Second Skin

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘But it wouldn’t work in any case. She’s always terribly busy.’

  ‘She must get some time off.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But I feel I should go to a more cultured sort of place, not laze around on a tropical beach drinking rum.’

  ‘Mum, you’re impossible! Can’t you just enjoy yourself for once? You know, if I was there now, I’d jolly well march you to the nearest travel agent and stand over you while you paid the deposit.’

  ‘Oh darling, I wish you were here.’

  ‘Well, promise me one thing anyway – that you’ll go out today and book a ticket to somewhere. Then phone me back and tell me what you’ve decided.’

  ‘Kate, it’s nearly five. They’ll all be shut. I’ll go later, when …’ She broke off, no longer hearing her daughter’s voice, but the words from A Little Night Music – words she’d all but forgotten in the last three joyless weeks.

  LaterWhen is ‘later’?

  How can I wait around for later?

  Gerry had died without achieving his ambitions; her mother had died at the age of twenty-five, and even her father had opted for an arid death-in-life. Hadn’t she resolved to change the pattern?

  Confused, she tried to listen to Kate, but her daughter’s words only reinforced the song.

  ‘Of course they won’t be shut, Mum. Stop making excuses and get yourself round there this instant! And in exactly two hours’ time I’ll be waiting by the phone. And I warn you, if you don’t ring me, I’ll ring you.’

  ‘Oh Kate, I …’

  ‘Ssh. No more arguments. Off you go.’

  Catherine put the phone down in a daze. Kate was right. There was absolutely nothing to stop her rebooking a holiday. In fact she could hardly believe she’d been so stupid as not to think of it herself. She had become a noble martyr, upholding her commitment to a baby who wasn’t even born yet. This way she could still honour the commitment, yet salvage something for herself.

  She grabbed her jacket and the car keys, glancing at the stamps on Nicky’s letter: one of them a prickly cactus bursting into flower. It was a crazy idea to go so far to visit Nicky, but she had to admit she felt crazy. And it would be a tremendous relief to discuss the whole dilemma with someone who understood. Nicky was less extreme than Rosie and was bound to sympathize. And she was the only person who knew Will well enough to make sense of what had happened. Apart from the chance to talk, it would be great to meet Dominic, and see some of the places Nicky described in her letters: roller-coaster mountains plunging down to the sea; sunsets straight out of South Pacific. She might even have a go at windsurfing …

  Stuffing the letter in her pocket, she scooted out of the front door. At least she could enquire about the fare and if it turned out to be astronomical, well, as Kate had said, there were other exotic places.

  As she started the car and pulled out of the drive, another song from the musical burst into her head.

  There’s a lot I’ll have missedBut I’ll not have been dead when I die!

  ‘No, I certainly shan’t,’ she yelled, swinging out of the cul-de-sac and leaving Manor Close behind. ‘Look out, world – here I come!’

  Part Six

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Churning with excitement, Catherine followed the others along a mysterious grey walkway. The floor sloped down, then turned a corner and before she knew it, two smiling stewardesses were welcoming her on board. Surely this couldn’t be the plane? It seemed no more than a continuation of the claustrophobic passageway and looked impossibly small inside, considering it was a jumbo jet. But as she passed the stewardesses she saw rows of seats stretching into the distance. This was the plane – the first plane she had ever been on in her life.

  She inched her way down the aisle, smiling like a child at anyone and everyone. Those other bored-looking passengers must be old hands at flying – she could hardly contain herself; her heart beating so loudly she was sure the whole plane could hear it.

  Still grinning foolishly, she found row thirty-seven. Her seat was next to the window and the two adjacent ones were already occupied. She was pleased to see her neighbours looked congenial– an arty man dressed in black, with an interestingly weathered face, and a cosy plumpish woman in the aisle seat.

  ‘Bit of a squash, I’m afraid,’ said the man as she squeezed apologetically past his knees. She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t be too chatty – not yet, anyhow. She wanted to savour every moment of this new experience. She put her bag under the seat, as she’d seen other people do. The zips would barely fasten, so much was crammed into its various compartments – presents from all and sundry, including Rosie, Brad and Will; eau de cologne from Maureen, a zoom compact camera from Andrew, and a supply of fresh fruit from Antonia to supplement the ‘wickedly unhealthy’ airline catering.

  The drive to the airport had been something of a strain. Andrew and Antonia had made valiant efforts at light-hearted conversation – to disguise their dismay at what she was doing – but frankly she’d been relieved to see them go. There was a glorious sense of freedom in being on her own, as if she had shed a heavy burden. She didn’t envy the couples around her, and certainly not the parents trying to cope with squabbling children. A harassed pair across the aisle were distributing colouring-books and crayons to their brood of little girls. She almost wished she had some crayons herself, something to calm her down.

  She delved into the pocket in front of her knees and found a glossy magazine complete with route-maps, a pair of headphones and a mini sponge-bag containing an eye mask and a child-sized toothbrush with a miniature tube of toothpaste. Overhead a bank of tiny televisions was suspended from the ceiling. How intriguing it all was! And there were even …

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you please ensure that your seat-belts are fastened and that your seat is in the upright position.’

  The announcement made her jump. They must be about to take off. But no – the disembodied voice went on to inform them that a safety demonstration would be shown on video and would they please give it their full attention. She gazed up at the screen, but could hardly take it in: all those gruesome details about emergency exits and oxygen supplies. Not that she was frightened, only exhilarated still. Once the drill was over, they were each served with a drink – a small plastic carton of orange juice with a peel-off lid – and a tiny packet of nuts. She was fascinated by the minute size of everything, as if they were children on a picnic and this was some marvellous game, not real life at all.

  Before opening her juice, she took out Will’s letter, now smudged and rather dog-eared. He still loved her, he still cared – cared enough to let her go and to rejoice in her adventure. The last sentence she knew by heart: ‘Remember you’re a work in progress, and this way you’ll achieve your final form.’

  He had also written her a poem. A love poem. A loss poem. He would never publish it, he’d said – it was hers alone to keep or chuck away. She read it once again, smiling at the reference to the camels; elated by the fact that, as his muse, she could still inspire such powerful words.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen …’ A different voice was speaking now: a well-modulated female voice. ‘Welcome aboard Air India 112 to Delhi. Our flying time today is …’

  Delhi! She all but hugged herself in delight every time she heard that word. It had crackled over the tannoy in the departure lounge, flickered on the television monitors, and was printed on her ticket and her luggage labels, yet she still couldn’t quite believe that she was actually on her way there. The proof was all around, though – the buzz of unknown languages, the many dark-skinned passengers: Sikhs in turbans, stewardesses resplendent in dazzling blue and orange saris (not the drably formal uniform she’d expected). In fact, with the sitar music floating in the background and the faint smell of curry wafting from the kitchens, it would be easy to imagine she was in India already. The safety drill had been given in both Hindi and English, and now an Indian travelogue was showing on the screen. A picture of t
he Taj Mahal suddenly jolted her back to the Stoneleigh travel agent’s. She had been standing at the counter, poring over brochures of the Virgin Islands, when she’d happened to look up and see – yes, the Taj Mahal: a large poster in vivid colours, with COME TO INDIA! in red letters underneath.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she had blurted out, ‘but I’ve changed my mind. I want to go to India instead.’

  If the man was confused, he didn’t show it. After a few brief phone calls, he found her a special deal: a return ticket to Delhi for well under five hundred pounds. She had almost lost her nerve and bolted home – after all, she hadn’t even consulted Kate or asked her permission to visit. Yet the man said he was closing in ten minutes and advised her not to leave it till the morning, in case the ticket was snapped up by someone else.

  Again she had looked at the poster: COME TO INDIA! And it had seemed as if she was hearing Kate’s own voice, assuring her it would be all right – the rebel daughter reunited with her rebel mother. And when she had made the promised phone call two hours later, Kate was over the moon, though incredulous at first ‘Stop kidding, Mum, and tell me the truth. You’re going to see Nicky, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m coming to see you. And then I’m going on a camel trek.’ She had no intention of outstaying her welcome. Any hint of that and she would set off somewhere else. In any case, she wanted to see as much of the country as possible, Rajasthan especially, with its miles and miles of desert. Whatever else she missed out on, it wouldn’t be the camel trek – she owed that to herself, and Will. Of course she could only travel as long as her money lasted, but Kate had told her that trains were cheap, buses cheaper, and that you could live on a shoestring if you didn’t mind a sleeping-bag and a diet of dhal and chapatis. It might even be possible to find a job teaching English somewhere, which would pay for bed and board.

  ‘When do we take off?’ she asked a stewardess, as if she couldn’t wait to exchange the clichéd illustrations in the brochures for the living, breathing reality.

  ‘In about twenty minutes, madam.’

  Why so long, she wondered. She had assumed the plane would depart as soon as everyone was on board, as trains and buses did.

  ‘Impatient to get going?’ the man beside her smiled.

  She returned his smile. ‘Yes, I am a bit.’ Impatient to see Kate, who would be meeting her at Delhi airport a mere nine hours from now. That too seemed incredible.

  ‘We’re bound to be delayed. We always are.’ The man passed her his Independent. ‘Do look at this, if you want. It’ll help to pass the time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said politely, noticing the day and date at the top. Could it really be Monday – no-nonsense back-to-work day? There ought to be a new day, a glittering, gold-star day for occasions such as this: Departure Day, Delhi Day, Reunion With Daughter Day.

  She made a pretence of reading, though the words remained a blur and the front-page picture of Downing Street seemed to be overlaid with dromedaries and date palms. It was odd to have the time to sit flicking through a paper. The last couple of weeks she had been rushing from pillar to post getting her visa and immunisations, and saying goodbye to all her friends. And then there’d been the packing – deciding what to take for so many unknown situations and such a range of temperatures, yet needing to travel as light as possible. She glanced down at her Levis, amused to think how startled Kate would be to see her staid mother clad in blue jeans, with newly purpled hair.

  A baby was crying in the bank of seats behind. The colicky wail provoked a surge of guilt, which she hastily suppressed. She might be back in time for her grandchild’s birth, but there again she might not. She had no definite plans – that was the whole point of the trip. Christmas, too, she’d left open. Christmas at Stoneleigh was still a possibility, though Kate had urged her to stay on and share the celebrations at the centre – apparently quite an experience in itself. Or she might spend Christmas with friends as yet unknown, or in places only unpronounceable names on a map. Or even in the desert with the nomads.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to proceed to the runway for take-off, so will you kindly ensure that your seat-belts are fastened.’

  She gripped the buckle; fear and elation curdling in her stomach. There was a general air of expectancy as books were temporarily abandoned and people sat up straighter or craned their necks to look out of the windows. She too peered out as the plane began to move – barely perceptibly at first. It turned slowly to the left and all she could see was grey tarmac dotted with trucks and the hulks of other planes. Then it turned again and an expanse of scrub came into view, and a no-man’s-land of storage sheds and withered yellow grass. The plane was still crawling along in a desultory fashion, as if in two minds about whether to leave. And then it came abruptly to a stop. She glanced round in alarm. Was something wrong? Please God, not a terrorist. Yet no one else seemed concerned, and anyway wouldn’t …?

  Without warning there was a surge of noise and the plane lurched forward and began careering along the runway at terrifying speed. Everything juddered and rattled and she clutched the arms of her seat, convinced that they were about to crash. Then suddenly the bumping stopped, the ground fell away dramatically, and the plane leapt into the air like a magnificent new species of bird – the lumbering grey dinosaur transformed. She swivelled in her seat, bubbling with excitement – they were flying, actually flying. Her neighbours, though, appeared totally unmoved: the man already deep in a book and the woman in the aisle seat all but dozing off.

  Amazed at their indifference, she turned back to the window, exulting as the plane climbed higher. She could feel herself ascending with it, escaping from her cul-de-sac; leaving the tedium of ordinary life far behind her, far below. Soon they were rising above the clouds and she was looking out at a vast white foamy duvet streaked with blue and amethyst. She watched, entranced; the sky stretching to infinity, boundless and eternal. There was a burst of blinding light as the sun blazed through the window. She was forced to shade her eyes; even so, she could feel its brilliance searing into her hand. And all at once she knew with utter conviction that she would not – must not – achieve a final shape. She must stay fluid like the sky, constantly changing and adapting, not settling into a wife-shape, a parent-shape, a grandma-shape, but remain for ever a work in progress. There would be uncertainties, false turnings, but they were a valuable part of the process, as Will had shown her in his work. She could go in any direction, respond to intuition, gain enlightenment from mistakes. Like a poet, she would be open to inspiration and willing to explore, to subvert the rules if need be.

  Already she felt lighter, released from inflexible duties and the cage of convention. She continued to gaze out at the sky; the Midas-like sun turning everything to gold. This was the ‘now’, the ecstatic present moment she had barely grasped before, the art of living in full flower without the straitjacket of past or future. What she had failed to understand was that the ‘now’ was as real as grief and loss, and perhaps the only means of transcending them.

  ‘Gerry,’ she whispered, aware of his enduring presence – her beloved husband somewhere in that infinite sky, smiling in encouragement as she broke her last remaining chains and soared fearlessly away.

  Copyright

  First published in 1998 by Flamingo

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  www.curtisbrown.co.uk

  ISBN 978-1-4472-2337-5 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-2336-8 POD

  Copyright © Wendy Perriam, 1998

  The right of Wendy Perriam to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of t
he material reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites’).

  The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

  This book remains true to the original in every way. Some aspects may appear out-of-date to modern-day readers. Bello makes no apology for this, as to retrospectively change any content would be anachronistic and undermine the authenticity of the original.

  Bello has no responsibility for the content of the material in this book. The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not constitute an endorsement by, or association with, us of the characterization and content.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books

  and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and

  news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters

  so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.