Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Once we’ve had our tea,’ he said, ‘we must get back to work. No more lolling about.’

  ‘You sound like your father,’ she said, coming down to earth with a bang.

  ‘God forbid! Though I must admit I feel sorry for the old bugger sometimes. He’s seventy-two and still works a twelve-hour day.’

  ‘And what does your poor mother do?’

  ‘Oh, minister to his needs, listen to him ranting on about the youth of today. I’m afraid she’s gloriously unreconstructed.’

  ‘Why gloriously?’

  ‘Well, don’t all men secretly hanker for a good old-fashioned wife? The sort that bakes bread and warms your slippers by the fire?’

  ‘Did you want a wife like that?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, actually, I was the one who made the bread, although I have to admit it was really for my benefit, rather than Vanessa’s. She preferred Ryvita, can you believe. That’s as bad as preferring Henry James to Dickens. And as for slippers, I don’t remember either of us ever owning any. But I don’t really want to talk about my marriage. Or Vanessa. And certainly not Henry James. I want to sit and drink my tea with the wondrous Catherine.’

  She grinned foolishly. If only he were as generous with his kisses as his compliments. Wondrous was a new one. She’d been fantastic, brilliant, splendid, even scrumptious. ‘All right, I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ she said.

  She paused for a moment on her way through the hall; the sight of the denuded rooms reminding her of the sale of her own house – brash removal men heaving beds and wardrobes down the stairs. Yet, surprisingly, she could recall it without regret now, even feel relief at being free. Owning a large house meant an endless round of cleaning, gardening, decorating; tied you down with chains.

  She walked into the kitchen. Mags had left the heater on and the room felt agreeably warm. Everything, including the heater, was obstinately old-fashioned: the iron range and square white sink, the slatted airer overhead, the kettle itself an ancient dented object with string wound round its handle. There were two lighter-coloured patches on the wooden floor where an oak table and a dresser had once stood. The auctioneers had taken those, but left a second cupboard and a collection of rather battered chairs – more treasures for the market.

  She filled the kettle and put it on the hob. Mrs Pearson had obviously mistrusted electric gadgets. There was not even a toaster, let alone such refinements as a food-mixer or percolator.

  Suddenly Will was behind her, pressing close and putting his arms round her waist She felt her body tense with excitement. Surely now he would …

  ‘Any biscuits left?’ he asked, moving away to investigate the biscuit packet. ‘Only crumbs,’ he said disconsolately. ‘We should have brought more food.’ He scrunched up the empty wrapper and tossed it into the bin. ‘Well, never mind. Let’s make a start in here while we’re waiting for the kettle.’

  He started rummaging in the cupboard, holding things up to show her: two china jelly-moulds, a 1953 coronation mug, a pair of metal candlesticks and a badly chipped teapot in the shape of a cottage, complete with thatch and rambling roses. ‘This stuff looks promising. It’ll go a bomb with the tourists.’

  ‘Is it actually worth anything?’ she asked, stooping down to help him.

  ‘No, not a lot. But it’ll sell, and that’s the main thing.’ He rubbed the dust off a jelly-mould, examining the fine cracks in the glaze. ‘If this was copper, we’d be laughing. Old copper jelly-moulds can fetch hundreds of pounds.’

  ‘Well, we’re doing pretty well as it is, getting all this stuff for nothing.’

  ‘You bet! I told you, Catherine, you brought me luck. Right from the first.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s such a thing as luck, or whether it’s just a matter of coincidence – or of Mags’s kindness, in this case.’

  ‘It’s real, I’d say, but rare and precious. Like copper jelly-moulds. Or yaks.’

  ‘Are yaks rare?’

  ‘Red ones are.’

  Their eyes met for an instant, and she looked away, confused. ‘Sh … shall I use this teapot for the tea?’

  ‘Why not? We’ll christen it. And the coronation mug. I missed the coronation. I wasn’t even a twinkle in my mother’s eye. Strangely enough, my eldest brother was born that very day, though.’

  ‘Well, I was on the scene, but I was only three.’ It made her insecure talking about their respective ages. A six-year gap wasn’t that enormous, but it seemed more acceptable somehow for the man to be the older. Was Will put off because she was in her forties – a mother-figure rather than a girlfriend? But then why should he say such complimentary things to her? Unless it was merely to keep her sweet because he needed her help on the stall. Yesterday – their first venture together – she had proved better at selling than he was. Working for Gerry had given her years of experience with customers, whereas Will was shy with strangers and took offence too easily if people were offhand. Yet if he did have a girlfriend (or even more than one – bubbly twenty-year-olds like Miriam and Lee), how on earth would he find time to see them, when he spent most days with her?

  ‘Okay if I come in?’

  She jumped at the tap on the door.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Will, lumbering to his feet as his aunt put her head round the door. ‘You weren’t long!’

  ‘No – silly me. As soon as I got back I remembered I’d meant to ask you over for lunch. We’re only having soup and salad, but you’re welcome to join us. Bob said he’d love to see you.’

  ‘No, we’d better not,’ said Will. ‘There’s still loads to do here and I have to be back by five. Thanks for the offer, though. Look, why not stay and have a cup of tea now you’re here? The kettle’s just on the boil.’

  ‘I never refuse a cup of tea.’ Mags eased her bulky frame on to the largest of the chairs. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘I think I’d mind if you didn’t.’ Will found her an ashtray in the cupboard, an old metal one with CRAVEN ‘A’ printed in black letters round the rim. You’ve been smoking as long as I can remember, and you know how I hate change.’

  ‘I was really asking Catherine,’ Mags said. ‘Though if she does object, I’m sunk! I can’t drink tea without a ciggie.’

  ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’ Catherine hunted for another mug, relieved that Will hadn’t finished the whole pint of milk. She had taken an instant liking to Aunt Mags, although they had met only briefly that morning. At first sight she was a daunting figure, dressed in slacks and a man’s shirt, her face devoid of make-up, her grey hair uncompromisingly straight. And her smoker’s rasping voice descended sometimes to a croak, so that she sounded almost hoarse. But her manner was warm and friendly, and the kind blue eyes made up for any gruffness in her tone.

  ‘Er, Auntie …?’

  ‘Now what?’ Mags turned from Will to Catherine, raising her eyes to heaven. ‘ “Auntie” means he’s after something!’

  ‘Only the loan of your car,’ said Will. ‘And only for ten minutes. Just to nip down to the shop.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Catherine’s?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just that there’s a load of stuff on the roof-rack and it’s not properly secured. I’d hate it to fall off. Anyway, it’s your fault for mentioning lunch. You’ve made me feel hungry and there’s nothing to eat but biscuit crumbs.’

  ‘Well, I offered you lentil soup.’

  ‘Lentil – my favourite!’

  ‘Want to change your mind?’

  ‘No, better not. I’ll just buy a pork pie or something and we can eat it while we work. Anything you want, Aunt? Chocolate, fags, the latest Mills & Boon?’

  ‘Get away!’

  They exchanged an affectionate smile, Catherine watching enviously. This woman knew Will better than almost anyone in his life; she had held him as a baby, fed him, probably bathed him. The pair were totally at ease with each other – no awkwardness, no mysteries. Mags had even got a kiss.

  ‘I’ll have my tea when I get
back.’ Will strode out of the kitchen, jingling the keys.

  Catherine returned to the task in hand. The teapot was almost black inside, and the third mug she’d unearthed had a dead moth in the bottom. She washed both as thoroughly as no soap or hot water allowed, then hunted for another spoon. ‘How do you like your tea, Mags? Weak? Strong? Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘No milk or sugar, but strong. And I mean strong – you know, the spoon standing up in the cup.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘I’ll do my best. What do you think of this teapot?’ she asked, holding it up for inspection.

  ‘It’s a monstrosity. Whoever made that never lived in the country. Roses round the door, indeed!’

  Catherine opened the packet of teabags, hoping Mags wasn’t the type to insist on proper tealeaves. She made the tea and, in the absence of a table, balanced the tray on a chair. ‘Look, I haven’t even thanked you yet,’ she said, pulling up another chair, ‘for letting us have the pick of all this stuff. We’re delighted, honestly. But it does seem rather a cheek. I mean, are you sure there’s nothing you want?’

  ‘Good heavens no. Our house is like a tip already. Bob would keep his toenail-cuttings if I gave him half a chance. There just isn’t room for anything else.’

  ‘Yes, but you could sell it.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t be bothered with all that. And what would I do with the money, except buy more cigarettes and shorten the odds against dying of lung cancer. Besides, I expect Will told you I’m getting all the proceeds from the auction, and that’s more than enough for me. Originally everything was going to the RSPCA, before Mrs Pearson changed her will. I must admit, I do feel rather guilty about depriving the poor animals.’

  ‘But at least they get the house, I gather.’

  ‘Well, not to live in, I hope! Though it must be worth a pretty penny, even in this run-down state.’ She took a tentative sip of tea and nodded in approval. ‘Let’s neither of us feel guilty, my dear. I’ll send a cheque to the RSPCA on behalf of us both, and we’ll leave it at that, okay?’

  ‘Well, that’s really sweet of you. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s quite all right. You and Will are doing me a favour. It would have taken me an age to clear all those drawers and cupboards. Anyway, I’m very fond of Will.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and took a gulp of tea. ‘You’re the new girlfriend, I take it?’

  ‘N … no. We work together.’

  ‘Well, you be nice to him. He deserves it.’

  ‘Yes, I …’

  ‘Have you met Vanessa?’ Mags’s voice took on a sharper tone.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘I could kill that bloody woman! Will had a breakdown when she left, and I’m not surprised. Oh, I admit I’m prejudiced, and I’ve only heard Will’s side of things, but all the same, she does sound a scheming bitch – if you’ll excuse my language.’

  Catherine stared into her cup, feeling disloyal at hearing such confidences. Yet curious, as well. She longed to question Mags further, not only about Vanessa, but other women in Will’s life. Mags’s asking if she was the new girlfriend suggested there had been a previous one. ‘Was he married long?’ she enquired. Best to start with a fairly innocuous question.

  ‘Oh, no. Barely six years.’

  Six years. And his son was seven. Perhaps they’d got married chiefly for Sam’s sake and then regretted it.

  ‘In fact, we thought he’d never settle down. Bob and I used to worry. He seemed so restless – you know, always changing jobs, moving round the country.’

  ‘And how did he meet Vanessa?’ Catherine kept her voice low, in case he came in and overheard them. It still seemed rather traitorous talking about him behind his back.

  ‘At some writing course he went on. She was one of the guest speakers, invited from the publishing side. Apparently she’s a big noise at Penguin Books now – one of their top editors. She’s older than Will, you see.’

  Catherine drew in her breath. How much older? she burned to ask, but didn’t want to sound too nosy. And how ironical that he had married an achiever, as if in deference to his father, rather than a mooner and a dreamer. Or perhaps there had been some baser motive – to advance his career as a poet, for example. She remembered Will telling her that Penguin were one of the few publishers who took poetry seriously (not that he’d mentioned Vanessa, of course).

  ‘Any more tea in the pot?’ Mags asked, lighting another cigarette. ‘I mean, enough for Will if I have a second cup?’

  ‘Who’s taking my name in vain?’ Will demanded, bursting into the kitchen with his arms full of packages. ‘I’ve bought some hot cross buns.’

  ‘Already?’ Mags protested. ‘Easter isn’t for six weeks.’

  ‘I’d eat them all year if I could. One for you, Mags?’

  ‘No thanks. It’ll spoil my lunch. Anyway I really must get back for Bob. I promised to give him a hand in the garden. See you later, alligators! You don’t mind dropping the key in, do you? It’s not out of your way.’

  ‘Yes, ’course. And talking of keys …’ Will fumbled in his pocket and gave Mags the car keys – and a kiss.

  Two-nil, thought Catherine, keeping score. She stood beside him in the porch, waving Mags off. As the mud-spattered Astra rattled round the corner, he turned to go inside again. ‘Right, food,’ he said. ‘Toasted buns with raspberry jam.’

  ‘Wait!’ Catherine grabbed his arm, astounded at her audacity. ‘I … I want you to kiss me, Will.’

  He looked at her in shock, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘B … but I thought …’

  The rooks filled the silence, mocking from the treetops. Her face was tilted up to his, vulnerable, expectant. She had made herself ridiculous. He would reject her, walk away.

  There was a sudden sharp crack from the woods beyond the house – a gunshot. They both jumped at the explosion. The rooks scattered in alarm, caw-cawing in black turmoil overhead. Then, suddenly, almost violently, he took her in his arms and crushed his mouth against hers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘And then what happened?’ Nicky was wide-eyed.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh come on, Catherine, something must have happened after a smacker like that!’

  ‘We ate hot cross buns.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not. Three each, with butter and raspberry jam. And he told me when he was little he used to think they were cross buns – you know, bad-tempered, like his father.’

  Nicky laughed. ‘But after the hot cross buns …?’

  ‘We went back to work – a bit shakily, I must confess – and finished the sorting and packing.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We got in the car and I drove us back to London.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And nothing. He had some appointment at five, so I dropped him off.’

  ‘Where? At his flat?’

  ‘No. The tube.’

  ‘And he didn’t say where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But surely he kissed you again – if only when he said goodbye?’

  ‘No.’ Catherine’s voice was noncommittal, but even three noes couldn’t dilute her sense of triumph. Never mind a repeat – that one kiss had actually happened. Impassioned, violent, fierce. Then tender, gentle, slow. She knew Will better now – or at least the geography of his mouth: the taste and texture of his lips, the roughness of his chin, that incredible probing tongue. She was still on a high, as if he were continuing the kiss, electrifying her body, changing its basic chemistry.

  ‘Maybe he’s afraid of getting involved,’ said Nicky, ‘or going any further.’

  ‘But why? I’m not that frightening, am I?’

  ‘Of course not. But I suppose he might have some sort of problem – be impotent or something.’

  Catherine didn’t answer. She could feel Will’s tongue running slowly round the inside of her lips, then pushing into her mouth, urgently, imperiously. Impotent was not the wo
rd she’d use.

  Nicky rocked back in the wicker chair. ‘I mean, it seems so odd that he hasn’t asked you back.’

  ‘I know. And I’ve dropped enough hints, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Perhaps the walls are terribly thin and he’s got puritanical neighbours. Or he’s hiding a mad wife in the cellar – you know, like Mr Rochester.’

  ‘His wife – ex-wife – lives in Hampstead village.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said. Well, perhaps it’s just that he’s into celibacy. It’s dead trendy now, worse luck.’

  Catherine disentangled herself from Will’s arms, feeling guilty about her euphoria when Nicky was still so downcast over Jonathan. A less unselfish friend might well have been jealous, whereas Nicky had listened cheerfully to the passionate-kiss-in-Berkshire saga, even though she’d just come in after what she called a typical shitty Monday.

  ‘Hey, stop that, William!’ Catherine shooed the cat from the rug, where he was sitting contentedly, plucking at it with unsheathed claws.

  ‘Is this rug new?’ asked Nicky, stroking her stockinged foot across the pile.

  Catherine nodded. ‘One of Colin’s rejects.’

  ‘Really? It looks okay to me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But Colin’s a bit of a perfectionist. He let me have it cheap.’

  ‘Actually, the room looks great. You’ve worked wonders.’

  ‘Well, I’ve probably gone a bit over the top. But since the walls were red to start with, I thought – what the hell – go for it!’

  Secretly she was pleased with the results – the striking combination of mulberry red and damson purple. She had made a new bedspread and curtains from some old material Greta had turfed out. The wicker chair she’d found in a junk shop, and also a tarnished brass lamp which she had polished till it gleamed. And she’d arranged silk poppies in a vase and scoured the shops for posters. Fiona’s naked man now shared the wall-space with several rivals: Wynton Marsalis, Salvador Dali, Humphrey Bogart and Roger Rabbit. This was the first time she’d had a completely free hand, with no one to please but herself, and the effect she’d tried to create was a counterblast to middle-class, middle-aged suburbia. She had even bought gaudy coloured soaps. Gerry had always used coal tar, for some reason, and she’d come to associate its medicinal smell with dull conformity. She glanced at his photograph, wondering what he’d think of the room. She liked the fact that he was smiling from the desk; the last face she saw as she turned off the lamp each night. All the family were here – Andrew and Antonia in a fancy silver frame, Kate scowling into the sun, Jack and Maureen out of focus. Although, Gerry apart, she had to say it was less of a strain living with their two-dimensional likenesses than living with them in the flesh.