Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Catherine sat up straighter in her seat. Everybody but her was looking at Cecilia, who was saying a few words of introduction. Her eyes were on Will, sending him a silent message of support, although he was staring at the floor.

  By now, Barry was in action, wooing the audience with his easy smile and attractive Somerset burr. His sweatshirt was a fierce fire-engine red, and his face was also ruddy, as if he were plugged into some private heat supply.

  ‘I’ve just read a survey about people’s greatest fears,’ he said. ‘And apparently fifty-four per cent of us are more frightened of performing in public than of mugging, burglary or death.’

  Laughter from the audience. Catherine, though, remained anxious, wondering how Will could ever rival such an accomplished line in patter.

  ‘So I hope you’re feeling sorry for me. But then I feel sorry for you. I mean, do you realize what you’re letting yourselves in for? According to a study by the Arts Council, most people regard poetry as – I quote – “out of touch, gloomy, irrelevant, effeminate, highbrow and elitist”. And modern poetry’s – wait for it – “completely inaccessible”. Well, shall I leave now?’

  Delighted roars of ‘No!’ The audience was totally won over. Barry had the confidence of a seasoned chat-show host, instinctively in tune with his fans.

  ‘Well, you’re a tolerant lot, I’m pleased to say. Even so, I’ll start with a really short poem, in case some of you are still tempted to walk out.’

  More laughter.

  ‘It’s called “Elephant”, though it’s actually about a tree.’ He scratched his head, feigning bemusement. ‘For reasons that quite elude me.’

  Lord! Will’s reading would seem hard work after such determined jollity. Not that she could make much sense of ‘Elephant’ – she was too on edge. And she missed most of the next, ‘Chinese Take Away’. All it did was remind her that Will had eaten nothing since lunch – always a bad sign. He was sitting with his head bowed, as if awaiting execution. Liam, in comparison, was tranquillity personified: hands resting on his lap, palms uppermost; his expression almost smug.

  ‘… from glacial dreamscapes creaking

  to a raw Saharan noon

  visiting sleeping scorpions

  beside the …’

  She must concentrate. Will might ask her opinion of the others’ work and she wouldn’t want to admit that, as far as Barry’s was concerned, it had completely passed her by.

  ‘Abruptly, I got up

  and walked the tightrope

  of the bedroom floor.

  She kissed me.

  I was scalded.

  Two into one won’t go …’

  A scalding kiss? This must be a love poem, though she hadn’t caught the tide. Perhaps they shouldn’t have made love a second time. Will did look whacked, though she wasn’t tired in the slightest He enlivened her like a dash of bitters added to a drink. And that incredibly passionate kiss – starting almost lazily, with a mere brush of the lips, when she thought he was half asleep, then …

  She jumped at the sound of applause. Wasn’t Barry supposed to be on for twenty minutes? She consulted her watch, astonished to see it was nearly half past eight. She hadn’t heard a single poem in its entirety. Still, too late to fret about that Barry was already taking his bows, which meant it was Will’s turn next. Cecilia bobbed to her feet and escorted him to the central chair, beaming as she introduced him to the audience.

  Catherine smiled too, despite the churning in her stomach. He seemed so achingly alone as he cleared his throat and stood fumbling with his papers. At least he looked impressive in his purple waistcoat and grey and mauve cravat; his rebellious shock of hair giving him an aura of wildness and abandon. But the effect was lost as soon as he opened his mouth. He seemed to be hunting for words, as if they were rare truffles; his voice constrained and hesitant. And his cultured accent came over as rather superior, especially after Barry’s matey tone.

  He cleared his throat a second time, giving wary glances to right and left. Desperately she willed him to relax, directing all her mental energy at him. Then suddenly he caught her eye, and she held his gaze, encouraging him with every fibre of her being.

  She was aware of a perceptible change, as if she had worked some sort of miracle. His stance became less rigid, his voice lost its strangled tone, and he stepped forward almost boldly. ‘I’ve been writing a sequence of poems dedicated to someone I met earlier this year – a woman, needless to say.’

  There was laughter, even a wolf-whistle. Heartened, he went on. ‘Sometimes you’re lucky enough to meet a person who has the knack of drawing poetry out of you, like treacle from a treacle well. Of course, there’s always a risk with love poetry that it can be treacly – sentimental stuff that makes you cringe. But love is a dangerous force, in my opinion. Wells can drown you, don’t forget, even treacle wells. The great love poets like John Donne and Robert Graves understand that perfectly, even if the greetings-card versifiers don’t. Still, dangerous or no, I’ve decided this evening to restrict myself to love poems. What was it Shakespeare said about the lunatic, the lover and the poet?’

  This time he joined in the laughter. Catherine sat silent, amazed at his professionalism. The confiding personal approach had won the audience over. There was now a stir of anticipation in the room as he unfolded his papers with a flourish.

  ‘It all started with this purple waistcoat,’ he said, looking down at his chest. ‘Purple features rather strongly in this particular romance, though I hope that doesn’t mean I’ve indulged in purple passages! But we’ll come to the waistcoat later on. I want to begin at the end, so to speak, with something I wrote just a couple of hours ago. It’s hot from the page, totally unrevised. I’ve never written a poem so fast before. Nor have I ever read one so soon after committing it to paper. As you can see from the scribbles’ – he held it up to show them – ‘it’s not exactly a considered piece of work. But I hope that’s actually its strength. I’ll leave you to judge. I haven’t thought of a title yet, but perhaps we’ll call it …’ – he caught her eye again, gave a hint of a smile – ‘ “The Purple Danube”.’

  ‘So you’re the Catherine of Will Carter’s poems!’ The Head of English refilled her glass, flashing her a suggestive smile. ‘Well, I’m honoured to meet you, I must say.’

  Catherine blushed and took a hasty sip of wine.

  ‘He’s amazingly talented, isn’t he? And the kids warmed to him straight away. Of course, his work is erotic and some might say too risqué for their tender ears, but then that’s the way to get to them these days. There’s not much mileage left in daffodils and celandines, I’m afraid. Ah, David!’ A burly, bearded man had approached, his eyes steel-blue beneath dark unruly brows. ‘So you managed to drop in after all. Excellent! Catherine, this is our headmaster, David Prescott. David, Catherine Jones.’

  Catherine shook hands nervously, transported back to childhood fears in the presence of authority. Headmasters were an intimidating breed, although David’s bushy beard and windburned face gave him more the air of a sea captain. He murmured a few pleasantries before moving on to greet a local bigwig, whose impeccable grey suit seemed somewhat out of place in the shabby surroundings of Hollymount staffroom. The furniture could well have come from one of Will’s job lots: lumpy sofas, mismatched chairs, ancient saggy cupboards. Still, she supposed it was good community relations for the school to host this reception, and the room was gratifyingly full. Barry seemed to have brought his own private fan club, who were making serious inroads on the wine. And Will was barely visible amongst a throng of adolescent girls (poetry groupies, as he called them).

  Barry spotted her and came over, putting an arm round her waist. ‘Here, dig in,’ he said, holding out a bowl of crisps. ‘Not that we’ll get very fat on these! I could do with a damned good nosh. And why the hell can’t they lay on some fucking beer?’

  She sidled out from his heavy arm. Of course, poets weren’t exactly noted for their abstemiousness, but you cou
ld forgive them if they wrote sublimely well. Dylan Thomas (Will had told her) was paralytic at some of his performances. Barry, though, wasn’t in that league, and anyway, she didn’t like his boozy breath in her face. She cast about for an escape. Liam was deep in conversation with one of the sponsors of the festival and a woman from Southern Arts. She gave them a wide berth, feeling rather superfluous and also very much the novice. She didn’t know anybody here and her acquaintance with poetry had hardly advanced beyond the school-syllabus Golden Treasury – apart from reading Will’s, of course.

  She gave Will a furtive glance, trying not to resent his adoring cluster of fans. She was reminded of Gerry’s acting days; that same sense of being an outsider in his world; no more than an appendage, to minister and reassure. Even when Gerry had the business, he had been the boss; she the mere assistant.

  She noticed an elderly female, also alone and looking somewhat lost. It would be a kindness to go and talk to her, not lurk in a corner feeling sorry for herself. Whatever else, she would be a safer bet than Barry, who was lurching over once more, wine slopping from his glass. Dodging out of his way, she squeezed through the crush of people to where the woman was standing.

  After they had introduced themselves, the woman gave a smile of recognition. ‘Ah, yes, someone’s just pointed you out to me. I understand you inspired one of the poets here tonight.’

  ‘Er, sort of …’ Catherine murmured, still embarrassed to have her affair with Will broadcast to all and sundry, although she was pleased for his sake that his poems had been well received. She was so used to him disparaging his work, it was good to have it officially applauded. Not that she doubted his gifts. In fact, listening to him readjust now, she had been struck again by the sheer verve and thrust of the words. It was the language not only of love but of sex – raw, wild, unfettered. Many of the poems sounded subtly different when she heard them recited in public, jolting her in unexpected ways. And as for ‘The Purple Danube’, it had come as a bit of a bombshell. True he had locked himself in the bathroom for the best part of an hour, but she had assumed he simply wanted a long soak.

  ‘I’m afraid I missed the reading,’ the silver-haired woman was saying. ‘I’ve just come on from the Samuel Pepys.’

  ‘Oh, was it good?’ asked Catherine, glad to change the subject.

  ‘First rate. I’m on the Sherborne Arts Committee and one of our ambitions is to encourage more drama in the …’

  ‘Catherine!’

  ’Wills voice. He was beckoning to her across the room. The groupies had gone and he was talking to a man in a black polo-neck. She extricated herself tactfully from the Sherborne Arts Committee and went over.

  ‘Catherine, this is Leonard Upjohn,’ he said. ‘Liam’s publisher. He runs the Scrivener Press.’

  She put on a radiant smile. You had to be nice to anyone who ran a press. Not that Leonard looked particularly influential. His hair was a straggly grey, his corduroy trousers balding.

  ‘I remember Will’s first collection,’ he said, proffering a hand. ‘It was bloody good, but this new stuff’s even better. In fact, I’m keen to see the full sequence of love poems. I understand there are more?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘A lot more.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, of course,’ he said, turning back to Will. ‘But how soon d’ you think you could get them to me?’

  ‘Say the, er, day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Fine. Mind you, we’ll probably sit on them for a while. You know how it is’ – he laughed apologetically – ‘we demand the stuff like yesterday, then keep you hanging around for six months, even for a decision.’

  ‘That’s fast, compared with my previous publisher,’ Will put in feelingly.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid the decision doesn’t rest with me alone. If it was up to me I’d accept the poems on the spot, but I have to discuss it with my two editorial colleagues. And, as I’m sure you know, the money’s pretty dismal in small-press poetry publishing. Though just occasionally a book takes off. And in your case we could stress the erotic side, which always helps to sell copies. Even so, we could only manage our usual advance of a hundred pounds.’

  Catherine stared at Leonard in horror. A hundred? There were over fifty poems – that was less than two pounds each. Nicky and Darren could earn a hundred pounds for half an inch of copy. And she knew for a fact that Nicky’s trip to Virgin Gorda next week was costing in the region of three grand.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Will. ‘The important thing is getting them in print. Money is a problem, but’ – he shrugged – ‘I’m resigned to that by now.’

  Leonard crunched a cheese-ball thoughtfully. ‘Have you considered applying to the Stanford Birt Foundation?’

  Will looked blank. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It was only set up last year. Stanford Birt was a big property developer. He died in his late eighties, leaving a small fortune. His widow’s much younger and writes poetry – or verse, I should say. It’s very amateurish stuff. Still, to give her credit, she’s established a fund to help struggling poets – five grants of seven thousand pounds each.’

  ‘Seven thousand? Wow!’

  ‘That’s small beer to her, believe you me. But why not send for details? I mean, if you haven’t heard of it, nor will many other people, which increases your chances. You’ll have to get your skates on, though. The closing date for entries is April the tenth.’

  ‘Next Friday,’ Catherine calculated. ‘And some of the poems still need typing, Will.’

  ‘That’s no problem. I’ll stay up all night if necessary.’

  ‘And you could phone for an application form, instead of writing. Hold on a minute …’ Leonard rummaged in his shoulder bag and unearthed a battered Filofax from the jumble of poetry books. ‘I’ve probably got the number in here.’

  Will scrawled it in Biro on his wrist, while Catherine took the precaution of noting it in her diary.

  ‘And now I must dash. I promised Liam I’d take him for a curry and it’s already half past ten.’

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Will hugged her in delight. ‘Forget the grant – I haven’t a hope in hell. But imagine being published by the Scrivener Press! God! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Will, I’m sorry to be ignorant, but the name means nothing to me. Are they well known?’

  ‘They’re only small – tremendously prestigious, though. The fact that they’re Liam’s publishers says a lot in itself.’ He took a handful of nuts. ‘Of course, it may all fizzle out. I’ve had interest before, from other small presses, and nothing ever came of it except endless waffle and delays. But Leonard did seem keen, didn’t he? It’s a pity the money isn’t better, but …’

  ‘Yes, a hundred pounds! It’s insulting.’

  ‘Well, that’s how it is. Poetry doesn’t pay and you just have to accept that. The publishers are taking a risk as well. Sometimes they only shift a handful of copies. But what matters is getting my name known and being taken seriously. And, my darling’ – he kissed her quite openly, unconcerned that people might see – ‘if it does work out, I’ll owe it all to you.’

  ‘Will, don’t be silly, I didn’t write the poems.’

  ‘No, but without you they wouldn’t exist. Not these, anyway. You’ve brought me luck all along, and the luck’s getting better and better. Look, tell you what – let’s not bother with dinner …’

  ‘Will, am I hearing you right?’ she joked. ‘Going without dinner? You must be seriously ill.’

  ‘No, listen.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ll buy some fish and chips and eat it in bed. Then, if things go according to plan’ – he put his finger on her lips and slowly traced the outline of her mouth – ‘who knows? I might be inspired to write another Catherine poem.’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  ‘Wow, that tan – you look fantastic!’ Catherine put the Sainsbury’s bags down and gave Nicky a hug. ‘They’ll hate you at work! It’s been horrendously cold and wet here
.’

  ‘Don’t mention work. It’s bad enough seeing you lugging all that shopping. I’ve been used to having lobster claws and tropical fruit dished up by willing slaves! Here, I’ll take those.’ Nicky picked up the bags and led the way through to the kitchen.

  ‘So when did you get back?’ asked Catherine, unbuttoning her coat.

  ‘This morning. I’ve been travelling all night. It’s a hell of a trek – the first bit by motor launch.’

  ‘Gosh, you must be shattered. But what was the place like?’

  ‘Utter bliss. Didn’t you get my card?’

  ‘No, not a thing.’

  ‘It’ll probably turn up next month. That’s what everything’s like out there – totally laid back. Anyway, all I wrote was “This is heaven. Nicky.” ’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea while you tell me all about it.’

  ‘Yes, good idea. I’ll make it. You look tired.’ Nicky switched the kettle on. You’re not usually this late, are you?’

  ‘Well, it has been rather a long day, I must admit. We didn’t pack up till half past six. I shouldn’t complain though – we did incredibly well. This is the first day it hasn’t rained for over a week, so there were masses of people around. But never mind that – I want to hear about you.’ She settled William on her lap, looking expectantly at Nicky.

  ‘I don’t know where to start! It was like one of those cliché ridden commercials, too idyllic to be true. Deserted beaches, pure white sand, turquoise sea – the lot. And the windsurfing was perfect. You get these steady trade winds blowing every day. I mean, some places, you can waste half your holiday hanging around in a dead flat calm. I was on the water most mornings the minute I’d swallowed my breakfast. And breakfast was a feast, by the way – fresh coconuts by the dozen, pancakes swimming in rum and maple syrup, mangoes, guavas, passion fruit, you name it.’