Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Which was more than could be said for Brad. ‘You’re drenched,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lent me bleedin’ coat to Lester, didn’t I. Five minutes, ’e said, and I ain’t seen ’im since.’

  ‘He’s probably sold it,’ she laughed, ‘and run off with the proceeds.’

  ‘I’m packin’ up soon, anyways,’ he said. ‘I’m fed up with gettin’ pissed on.’

  Catherine consulted her watch: not quite half past four. Unlike Brad, she wasn’t her own boss – Greta paid her for the whole day, so she must stick it out for another hour at least. Still, working for Greta did have its advantages. She got a flat fee, regardless of the takings (which were dispiritingly low today), and there were no overheads to worry about. Stall rents were pretty hefty at weekends. In fact, Derek had complained last Sunday that he might as well have stayed in bed, since he had taken less than what he’d shelled out to the manager. All the same, she didn’t have much security. When Greta no longer needed her, she would be summarily laid off. And setting up on her own was quite a daunting step. She’d need plenty of stock – something she was sure would sell, but which wouldn’t encroach on other people’s lines. That created ill will, as she had seen for herself last week when a newcomer set up a toy stall only yards from Rosie’s. Still, whatever happened, she was determined to hang on as long as possible before accepting a dreary office job and spending her days tapping keys and staring at a computer screen. Why go back to work she’d never liked?

  ‘Ta-ta for now, Plum,’ Brad said, returning to his stall. She grinned at the nickname. It made her feel accepted. Nicknames were quite a feature of the market. As well as Slippery Spike there were characters called Sunflower Sal and Hawk-Eye, and even a Karl Marx. She watched Brad packing up, admiring his practised speed. It took her much longer to set up and take down, but at least she could do it on her own now, without Greta needing to be there.

  There were still no customers for the hats, so she finished her coffee at a leisurely pace, taking small bites of her flapjack to eke it out. She found herself thinking of Gerry, recalling how he had told her once that theatre companies worked best when the actors had no set ideas but simply discovered things in the moment, by doing, being, exploring. They could find out what a role required by letting go, he’d said, freeing themselves from ‘how can we do it’ to ‘let’s just see what happens’. She wondered now if, in some strange way, his words had influenced her own decision to venture out and start afresh (though she hadn’t thought of them consciously for fifteen years or more).

  She bent down to put the paper cup in the rubbish-bag, and when she straightened up, a man was standing in front of the stall. He looked vaguely familiar with his stocky build and thick dark curly hair, the sort of exuberant hair which went its own way regardless. His broad chest and shoulders were emphasized by the bulky jacket and the Aran sweater he was wearing underneath. And though he must be thirty-five or forty, he had a student’s scarf, black and yellow striped, thrown carelessly around his neck.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling. ‘I hoped you’d be here.’

  The instant he spoke she recognized him – that distinguished accent, which made her own voice seem almost common. For the past three weeks she had been toning it down (more or less unconsciously), so as to sound less middle-class.

  ‘H … hello,’ she mumbled, hastily swallowing the last mouthful of flapjack.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for bringing me luck. You probably don’t remember me, but …’

  ‘Oh, I do. You’re the poet – you bought a waistcoat for a special gig.’

  ‘That’s right. And you told me purple was a lucky colour, and that you’d think of me on the night. Believe it or not, it worked. The evening was terrific. It probably sounds big-headed, but I had the audience eating out of my hand.’

  She tried surreptitiously to suck the crumbs off her teeth, registering that word luck again. In fact she hadn’t thought about him the evening of the gig. On that particular Friday there had been a row with Jo, who was annoyed about her running the stall for Greta. (Not that Jo could have done it anyway, with the amount of writing work she had on, but it was obvious she felt piqued.) It had all got very awkward – the first bad feeling in the house, and perhaps a sign that Jo resented her staying there.

  ‘Actually, it brought me luck twice over.’ The man huddled in front of the stall, shaking rain from his hair. ‘You see, the waistcoat inspired a poem – no big deal, but it practically wrote itself, which is unusual for me, I can tell you. Normally it’s weeks and weeks of writing and rewriting, but this one just seemed to flow. Anyway, it’s being published in the London Magazine next week. And I’m getting a decent fee. So I’m doubly grateful. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, it was nice of you to come back, especially in this weather.’

  ‘It’s worse for you, stuck there all day. I know from past experience. I’ve worked in a market myself.’

  ‘Oh, really? Where was that?’

  ‘A hell of a way from here. Totnes, in Devon.’

  ‘What did you sell?’

  ‘Antiques. Well, junk, to be honest.’

  She laughed. There was something rather appealing about him. He was obviously keen to chat, yet there was a wariness about his face, as if he was afraid of being rebuffed. His hands were still ingrained with dirt, she noticed – another paradox: the sensitive poet combined with the manual labourer.

  ‘I’ve still got quite a bit of it at home – things that didn’t sell. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of setting up here. A friend of mine sells antiques in West Yard and he said I could try to flog some of my own stuff in return for minding the stall when he’s out buying.’

  ‘That sounds a good idea.’

  ‘Well, at least it would be a toehold in the place. And I can see what business is like before I commit myself. Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘whatever else, it’s better than being a waiter. I’ve been doing a stint at the Camden Brasserie and I must admit I’ve found it rather a trial.’

  ‘Oh, so you live round here,’ she said.

  ‘Just up the road in Kentish Town. I used to live in Torquay. And before that Sacriston, in Durham.’

  ‘You certainly get about! I’m from the north myself.’

  ‘Oh, are you? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Well, not as far north as Durham. I was born and bred in Cheshire. And then I moved to Salford. I liked it there, although I’ve heard people say it’s a dump.’

  He nodded. ‘I know what you mean. It’s like Blackpool being vulgar or Milton Keynes soulless. You can actually enjoy the vulgarity or the soullessness, so long as you enter into the spirit of the thing. And of course … Ow!’ He ducked as a gout of water suddenly sluiced off the tarpaulin on to his head.

  ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘Just a bit wetter, that’s all.’ He tossed his head like a skittish horse, spattering her with raindrops. ‘My name’s William, by the way.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sorry, that must have sounded rude. It’s just that William’s the name of my cat.’ She enjoyed saying ‘my’ even if it wasn’t strictly true: my cat, my room, my stall.

  ‘And your William’s a monster, I take it.’

  ‘Well no, not really. He is big, and he does have an aggressive streak, but he’s actually quite a softie underneath.’

  ‘Just like me,’ grinned William. ‘Except I’m usually called Will.’

  She was aware of the conversation subtly changing. He had adopted a more intimate tone and was standing so close she could smell curry on his breath. She backed away a little. It wasn’t that she objected to curry (with so many tandoori stalls in the market, it was simply part of the ambience); it was his eyes she found disconcerting. He was looking at her intently, deliberately holding her gaze until she was forced to glance away.

  Rosie, too, was watching her, clearly intrigued by the proceedings, although too far away to ove
rhear. Of course Rosie would probably assume that Will was another of her house-mates’ stream of friends.

  Just as well, since she wasn’t too sure of the etiquette regarding over-familiar customers.

  The grey eyes were still fixed on her. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me your name?’

  ‘Er, Catherine.’ Thank God no one else was looking at the hats. There were a few bedraggled tourists about – Colin was busy with a couple now – but generally they seemed more concerned with dodging each other’s umbrellas (or the puddles) than actually buying anything. Greta would be annoyed if she lost sales for the sake of an idle chat-up.

  ‘Catherine,’ he repeated. ‘That’s nice. It means pure, you know, in Greek. I’m afraid I’m a mine of useless information.’

  Pure, she thought, blushing as she remembered Simon. ‘Tell me about your poetry,’ she said, quickly changing the subject. ‘What sort of things do you write?’

  ‘Tricky question. It varies so much, you see, depending on my mood. The waistcoat poem was definitely light-hearted, almost comic, you could say. Then the one I wrote next was about a tiny piece of stalk I found in a packet of frozen peas. That started off comic as well, but developed into something much more serious. I felt it symbolized human error – the stalk I mean, not the poem – all that technology directed at weeding stalks out, so that there’s nothing but the peas, pure and unadulterated. But a fragment gets in all the same.’ He yanked at his scarf, which was slipping off his shoulder. ‘Of course, you could call it reality, or even a rather precious imperfection in an over-standardized world. God, that does sound pretentious, doesn’t it, like something out of Pseuds’ Corner.’

  ‘No, it’s interesting.’ Catherine straightened the mirror at one end of the stall, surprised to see how flushed she looked. ‘I hardly ever read poetry, I’m ashamed to say, but I thought it would be more about … you know, life-and-death issues.’

  ‘Well, it is – very often. But sometimes it’s easier to get there via frozen peas or waistcoats.’

  ‘Did you read your stalk poem at the gig?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I hadn’t even written it then. I told you, the waistcoat brought me luck. And part of a poet’s luck is things just coming out of the blue. I won’t call it inspiration – that’s a corny word but it’s a sort of energy or aliveness, like a tuning fork striking the right note.’

  His eyes looked very bright, reflecting the lights on the stall. Dusk was falling around them; the surroundings blurring into shadow. More people had appeared from nowhere – a few late customers and a gang of Asian youths – but they remained vague shapes in the background. Only Will seemed in focus: standing there tangible and solid, yet making her unaccountably nervous.

  She wasn’t sure what else to say – poetry wasn’t her forte. He, too, had lapsed into silence, as if affected by her own unease. He picked up one of Greta’s hats, and put it down again. ‘I … was, er, wondering if you were busy after this?’ he said finally.

  She hesitated. Neither Brad nor Rosie was going to the pub tonight, so she had planned to go straight home.

  ‘I’d like to buy you a drink, you see, to thank you properly – if you can spare the time, that is.’

  ‘Well … I won’t be finished here for an hour or so.’ Did that sound brusque, standoffish? Secretly she was flattered that a second man should take an interest in her, even ask her out. But there must be no repeat of Simon.

  ‘I can come back at six,’ Will suggested. ‘I’ll help you pack up, if you like.’

  ‘No, honestly, I …’ The last thing she wanted was Rosie trying to eavesdrop or Colin’s beady eyes on her. Already he was watching them with interest, now that his customers had gone. That was the trouble with the market – it was a highly public arena and the ‘family’ loved gossip. Any hint of romance and she’d be teased.

  ‘Well, if you’d rather not …’ Will looked crestfallen and was fiddling dejectedly with the end of his scarf.

  She played for time, repositioning a couple of the hats, torn between caution and excitement. ‘Yes, okay,’ she said slowly. ‘It would be nice. But why don’t I meet you somewhere? Then you can keep dry if I’m delayed.’

  ‘Fine. How about the Crown and Goose? D’you know it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in Arlington Road, isn’t it? I’ve never actually been there, but …’

  ‘It’s quite civilized. And not too noisy.’

  And not too near here, she thought with relief. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Colin still observing them.

  ‘Would seven o’ clock be all right?’

  ‘Well, it might be nearer ten past.’

  ‘That’s okay. See you there. I’ll keep a seat warm for you.’

  She waved him goodbye, feeling warm already. Despite the persistent rain and the sub-zero temperature, he had left her with a definite glow.

  Be careful, she told herself. It’s just a friendly drink, that’s all. No leg-shaving nonsense this time, or sexy wisps of pants.

  She stood at the door of the crowded pub, looking anxiously around. She hated walking into pubs alone, and she couldn’t see Will anywhere. Still, at least it was warm and she was out of the rain. She ventured in a bit further, scanning every face at every table, but there was no sign of him at all. The Crown and Goose wasn’t large – there seemed to be only this one room, and it was more like a genteel club. The walls were olive green, with an elegant white frieze and gilt-framed pictures and mirrors. True, there was a certain element of shabbiness – no carpet on the wooden floor and the tables rather battered – but it was a sort of classy shabbiness, quite unlike the Stag’s Head. The clientele, too, were a world apart; no noisy Irish or market traders, and not a punk hairstyle to be seen (except for hers, of course). Most of the customers were young and casually dressed, but they seemed solidly middle class. And instead of frenzied Irish jigs, soothing classical music floated discreetly in the background.

  She sat at an empty table where she could keep an eye on the door. Perhaps Will had been held up. She was late herself, delayed by a maddening woman who had started trying on a dozen different hats just as she was packing them away. She checked the time: 7.31. Perhaps he’d arrived early and got tired of waiting – they could have missed each other by seconds. Or perhaps he’d had an accident: been mugged, or knocked unconscious, or was being held at gunpoint by a group of Middle Eastern suicide bombers. No, that scenario didn’t sound convincing – he had probably simply changed his mind and decided not to come at all. Weren’t poets supposed to be unreliable, subject to strange moods? It was stupid to panic. If he didn’t show up, so what? She would put it down to experience and go back to Gosforth Road for beans on toast with Nicky.

  And she really must stop looking at her watch; 7.32 it said now. Surely more than a minute had passed? She felt ridiculously apprehensive – the way she had with Simon – like a teenager stood up on a date. If things went wrong a second time she would lose her nerve completely. She was also uncomfortably hot in the plastic mac, but she didn’t want to take it off and reveal her conspicuous jacket. It was bad enough being the only woman sitting on her own.

  She gave the watch a shake. It must have stopped – how else could it still be 7.32? But no, as she watched, the figure two dissolved into a three in its maddeningly unhurried way. She decided to wait till 7.40, then leave. Any longer and she’d be a gibbering wreck.

  She scanned the bar again, catching the eye of a fair-haired man in a trench coat who gave her a suggestive smile. Hastily she looked down and studied the book of matches in the ashtray. There was a goose on the front with a crown slung round its neck. She traced the outline of its body, then opened the flap and started counting the matches – anything to distract herself.

  One, two, three, four … one, two, three, four.

  Lord! She must be in a state if she couldn’t get beyond four. She did her best to concentrate. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

  ‘Catherine! Thank goodness.’
>
  She jumped. Will was standing on the bottom step of a narrow staircase she hadn’t noticed before. He all but swooped on her, scarf flying. ‘I was looking for you upstairs. There’s a snug up there, but it’s full of lager-swilling kids. I … I thought you must have changed your mind and decided not to come.’

  Exactly what she’d thought about him. She stumbled to her feet, half-amused to realize he was nervous too. His words had spilled out in a rush and he was looking almost stricken. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘I was delayed by a customer.’

  He took her arm and steered her further away from the door, as if afraid she might escape. ‘I’ve saved us a table by the mirror.’ He indicated an impressive antique mirror mounted on the side wall. ‘That way I can see two of you at once – back and front.’ He picked up his coat, which was draped across two seats, and bundled it under his chair. ‘Let me take your mac,’ he offered. ‘It’s soaking wet.’

  As she peeled it off, he watched in delight. ‘You’ve hatched,’ he said. ‘Out of a black egg. A fluffy red phoenix. Amazing!’

  She blushed. He sounded so … so extravagant, and the people nearby were listening.

  He reached out to touch the fur. ‘Is it real?’ he asked.

  ‘No, completely and utterly fake.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s too brilliant to be fake. Perhaps it’s red yak.’

  ‘Red what?’

  ‘Yak – roaming the mountains of Tibet. The greater scarlet yak, an extraordinarily rare species.’

  She wondered if he’d been drinking, or whether this was standard fare for poets. The latter, she assumed, since there was no empty glass on the table. She sat down gingerly, rather intimidated by his fanciful depiction of her and hoping he wouldn’t be too disappointed by the reality.