‘Catherine.’
‘Catherine.’ He mispronounced it. ‘You like drink with me?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to get home.’
‘You married lady?’
She shook her head.
‘So we have drink together?’
‘Well, no, I …’
‘You not like me Catherine?’
She couldn’t help but smile. No doubt he was perfectly charming, but there was Will to be considered. True, Will had been magnanimous about the rave and Brad, but she could just imagine his reaction if she arrived home late after going off with some unknown young Romanian. Sergiu was keen, no question – scribbling something on a piece of paper, which he thrust into her hand.
‘We make date. Tomorrow.’
She glanced at the scrap of paper: an indecipherable name, followed by a string of numbers.
‘You telephone me, Catherine. Please.’
‘We’ll see. But now I have to go.’
She gave him a brief smile and walked purposefully away. It was flattering to be chatted up (especially by someone little more than thirty), although actually she was quite happy on her own. Not once had she felt lonely today, or envious of married couples – an achievement she wouldn’t have thought possible even as little as two months ago.
She strolled on along the riverside walk, suddenly aware that she was walking not towards the tube but away from it. She ought to be getting back, though. Having evaded the crematorium visit, she had promised to phone Jack and Maureen, and Andrew and Antonia, as soon as she was in. And Will would hardly welcome an evening on his own after running the stall all day. Yet she was tempted not to return; to prolong her freedom like some rebellious adolescent playing truant. The show must have affected her more deeply than she’d realized. Billed as a musical romance, it was spiked with regret and disenchantment, even bitterness. She hummed one of the tunes: a song about ordinary mothers. She could remember only the first line – ‘Ordinary mothers lead ordinary lives’ – but after that came a long list of their duties: sweeping, cooking, keeping house. Well, she refused to be an ordinary mother any more, or an ordinary daughter-in-law, or an ordinary partner to Will. But what was she going to be? That was much more difficult.
She stood leaning on the railing again, gazing out over the river. There was a general air of busyness and purpose: boats with destinations, barges pulling strings of tugs; trains raiding over Hungerford Bridge; traffic on the Embankment nosing determinedly along. All at once, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A silver speedboat was just coming into sight, on its way down-river. Seconds later, it streaked past her with a glittering plume of spray. She watched it enviously, longing to join it in its headlong rush towards the open sea.
Chapter Thirty Three
Catherine sat on the floor, surrounded by tools, spare plugs and broken bits of Hoover. The wretched thing had proved beyond her powers of repair, so she lugged its still smoking corpse outside and went to fetch the broom. With things so hectic all last week she hadn’t had a chance to catch up with the housework, and she wanted the place nice for Sam.
The broom had a wobbly handle and the stiff bristles left marks on the carpet, so she finally resorted to a dustpan and brush to pick up the worst of the crumbs (Will would eat while walking around, without a plate). And there was a pile of washing-up waiting in the bathroom basin. One of the flats they’d looked at had a really splendid kitchen, complete with microwave and dishwasher. Needless to say the rent was astronomical. Another one they’d seen was actually affordable, but it was so close to a railway line, the whole building vibrated each time a train went by.
There was enough noise here, for heaven’s sake. Closing the window to shut out the worst of Maison Victor’s muzak, she spotted the postman outside. She went down to get the letters, pleased to see an airmail envelope with Nicky’s writing on it.
Upstairs again, she put the kettle on. The housework could wait – she would read Nicky’s news over a cup of coffee. Not that there was much news other than windsurfing and more windsurfing, but she laughed at the PS: ‘Don’t forget you promised to visit. Just let me know when your launch arrives and I’ll windsurf out to meet you!’
She put the letter back in its envelope and sat looking at the stamps. One showed a hump-backed whale frolicking in turquoise water; the other a palm-fringed bay with tropical birds. How ironical it was that having given Nicky all that good advice about freedom and self-discovery, she had heeded none of it herself.
Capable, pliable …Women, women …
Undemanding and reliable,
Knowing their place …
That damned musical – she couldn’t get it out of her head. She had borrowed the cassette from the library and been playing it, off and on, the last three weeks.
Women, women …Very nearly indispensable …
Well, today she was indispensable, at least as far as Sam was concerned. Vanessa and Julian were abroad, and Lisa, their nanny, had phoned to say that her father had been suddenly taken ill and that she had to catch the midday train to visit him in hospital. Will couldn’t change his plans – he was on his way to Norwich to meet Leonard Upjohn from the Scrivener Press – so she had stepped into the breach. It was petty to feel resentful; after all, this could be Will’s big break. He had already written most of the new poems, and once he’d finished the rest she would have the time and energy to look for more lucrative work. The market seemed to be going from bad to worse, and if they couldn’t make a living in August, with perfect weather and a glut of tourists, they might as well give up.
She put Nicky’s letter in a drawer and went to tackle the washing-up, working quickly through the pile. She hadn’t that much time. Will had taken the car, and although Hampstead was only a couple of stops on the tube, there was a long walk the other end. She could do the shopping after she’d collected Sam – he seemed to regard a slog round a crowded supermarket as a fantastical excursion.
Three-quarters of an hour later, she was walking along South End Road, admiring the view of the Heath. It was a world away from Kentish Town, with gracious homes, tree-lined streets and an air of almost rural calm. She had never been to Vanessa’s before, and arriving at the Georgian house (wisteria-covered, double-fronted), she could understand Will’s bitterness. It was hard for an impoverished poet to be saddled with child maintenance while Vanessa and Julian lived in such lavish style.
The nanny, too, was a perfect adjunct to her surroundings: a peach-complexioned girl in a well-cut dress, whose vowels were pure Roedean.
‘Oh, do come in, Mrs Jones. Sam’s all ready. It’s sweet of you to help out at such short notice.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’m just glad I was free.’ She was riveted by the grandeur of the hall: the array of abstract paintings, the antique settle and expensive-looking carriage clock.
‘Well, I’ve managed to arrange a substitute, thank goodness – a friend of mine, Michelle. She’s looked after Sam before, so I’m sure Vanessa won’t mind. I haven’t been able to get hold of them yet, but they’re bound to phone Sam this evening, so Michelle can explain what’s happened. Unfortunately she can’t get here till five, so I wondered if you’d be kind enough to stay till then?’
‘Of course. It’s no trouble at all.’
‘I’m so grateful, honestly. I just don’t know how to thank you.’ She turned and called upstairs. ‘Sam! Catherine’s here.’
Catherine eyed Lisa’s elegant back. What a pity she already had a job – she would have made the ideal nanny for Antonia: well-dressed, well-spoken, well-mannered. Antonia had been on her conscience recently. She’d not seen her in the last month or so, and when they spoke on the phone and the conversation inevitably turned to the pregnancy, it made her uneasy about how little she had done to help. True she was working flat out at the market and doing her best to help Will, but he wasn’t suffering from morning sickness.
All of a sudden Sam came rocketing downstairs and hid behind Lisa’s b
ack.
‘Hello, Sam,’ Catherine said encouragingly.
He refused to meet her eye. ‘I want my Daddy,’ he whimpered.
Catherine put out her hand to him. ‘Well, he’s going to ring later and you can talk to him on the phone. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
He ignored the hand and pulled at Lisa’s skirt. ‘Why can’t you stay?’
‘I’ve told you, darling. My Daddy’s ill and I have to go and see him.’
Poor kid, thought Catherine. He must have a pretty dim view of fathers – absent, ill, away. ‘Listen, Sam,’ she said. ‘I thought we might have chips for lunch. And ice cream with toffee sauce. Shall we go and buy them together?’
A flicker of interest crossed his face. ‘Can we have chips at the zoo?’
After a quick mental calculation – thirteen pounds to get in, plus another seven or eight for lunch – she realized the zoo was out of the question. ‘I’ll cook them for you at home, then we can have lots and lots. And after that we could go and look at the pet shop.’
‘Will you buy me a cat?’
She could see today was going to be difficult. ‘No, I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve told you – we can’t have a cat in London.’
‘You had one.’
‘Look, Lisa’s got to catch a train, so we really should be going. There are fantastic things in that pet shop, you know – all sorts of different snakes. And beautiful green lizards. And salamanders. And tree frogs. And Chinese water dragons …’
They had admired the water dragons, bought a tiny (toy) cat, eaten a disgustingly large pile of chips, polished off the ice cream and home-made toffee sauce. And it was still only half past two.
‘Why hasn’t Daddy phoned?’ asked Sam, pushing his empty dish away.
‘He’s rather busy today, darling. And it’s probably hard for him to get to a phone.’
‘He promised.’
‘Yes, well, give him a bit longer and I’m sure he will phone.’
Sam got down from the table and started prowling around the room, finally stopping at the bed. ‘Is that where you sleep?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘And where does my Daddy sleep?’
‘Er … in the other room.’
‘Why don’t we ever go in the other room?’
‘It’s full of furniture and stuff.’
‘Why does Daddy sleep there then?’
‘Look Sam, I’ve just had an idea. Let’s go for a bus ride. We could sit on top at the very front and go all the way to Alexandra Park and back.’
His face lit up. ‘Oh, yes!’
She knew that buses were an exotic treat for children chauffeured everywhere since infancy. ‘And we’ll play the red and blue car game.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, you look out for red cars and I look out for blue. And we get a point for each one we see. The person with most points wins a prize.’
‘What’s the prize?’
‘Wait and see.’
‘A cat!’
‘No.’
‘A camel?’
‘No. Smaller than that.’
‘A flea?’
She laughed. ‘I told you – wait and see.’
He looked at her reflectively. ‘Did you like that camel ride at the zoo?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Can I have one next time?’
‘Of course.’ It was just a little matter of an extra twenty quid or so. The thought needled her into a sudden decision – she was going to take a proper job, dreary office or no. It was ridiculous to be so strapped for cash that she couldn’t afford the zoo. ‘Come on, Sam, let’s get that crust from the bread bin, then we can feed the ducks in the park.’
‘Oh, great!’
Thank heavens he was easily pleased. She could just about run to a bit of stale bread and the bus fare to Alexandra Park. As for the prize, it would have to be conjured out of thin air.
She stood scouring the chip pan, wondering what to cook for Will. Leonard Upjohn had mentioned lunch out, but knowing the financial straits of small presses, that probably meant a ham roll in a pub. She was surprised Will wasn’t back yet, and that he hadn’t phoned. Of course he might well have tried earlier, when they were out on their long bus-ride. Fortunately Sam appeared to have forgotten about his father and had only brought the subject up again when she handed him over to Michelle. That was nearly three hours ago.
She finished washing the pan and took it back to the living-room. Perhaps spaghetti bolognese would do – fairly cheap and filling and it wouldn’t spoil if Will was held up in traffic. It was such a pain having only two gas rings to cook on. You needed an oven for so many things, especially the cheaper cuts of meat.
She cleared a space amidst the clutter on the table and set about chopping some onions. Outside, the light was fading, the sky a dull grey-blue. August was half over and next month would be autumn; the evenings drawing in. Why did everything take so long? – finding flats, getting poetry published, even handing over nervous boys to new nannies. She had hated leaving Sam: he seemed wary of Michelle and had kept begging her to stay.
She heated some oil to brown the onions, turning the gas low as the phone rang. She hoped it wasn’t Will ringing to say the car had broken down. Recently it had been making ominous noises again, despite all they’d spent on it.
‘Hello,’ she said apprehensively. ‘Oh, Anthony, how are you?’ Anthony Foster was an unsuccessful poet who had given up writing to run festivals. He was organizing a ‘Versathon’ in Shropshire in October and wondered if Will might be free.
‘I’ll get him to ring you,’ she said, scribbling the details on a pad. Will was more in demand these days and although she was pleased for him (and grateful for the fees), there was still a niggling resentment. It was as if she had returned to the era when Gerry was an actor and she the supportive wife, looking after the children and the house, keeping his meals warm when he was late home. Will and Gerry were the ‘stars’ – the talented, temperamental ones who must be cosseted and cared for. It made no difference that neither of them had actually achieved their ambitions – they were still the ones with ambitions, and she the nobody. At Will’s last reading she had watched people queue to talk to him after the performance, flirtatious females touching him, for God’s sake, and offering to buy him drinks, while she sat in the corner nursing an empty glass.
Men are stupid, men are vain,Love’s disgusting, love’s insane,
Love’s a dirty business …
She marched over to the cassette player and wrenched the tape out with a clatter. She would take it back to the library first thing in the morning. Those stupid songs were only making her bitter. Love wasn’t a dirty business, but a matter of mutual support. As soon as Will was less pressured, she knew he would help her in his turn. He seemed genuinely sorry at being unable to do his share, but, as he pointed out, he had waited years for this break and it would be folly to risk his whole future for the sake of a few more weeks. She agreed – the height of folly. She must simply be patient a while longer and try to do things with good grace. For instance, she could surprise him this evening with a nice chocolatey pudding, or make a …
‘Catherine!’
She rushed to meet him, relieved to see him in one piece and in fact looking remarkably cheerful. ‘Will, at last! I was beginning to get worried. I mean, you said you’d phone …’
‘I did phone, but there was no reply. And then I got hopelessly lost in the wilds of Norfolk. I wasn’t concentrating and must have taken the wrong turning.’
‘Well, thank goodness you’re all right.’
‘I’m more than all right.’ He swept into the room, tossing his jacket on to a chair. ‘I’m over the moon! They’re definitely going ahead, darling. And with a bigger collection than the one they originally planned.’
‘Oh, Will, congratulations!’
‘No, wait, it’s even better. My book won’t come out till the autumn of next year, but they’re also going
to include me in an anthology – well, just a mini one. You see, what they do each year is publish a sort of taster for the new poets they’re promoting – usually just three or four. That comes out in the spring and of course it’ll help sell my main collection. Or at least arouse some interest.’
‘Gosh, darling, that’s fantastic! If only we had some champagne.’
‘Hm, I’m afraid we can’t run to champagne. I shall be getting two payments instead of just the one, but it’s still not exactly a fortune.’
‘Well let’s drink you a toast in beer. I can probably rustle up a couple of cans.’
He took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. ‘Catherine, you’re the one who deserves a toast. You’ve been wonderful these last few weeks. I couldn’t have done any of it without you. Quite apart from the fact you inspired the poems. They loved the zoo ones, by the way, and the courting crocodiles … Oh, I didn’t tell you, I met the publicity girl – well actually she’s more of a general factotum. She’s only about twenty-five, but she’s really on the ball. And gorgeous into the bargain. Anyway, she’s got some great ideas about promoting my collection.’
Catherine hunted in the cupboard for the beer, wishing there were slightly fewer gorgeous young girls on the poetry circuit. She opened the cans and held hers aloft. ‘To “Burnt Crocodiles”,’ she said with a smile. “Did they like the title?’
‘Loved it. In fact, I could do no wrong today. Leonard even bought me a slap-up lunch.’
‘Oh good. I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be. I’m making spaghetti bolognese, but I haven’t got very far with it, so if you’d prefer a sandwich …
‘No, spaghetti would be great. With lashings of lovely garlic.’
‘Okay.’
‘Oh, and Catherine darling, I haven’t thanked you for looking after Sam. I rang him at Hampstead on the way back and …
‘Honestly, Will, couldn’t you have rung me, at the same time?’
‘I did try, my love, but you were engaged. And I didn’t want to hang around and make myself even later. Anyway, Sam seemed on top form. He said you’d cooked him millions of chips and bought him a cat and …’
Second Skin Page 45