fowl, which you defrost in the microwave. Terribly expensive, of course.’

  ‘Would you believe it?’ Maureen tutted. ‘And to think of all the poor old souls trying to exist on bread and dripping.’

  ‘Ah, look,’ said Jack, as the hors d’oeuvres trolley was trundled up to their table. ‘We’re saved from bread and dripping!’

  The waiter hovered beside Maureen with his spoon poised over a selection of some twenty dishes.

  ‘Oh, dear. They all look rather rich,’ she said. ‘Well, just a little of the avocado. Oh, and some grated carrot and tomato. And a tiny piece of pâté. Thank you. Nothing else.’

  Antonia took less still: a dab of cottage cheese and a few fronds of crinkly lettuce. She was so slim already, Catherine thought, she would have put a greyhound to shame. Gerry had often teased his daughter-in-law about her constant dieting, and would even lean across and help himself to the food she’d left, saying better in his stomach than the waste-bin.

  God, she missed him still so much, especially here. Maureen had Jack, Andrew had Antonia, but she was the odd one out, a single. It had seemed so different in London. Singles were practically the norm in Nicky and Darren’s crowd, and in the market and the Stag’s Head, whereas here she felt conspicuous, spare. At almost every other table sat man and woman, husband and wife; two by two, two by two. Gerry’s name hadn’t even been mentioned, which somehow she resented. Of course, the others were probably trying to spare her feelings (especially if Andrew had told them that her butchered hair might be a sign of deep emotional disturbance). Yet it actually made things worse not to talk about him, to swamp his death in a tide of empty chit-chat.

  The waiter approached her with the trolley. As he indicated each dish in turn, she gave an emphatic nod. She would have a little of every one – no, a lot of every one – as a way of bringing Gerry back, making him real and substantial. It was also a tiny way of rebelling. So often at Manor Close she ate far less than she wanted, for fear of seeming greedy compared with her health-conscious son and abstemious daughter-in-law. But her real self was greedy, and it was time she acknowledged the fact.

  Her plate was piled with seafood and stuffed mushrooms, ratatouille and artichoke hearts, feta cheese and pâté, plus various sorts of salad. Even so, she asked for another spoonful of risotto, a second hard-boiled egg. She saw Andrew and Antonia exchanging surreptitious glances, but knew they were too polite to comment Jack, though, was more forthcoming. ‘Well,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘You’d better change your mind about the wine. You’ll need something to wash that lot down.’

  She let him fill her glass – might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. She winced at the appalling pun, on a par with Scott’s. Not that anyone like Scott would be allowed within a mile of this place. Gentlemen were expected to be ‘correctly attired’, which meant wearing a jacket and tie. She remembered lunching here one Sunday when the vice-president of American Ford was escorted swiftly from the dining-room because he had an open-necked shirt beneath his cashmere jacket. Ponytails and dreadlocks would be totally beyond the pale. And as for nose-rings …

  She imagined the po-faced steward ejecting a whole stream of market traders – Derek out, Greta out, Brad and Lester most definitely out. She looked around at the members and their guests: all so privileged and well-spoken. No blacks, of course; no working class. Yet what right had they to ban people on account of their accent or skin-colour, or label brave souls like Brad as uncouth, or ‘not our type’? There were so many footling rules – no women in the men’s bar, no guests in the private lounge, no mobile phones or Walkmans anywhere on the premises, no shouting, swearing, singing, no living, for God’s sake.

  ‘Do you remember the Boothbys, Catherine?’

  She forced her attention back to Maureen. ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Tom and Lorraine – that couple who lived next door to us. I think you met them once. He was something to do with the Water Board, or whatever you call it now. And she bred pedigree dogs. They were a lovely couple, weren’t they, Jack?’

  Jack nodded, busy with his hors d’oeuvres. ‘Though I’m not sure I’d say the same about the dogs!’

  ‘Well, anyway, they’ve moved to Aberdeen. Lorraine’s half-Scots, apparently. But it does seem a big upheaval, don’t you think? I mean, Tom’s not exactly a spring chicken, and it’s so cold in Scotland, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mm.’ Catherine had no interest in the Boothbys, and they’d, intruded into her fantasy. She had been imagining this hallowed room full of market traders – all her personal guests. She had assumed the role of steward and turfed out the upper crust to make room for people down on their luck, or those struggling to survive without the luxury of investment plans or two cars in the garage. It would be nice to treat them to a slap-up Sunday lunch, and the time to enjoy it. Sunday was the busiest day at the market – ‘customers-from-hell day’, Derek had called it glumly.

  ‘Which win
e for you, Derek?’ she asked him, ‘the claret or the Chardonnay? No, don’t worry about a thing. Today’s a market holiday – with pay. I’ve just declared it official.’

  She giggled to herself. The wine must have affected her already – or the sherry before lunch. Yet her headache had completely vanished, which seemed miraculous in itself. Not only had she lost her earlier lethargy, she felt almost on a high, as if she’d been smoking Darren’s dope. She was beginning to suspect that one of the reasons she had always been a ‘good girl’ was her fear of going way over the top if she did ever dare rebel. She certainly felt peculiar right now: scatty, childish, angry and elated at once, and increasingly at odds with her surroundings. Not to mention ravenous. She crammed a piece of cheese into her mouth. Her guests all needed feeding, especially skinny Derek and the waif-thin girl with the baby in the milk-crate. Babies weren’t permitted in the golf club (no children under ten, in fact), but she was in charge today, so she could invite a whole nurseryful of infants – and Brad’s six siblings, while she was about it, including the brother in borstal.

  And what about his alcoholic mother? Didn’t she deserve to indulge herself after bringing up that huge brood single-handed?

  ‘Of course, we do find it quieter without the dogs. And the new people seem very pleasant, don’t they, Jack? Well, Jack’s not too keen on his lawn-mower, are you, dear? It’s one of those dreadful motor things.’

  ‘Surely he’s not mowing the lawn this time of year,’ Antonia remarked.

  ‘Well, no,’ said Jack, putting down his fork. ‘I think he’s only tuning and repairing it. But it still makes a hell of a noise.’

  The conversation turned to gardening in general; Andrew and Antonia’s plans to train a few dwarf fruit trees against the south-facing wall. Catherine’s attention drifted away again – back to Mrs Brad. She snapped her fingers at the waiter and ordered a double gin for her; told him to leave the bottle on the table. Brad himself was sitting on her right, Stan and Gareth opposite, Lester on her left; Bina, Lynne, Rosie and her ten-year-old still to be squashed in. But why should anyone be squashed? All the other tables were free, now that the beau monde departed. She would go way over the top and invite the crowd from the Stag’s Head; the fiddler and accordionist could provide an Irish sing-song. And that man she’d seen last night playing his guitar in Camden High Street, dressed in jeans and shirtsleeves despite the sub-zero temperature, and singing to an audience of full moon and brilliant stars.

  ‘Yes, come in,’ she told him. ‘It’s nice and warm in here.’ And ‘Welcome!’ she said to Darren’s band and the long-haired rock fans she’d met at the gig. Not a jacket or tie among them, but who cared?

  The chef would have to work overtime to feed so many mouths. And she must do her bit as well. She chewed three garlicky prawns, forked in half an egg, then helped herself to a second bread roll and spread it thickly with butter.

  ‘Eat all you like,’ she told her guests. ‘It’s free today, with the compliments of the Captain, Sir Edward Digby-Soames.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to the spring,’ said Maureen. ‘The daffodils make such a lovely show.’

  Catherine’s mouth was too gloriously full to respond. And there was still dessert to come. Brad had a sweet tooth, so she intended to pig out on the puddings for him: apple pie with double cream and ice-cream, a big chunk of treacle tart, and as much fruit salad as she could cram into the bowl. Gerry would approve. He had never been a snob, and she knew he found the golf club starchy, although he kept his feelings to himself, as she did. They adored their son and wouldn’t want to hurt him, but Andrew had different values, partly because he had married into such a fastidious, snooty family.

  She glanced at Antonia’s glass: mineral water, as usual, and the still kind, not the sparkling. Even bubbles were probably dangerous in Antonia’s quiescent world. But not for her, not today. However crazy it might sound, she somehow felt protected today – by fate, by her new luck.

  ‘A magnum of champagne, please,’ she told the waiter silently. ‘No, can you make that a crate?’

  She had just made a big decision (without even having to agonize about it) and she wanted to celebrate the start of the future – now.

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ Rosie asked. ‘I’m just getting one for me and Brad.’

  ‘Yes, please!’ said Catherine. ‘I’m frozen. Here, take this.’ Hands clumsy with cold, she extracted a pound coin from her money-belt.

  ‘No, it’s on me today,’ said Rosie.

  Catherine watched her stride off, head ducked against the pelting rain, her long black mac flapping around her ankles. The weather had been atrocious all day and the market was comparatively empty – especially for a Sunday – not only fewer people buying but fewer selling, too. According to Brad, some traders took other work during the slack months after Christmas, then came back again in March or April. And some travelled to exotic lands in search of stock to sell: wooden carvings from Bali, fringed shawls from Katmandu.

  Derek’s stall next door was just a bare metal frame, like a gap in a row of teeth. He wasn’t in Katmandu, but in bed with tonsillitis, and Trevor, further along, had decided to pack it in altogether. His jewellery had hardly sold at all – too much competition from Brad and others. But among those still left there was an increased sense of camaraderie, a fighting spirit almost, especially on a day like this when they were battling against bad weather as well as dwindling trade.

  Catherine made a thumbs-up sign to Colin, who was sweeping away the worst of a pool of water right in front of his stall. The pavement was uneven in places and large puddles would form, which were offputting to the customers. Colin had once owned a chain of shoe shops, but lost everything in the recession. She had been chatting to him about the strain of running a business; the headaches over deliveries or staff. She felt more at home in the market now that she’d got to know people on her own wavelength. In fact, she and Rosie had developed quite a bond, having discovered they had certain things in common, including mothers who’d died young. Also, Rosie had shown her the ropes, introduced her to the market manager, advised her where to go for the cheapest food and drinks – acted as her guide, in short.

  The market community was something like a village, or a big obstreperous family, complete with feuds and quarrels. And despite the hand-to-mouth existence (and the present bitter weather), she felt a sense of triumph that she was managing to survive here, and had already made a friend.

  She could see Rosie now returning with the coffee, stumping along in her moon-boots, her long brown hair bundled under a hat.

  Diving under the shelter of the tarpaulin, she handed Catherine a cup. ‘I’ve bought some flapjacks, too – Jean’s home-made. They’re lovely and gooey inside.’ She took two clingfilm-wrapped squares from her pocket and passed the larger one to Catherine.

  ‘Let me pay you for that, at least, Rosie.’

  ‘No – my treat. I’ve hardly seen you today. Every time I was going to come over for a chat, you were busy with a customer.’

  ‘Oh, most of them weren’t customers, just friends of friends. Remember I told you about the people I live with? Well, they keep sending their mates along to say hello. It’s great to have the company, but I’ve sold very little today.’

  ‘Same here. Mind you, I can’t complain – I did brilliantly over Christmas.’

  ‘And I’m all right,’ said Catherine, ‘since Greta pays me anyway. Though she probably won’t when she sees how badly I’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll kick you out just yet! She needs you, after all.’

  Catherine prised the lid off her coffee and took a warming sip. It was true that Greta had hit a lucky streak: the American bride-to-be had been so delighted with the waistcoats, she had ordered a dozen more for friends back home, to be dispatched to Oregon as soon as they were ready. And Greta’s luck had spilled over to her, in providing plenty of work: minding th
e stall three days a week and helping with the glut of sewing. And that, in turn, meant she could pay her way in the house – rent and food and so forth.

  Last but not least, she was enjoying her new life; had already seen three films with Nicky, been to another gig with Darren, and was putting her individual stamp on Fiona’s room. She sometimes wondered, secretly, if her good fortune was connected with that mysterious chain-letter. Almost as a joke, she had sent out twenty copies (anonymously, of course) to stuffy people in Stoneleigh and Carshalton. She had no idea whether they had had good luck. Stoneleigh and Carshalton felt like distant planets now. And she hadn’t seen the family since the disastrous golf club lunch. She had packed her things that same evening, including her sewing machine, and been back in Gosforth Road in time for a nightcap with Nicky.

  Brad dived across, dripping wet without his coat. ‘Quick, Rosie, you got a customer. Some nutter, by the sounds of it, who wants to know if you sell wind-up dinosaurs – wait for it – life-size.’

  ‘That’s all I need!’ said Rosie. ‘Cheerio, Catherine. See you in a while.’

  Brad remained, leaning against her stall. ‘How’s it goin’, babe?’

  ‘Not bad.’ It wasn’t done to moan – though Derek made it an art form (and would be even more doom-laden today, nursing his sore throat). On the whole you were expected to take the bad days with the good, and if you’d done well and your neighbour hadn’t, then you bought him a consolatory pint or even lent him a tenner.

  ‘I like them jeans. New, ain’t they?’

  She nodded. ‘I bought them from Slippery Spike. He let me have them cheap.’ She stroked the denim lovingly. Her own Levis at last, 501s like Fiona’s, and probably a quarter the price. She had also found a real bargain of a jacket, second-hand but wonderfully shaggy fake fur in a brilliant shade of red. Again, Rosie had helped her out, taking her to Slippery Spike’s and wangling her good prices. It was exciting buying new clothes, the sort of clothes she wanted, to suit her new emerging self. Unfortunately the jacket was concealed under a boring plastic mac today, but at least she was reasonably dry.