Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  Horrified, she gripped the arm of the bench. What a monster she must be, reliving last night’s sex in a crematorium, of all places. But her thoughts refused to be controlled. She could see Will’s face in close-up as his open mouth sought hers; feel beads of sweat trickling down her naked, thrusting body. Her grip tightened on the wooden arm. It was Will she was holding; his tiger noises breaking through the clotted silence and roaring across the death-garden.

  She sprang up from the bench. ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I, er, need the loo,’ and before anyone could speak, she was running across the grass, back towards the main building. There were toilets there, she remembered, off the entrance-hall to the chapel. She must hide herself, her burning face. But as she reached the chapel door the blood drained from her cheeks. She recognized the place – ice-blue walls, heavy velvet curtains – though the chamber was eerily silent, without the ponderous organ or wailing, dirge-like hymns. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she crept up to the front pew and sat in her place for the funeral. That day had also been hot, but she deathly cold, as now, gooseflesh prickling her arms.

  She stared at the wooden dais, half expecting to see Gerry’s coffin there again. Never in her entire life had she felt such hatred for an object as she had for that repulsive coffin, not on account of its appearance, but because it reduced her husband to a few acquiescent bones. She had stumbled up from her seat and actually spoken out loud, saying, ‘He can’t be in there – he can’t be,’ until Andrew shushed her tactfully and persuaded her to sit down.

  All at once, tears blinded her eyes; streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Tears for Gerry – not the Gerry under a rosebush or hand-lettered in a book, but her own beloved, private, beyond-price, longed-for husband.

  ‘One of these for you, Grandma?’

  ‘No thank you, Andrew dear.’

  ‘Mother, you’re not eating either.’ Andrew passed her the plate of cream-filled brandysnaps.

  Catherine took one reluctantly. So far, she had managed to force down half a cucumber sandwich. She kept thinking of Gerry’s birthdays in the past: cheerful family get-togethers, with champagne flowing and lively music on the stereo. Jack would be dancing, Maureen chattering and laughing. Now both looked pitifully frail – shrunken almost, marooned in their armchairs. She took a small bite of brandysnap and smiled at her daughter-in-law. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, we did most of it yesterday.’

  We. That enviable word. She and Will were not yet ‘we’ – there were still too many problems. But the move to Carlisle should help. If only she could break the news here and now; tell them flatly she was going and to hell with their approval.

  ‘Delicious cake,’ said Jack. Frail or no, at least his appetite was still good.

  Maureen put her cup and saucer down. ‘When you’ve finished your tea, Jack, I think we should be on our way. I’m only sorry to bother you again, Antonia. You’ve been ferrying us around all afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble.’ Antonia stood up. ‘I’ll get the car keys.’

  Catherine wished she could slip away herself, but she had agreed to stay the night at Stoneleigh. She didn’t work at the market on Mondays, so Andrew and Antonia, knowing nothing about Will, assumed she had no special reason to go rushing back to London. Will was manning the stall alone today, and doubtless thinking of her, as she of him. He often said how easy it was to be distracted by lustful thoughts of his muse when he was meant to be running a workshop or selling bric-à-brac. She was flattered to have such power, enjoyed the self-esteem it gave her. One of the things which gradually faded after many years of marriage was that buzz of excitement sparked by a new man; that sense of being feverishly desired.

  But such feelings were disloyal to Gerry, and she was about to wave his parents off. She stood at the front door, watching Antonia’s spotless Renault disappear round the corner. Then she returned to the sitting-room and started clearing away the tea things.

  ‘Leave that, Mother,’ Andrew said. ‘I want to have a …’ The phone rang in the hall, cutting off his words. ‘Excuse me a moment, will you?’

  Left alone, she stood looking at the photos on the mantelpiece, including one of a large family group which showed Gerry’s three brothers and their wives and the whole tribe of nieces and nephews. She had practically lost contact with them now, apart from the odd Christmas card or phone call. Not that she missed them particularly. When you married a man you accepted his relations too, without any choice in the matter. Frankly, she preferred her own crowd – that circle of new acquaintances so different from the Joneses: market traders, poets, Nicky’s advertising friends, the jazz enthusiasts she’d met through Darren, and even the oddballs in the Camden shops. Certainly they had changed her outlook. The market people, especially, with their hand-to-mouth existence, had made her less security-minded, more willing to take risks. Why else would she agree to move three hundred miles away, to a cottage she hadn’t even seen, in an unknown part of the country, with a man she’d known a scant four months?

  She heard Andrew put the phone down in the hall. Wasn’t this the perfect chance to tell him – on his own? Far easier than fending off four sets of objections. She needn’t make the move sound final, but could present it as a temporary thing, even a sort of extended holiday. She could give a glowing description of the village, delightfully rural, yet only five miles from Carlisle. In actual fact, Thursby was nothing spectacular – just a church, a pub and a shop. But at least it would divert their attention from Will, who could be added as an afterthought.

  She helped herself to a sandwich, swallowed it in a couple of bites, then took another, to fuel her courage.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re eating, Mother.’ Andrew walked in again, Filofax in hand. ‘Shall I make another pot of tea?’

  ‘No thanks, darling. Why don’t we sit down and have a chat?’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ Andrew pulled his chair closer to hers, though neither of them spoke. He, too, seemed nervous, fiddling with his pen.

  Get on with it, she told herself. You can’t be frightened of your own son, for heaven’s sake. She took a deep breath. ‘Andrew,’ she said, at exactly the same moment as he said ‘Mother …’

  They both broke off with a laugh.

  ‘You first,’ said Andrew.

  ‘No, you.’

  ‘Well …’ he cleared his throat. ‘Antonia and I have some rather thrilling news. You … you’re going to be a grandma!’

  She stared at him, incredulous.

  ‘Antonia’s pregnant. It’s just been confirmed.’

  ‘Oh, Andrew, that’s wonderful! Congratulations.’

  He smiled proudly. ‘You’re the first person we’ve told.’

  ‘Well, I’m really flattered.’ Flabbergasted, actually.

  ‘We were going to announce it over tea, but Grandma and Grandpa seemed so upset, we decided to tell them later. But we wanted you to know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m … I’m delighted. When’s the baby due?’

  ‘Not until early January. It seems ages, doesn’t it?’

  No, she thought, it seems incredibly soon. She had always assumed that Andrew and Antonia wouldn’t start a family until they were in their early thirties and established in their careers. ‘Is Antonia going to give up work?’

  ‘Oh, no. Well, only for a couple of months after the birth. Actually …’ Andrew looked embarrassed. ‘We have a little plan to propose.’

  ‘A plan?’

  ‘Yes. We know you’re upset about Nicky going away, and frankly, Mother, Antonia and I really worry about you living in that area. It’s supposed to have the highest crime rate in London. And it’s full of drug-dealers and heaven knows what else.’

  She suppressed a smile, remembering Darren’s recent party. There were easier ways of getting drugs than braving the pushers at Camden Lock. ‘So you’re trying to lure me back, are you?’ she said, adopting a light-hearted tone.

 
‘Well, not back here. I know that didn’t really suit you. And of course, you want your independence. But Antonia was telling me the other day about one of the trusts she administers. It includes a cottage in Ewell village – only a tiny place, but it’s got real character. The old lady who’s been living there has just gone into a home, so Antonia has to find new tenants. And it suddenly occurred to us that it might be ideal for you.’

  ‘For me?’ Ewell wasn’t a village, just a suburb with pretensions. She and Will were going to live in a real village, surrounded by wild hills, with sheep almost in the back garden.

  ‘Well, it does seem a good idea. You’d be near us, you see, yet you’d have a place of your own. And I know you’d like it, Mother. It’s awfully pretty and very well maintained.’

  ‘In that case, I couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘No, the rent’s kept deliberately low. Besides …’ He gave a nervous cough. ‘This may sound a bit of a cheek, Mother, but I know you haven’t managed to find a proper job yet. And it can’t be much fun working at the market such long hours and never having weekends off. So we thought … well, we wondered if … if you’d like to help with the baby, when it comes? We’d happily pay the rent and a bit of a salary. We could get a proper nanny, but Antonia’s rather worried about employing a total stranger, in case she wasn’t reliable. Of course, it may not appeal to you at all, but I remember you saying you were going to make some changes anyway once Nicky had left.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said tersely, ‘that’s true.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Andrew, darling, I don’t know what to think. I’m over the moon to hear about my grandchild, but …’ She felt trapped in a web of deceit. If only she’d told them earlier about Will. How could she blurt it all out now?

  ‘It’s probably come as rather a shock. I was a little taken aback myself, to tell the truth. You see, we weren’t planning on having a baby quite so soon, but’ – he flushed – ‘these things happen, don’t they?’

  She nodded, bereft of speech.

  ‘And now that I’m used to the idea, I’m really pleased and proud. In fact, if it’s a boy, we’re going to call him Gerry.’

  She swallowed. She couldn’t go up north, not now – leave a precious grandchild, a child with Gerry’s genes and name. But how could she live in a cutesy suburban cottage, tied to a newborn baby? And no way could she imagine Will fitting into the idyll.

  ‘Actually, Antonia wants a girl and she wants to call her Lorna, with Catherine as a second name. Isn’t that nice? She gets on so well with you – better than with her own mother, to be honest.’

  Catherine smiled politely. Antonia’s mother certainly wouldn’t volunteer for the post of full-time grandma. Eleanor was a career woman and she and her husband Charles both had the sort of high-powered jobs which necessitated frequent trips abroad. When they weren’t organizing conferences in some foreign capital they lived miles away, in Devon. And there was no question of Jack and Maureen helping – they were far too old and doddery. No, it was either her or some untried girl who might neglect a vulnerable baby. She felt deeply moved by the thought of this new life and of her son becoming a father. Yet she was also desperate to secure her own new life, which seemed to be dissolving in thin air. Will would have no patience with a baby – he found Sam difficult enough. And that was another thing – she had just started to get close to Sam and didn’t want to let him down. Impressed by her bravado as the only grown-up to ride a camel, he now regarded her as someone rather special. Besides, they had told him about the cottage; promised him a cat.

  She continued to sit in silence, her mind in turmoil as pride and pleasure struggled against anger and resentment. How dare Andrew talk so blithely about her independence, then shackle her to a cottage with his child? A tied cottage – that was the word. She would be tied in every way: tied to him and Antonia, tied to a wailing infant, tethered in suburbia once more. Yet she had also talked blithely about her former life. How could it be ‘former’ when Andrew was her son; the generations handing on a legacy of blood, and yes, of ties?

  ‘Mother, I haven’t upset you, have I?’ He was looking at her anxiously.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have waited till Antonia got back. But she’s a bit embarrassed, actually.’

  ‘Embarrassed? Why?’

  ‘Well … you know, about your helping with the baby. She was afraid you’d think we were just using you.’

  Yes, it did seem exactly like that – Antonia was right. Yet she was shocked by the near-rage she felt. Rage undermined by guilt.

  ‘And she felt you could speak more freely just to me. I mean, if you didn’t like the idea, it would be easier to tell me, on my own.’

  No, it wasn’t easier. Rejecting the plan would still sound horribly selfish, regardless of whether Antonia was there. Best to say nothing at all. Today had been bad enough already, and to be faced with another bombshell after that dreadful experience in the chapel …

  She stared queasily at the table full of food. The chocolate cake reminded her of Will again – and also of Sam and the camels at the zoo. Will would be devastated if she changed the plans at this late stage, when they had already paid the deposit on the cottage. And Sam would conclude that she didn’t keep her promises.

  Ignoring Andrew’s bewildered look, she stacked the dirty plates and took them into the kitchen. If she was going to return to duty, she might as well start now. She put on Antonia’s apron, a pink gingham affair with frills. It must look odd with her hair. Could grandmas have purple hair – or live-in lovers? And wouldn’t tiger noises wake the baby?

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she whooshed half a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the washing-up bowl and watched helplessly as a mound of foam billowed up and up and up. Andrew had followed her and took the dish-mop firmly from her hand.

  ‘I’ll do this, Mother. You sit down.’

  The considerate son and well-trained husband. Didn’t she owe him something in return? ‘It’s okay, Andrew. We’ll both do it. Here’s a tea-towel. You dry.’

  They had done only a couple of cups when they heard Antonia’s key in the lock. Catherine wiped her hands and went to greet her daughter-in-law, who looked elegantly slim in her eau-de-nil two-piece. Difficult to believe that in a matter of months she would be wearing a maternity dress; that tiny waist ballooning out. And how would the immaculate house withstand the shock of a baby – champagne-coloured carpets spattered with bits of chewed-up rusk; dirty hand-prints on the walls?

  ‘Congratulations, Antonia!’ she said, giving her a kiss. ‘Andrew’s told me about the baby and I’m absolutely delighted.’

  Antonia blushed and murmured her thanks. ‘But you shouldn’t be washing up. Take off that apron and let’s have a drink to celebrate. There’s some sparkling wine in the fridge.’

  They returned to the sitting-room with bottle and glasses. As the wine was ceremonially poured, Gerry seemed to be watching from the mantelpiece. Catherine gazed at his photo, blinking back her tears. He would never see his grandchild – his namesake, maybe, or hers. If only he were still alive, she wouldn’t have this conflict. They would be normal grandparents, living conveniently near. But she wouldn’t be expected to be a full-time nanny; to be saddled with a role she didn’t want.

  Andrew and Antonia were looking at her eagerly, their glasses raised in a toast. Her glass was still on the table. She picked it up, surprised how heavy it felt. ‘To the baby,’ she said. ‘May it bring us all great happiness.’

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  ‘Listen to this, darling. It says here that crocodiles make deep grunting sounds during courtship. And they mate in a threshing frenzy.’ He waved the book at her excitedly. ‘ “The flanks may vibrate so violently that water is sprayed high into the air from either side.” That should be worth a try!’

  Catherine laughed. ‘I thought you were writing a crocodile poem?’

  �
�I was – till I got distracted by this book.’

  ‘And you just told me not to disturb your concentration.’

  ‘Grunts don’t count. Apparently they mate in shallow water and …’

  ‘The bath’s got your dirty washing in it.’

  ‘We can imagine the shallow water. “Copulation lasts approximately ten minutes.” ’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think much of that, do you? Hang on – this sounds better. “Courtship starts with the two partners rubbing their muzzles against each other.” ’ He got down on the floor and crawled on his belly towards her, making a succession of throaty grunts.

  ‘Will, you’re crazy!’

  ‘Ssh. I’m a randy crocodile, stalking my mate.’

  She grunted playfully in reply. ‘But crocodiles don’t wear clothes, you know.’

  ‘Right, take them off and show me that luscious scaly skin of yours.’

  She pulled her sundress over her head – in the sultry summer heat she had dispensed with any other clothes. It took Will longer to undress, but she helped him unbutton his shirt and unzip his trousers. Naked, they both lay on their stomachs on the carpet, rubbing muzzles – chins.

  ‘Then the male mounts the female,’ Will whispered, manoeuvring himself into position.

  ‘Hey, Will, slow down a bit!’

  ‘We’ve only got ten minutes.’

  ‘No, you can be the exception that proves the rule – a considerate crocodile who takes time to please his mate.’