Skin Deep

by Liz Nugent

  I think Dad was right to arrange an abortion for her if that’s what she wanted. Then nobody need ever have known and, given time, we could have got back together. If her uncle hadn’t interfered, and then the religious old bastards, everything would be OK now. Well, maybe not OK, but better than her marrying my fucking brother.

  So many things could have happened. So many things could have been kept quiet. Delia and I could have had a future if everything hadn’t been so rushed.

  When I close my eyes, I see Delia in bed with my brother. They did it in one of the hotel rooms. Dad told me when he was drunk. I didn’t need to know that. I bet Peter forced her. Why would she sleep with him when she hardly knew him, when she wouldn’t sleep with me?

  They should never have forced her into this marriage. It’s like something you hear about happening in India or the 1950s.

  The whole town is laughing at me and I can’t stand it. Such juicy gossip could never be kept quiet in a place like this. Dad is sleeping in Peter’s old room now. Mum is the only one who goes to Mass. I can barely look at either of them. I haven’t gone to training since, knowing that the lads are talking about me, feeling sorry for me.

  I close my eyes and I think of her over there in London, lonely and afraid, probably bullied by my brother. She misses me, I’m sure of it. Mum says that I am not to expect a letter from her, but she will write to me, I know it. I’m writing to her every week.

  My brother and I were never the best of friends, but even Mum doesn’t believe it when she says we’ll all get over this. None of us will. Ever.

  13

  Seven days after the aborted abortion attempt, I flew on a plane for the first time, to London with Alan and Declan Russell. Moira and Mrs Russell were too distraught to come with us. We went straight from the airport in a taxi to a registry office where I met Peter. We exchanged a few sentences. He seemed embarrassed and apologetic and utterly delighted. A registrar married us under a portrait of the Queen in a civil ceremony that took no more than ten minutes. I wore a bottle-green tweed skirt and a brown corduroy jacket and some plastic leather-look zip-up boots that were scuffed at the toes. Peter was wearing a suit with a shiny tie. He had a carnation in his lapel and pinned one to my jacket. I stared at him. Everything about him was so angular and he was such a serious type of man, he looked all the time as if he was solving equations in his head, and perhaps he was. At the end of the brief ceremony, the registrar smiled and said, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ and Peter kissed my cheek and I heard Declan Russell behind us muttering, ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Afterwards, we went to a restaurant and had an awkward meal where nobody spoke much. Alan insisted on paying for it, as father of the bride, despite the fact that Mr Russell ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu and drank most of it himself. After dinner, Declan went to a hotel nearby, and Alan went to a distant cousin’s house somewhere on the outskirts of London. They were both flying home the next morning. I can’t imagine there was much conversation between them on the journey. Peter and I were left alone together. I took his hand as we left the restaurant and he looked at mine with surprise.

  I went on the Tube with Peter, stunned by the crowds of people and their varying shades, getting on and off, masses of them through endless low-ceilinged corridors, up escalators, pouring forth like a river. I had been to Galway, and to Dublin, and of course I’d seen London on television, but I was taken aback by the sheer volume of people everywhere, and I didn’t know any of them. We got off the Tube after twenty minutes and emerged at Walthamstow station. From there, we walked about two hundred yards to a street packed tightly with terraced houses and cars parked on either side. We stopped at a doorway, and while Peter was searching for his keys a man emerged from the doorway to the right of his.

  ‘All right?’ he said to Peter, who grunted in response.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

  ‘No idea, one of the guys who live downstairs.’

  I couldn’t understand how you could live in the same building with someone and not know their name.

  Peter’s doorway led on to a narrow, steep staircase. I had never been in a flat before, and I roamed the three rooms several times, aghast at the limitation of space. All of the houses on this street were split into two flats. Two front doors, instead of one. No garden, no sea pounding in the distance. Even in my childhood cottage, it had felt to me like we owned the ocean and the sky around us. Here, I could only glimpse the sky by craning my neck upwards. The view was of other houses closing in opposite or other back yards and kitchens from the rear. I felt immediately confined by the walls around me.

  ‘I thought you were rich?’ I said.

  Peter laughed nervously. ‘Is that why you married me?’

  I said nothing, but I couldn’t stop bitter tears from falling.

  Peter saw my disappointment and tried to reassure me. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, but business is good, very good. I’m only living here because I’ve been saving up and I’m buying my own place soon, our own place.’

  We stood at the door of the bedroom. It was a bachelor pad. A poster on the wall showed strange staircases that appeared to go up and down.

  ‘It’s an Escher,’ said Peter.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Another poster I recognized as the periodic table from my school days. The books on the floor appeared to be scientific volumes, or biographies of business moguls. Over dinner, Peter had showed us all his digital watch, which had a calculator on it. Even Alan had been impressed. Now, looking at evidence of his interest in science, I was emboldened to ask him, ‘What is your job?’

  ‘My friend Daniel and I opened a brokerage. I study the markets and invest other people’s money in stocks and various ventures,’ he said.

  I admitted I didn’t know what stocks and ventures were. He started to explain, but I didn’t understand any of it. ‘It’s like a different language,’ I said, and Peter declared that computers did in fact use a different language. I think he thought that I should be impressed, but I was staring at the double bed, realizing that we would sleep together in it every night. Peter kissed me then on the lips.

  ‘I never dreamed that … My beautiful wife. Look, I know it’s a crazy way for it all to happen, but I think I, well, I think we can get on together, have a family, make a life here. I feel like the luckiest man in the world, right now. I think we’re going to be all right. Harry won’t stay angry for the rest of his life. One day he’ll forgive us and we’ll be able to visit home, if we could be bothered. Westport is such a backwater. One day it might catch up with the rest of the world.’ He pulled me towards him and put his hand on my belly. ‘Our baby!’ he whispered, and his eyes shone with happiness.

  I felt like screaming.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  I was married to a man I barely knew in a tiny flat in a strange country and pregnant with a baby I didn’t want. Millionaire? What a fraud. That night, we slept in the same bed, but I kept my back to him. His arm crept around to cradle my stomach, but he did not pressure me. Sex was within my power, and I intended to hold on to it. I was furious. I had been duped. Pride of Mayo? Hardly. I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Peter planned to introduce me to his friends. London didn’t care about sex before marriage, he said. He thought it best that we pretend that I had been a long-term girlfriend from home, and that we had chosen to get married for the sake of our baby. It reminded me of the time that Alan and Moira said we should pretend that I was their niece. Peter said he wanted his friends to think well of me and that there was no reason to mention Harry. I wondered if they would think well of him, if they had known the truth.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. I was not used to sharing a bed. I woke early to find Peter gazing at me. ‘My beautiful bride,’ he whispered, and kissed me on the mouth. I did not kiss him back, but rose quickly and went to the bathroom to shower and dress.

  When I emerged later,
he handed me a cup of strong coffee and told me he would take me shopping. We went back underground again and swapped trains until we came out at Brent Cross and walked to a large shopping centre. Peter took me to C&A and Marks & Spencer’s and Dorothy Perkins and told me I could buy anything I wanted. At first, I was cautious, asking his opinion on that dress or this cardigan, but he insisted that I get what I wanted. I was a bigger size around the waist than I had been before, and it annoyed me that I had to go up a size in skirts and trousers. I had never really been interested in fashion, but maybe that was because there were three ladies’ shops you could buy from in Westport, and sometimes, if it was my birthday, Moira would take me on the bus to Galway, into Gaywear for a new coat or to Clarks for a new pair of shoes. We were always on a budget. This time, Peter showed me his credit card. He told me I would have one too. He left me alone in the lingerie department in John Lewis, and there my spirits lifted as I examined the lace and satin and chose everything I wanted. When he wasn’t watching me, I indulged myself without embarrassment. I realized that this was a life I wanted to lead. The big house could come later. My mood improved.

  Afterwards, on the street, both of us laden with bags, I kissed him, caught him by surprise, and he grinned broadly. His whole face softened and he puffed up his chest. ‘You’re worth every penny,’ he said, and put his arm around my shoulder. We then travelled out to the suburbs again and stopped to look at an estate agent’s window. ‘What about something like that? We’ll need at least three bedrooms to start with,’ he said, pointing to a photo of a small red-brick Victorian semi-detached house with a driveway and a large cherry blossom tree in the front garden. I wondered who he thought would sleep in the third bedroom. ‘Well, visitors!’ he said. ‘And maybe we’ll give this one a little brother or sister some day.’ He pointed at my stomach. I didn’t dare to respond to that. I looked at the asking price and laughed. Peter wasn’t laughing though. ‘Let’s enquire, will we?’ he said, and led the way through the glass door.

  The estate agent looked me up and down, and particularly at the cracked toes of my plastic boots. I wished I had changed into some of my new purchases, which included three pairs of real leather shoes. Peter made an appointment for us to view the house in Finchley the next day.

  ‘We could be in our new house for Christmas,’ he said. It was beginning to sink in that I was here to stay. My stomach fluttered with nerves. Or perhaps it was the baby.

  That evening we went out to dinner again, to a small bistro a short walk from the flat. ‘I can’t cook,’ admitted Peter, ‘and you should have a week off. This should be our honeymoon.’ I had never been to proper restaurants before, unless you count the chippers and cafés of Ballina and Westport.

  We drank some wine with our meal. He asked me lots of questions that evening. About my birth family and my adopted family. He knew from his father that I was no blood relation to Moira and Alan. The wine loosened my tongue a little, and I told him that I was an indirect descendant of an island chieftain, that my ancestors were noblemen, that my father was a hard-working fisherman, honoured and respected by the entire community. I related the story of how my family died tragically in a fire. I did not tell him that my father had murdered my mother and brothers and shot himself. It seemed unreal to me. I had only learned this information two weeks previously and so much else had happened that I didn’t know how to process it.

  ‘But that story, about you being found outside Cregannagh village the night of the fire back on the island, what were you doing there?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘But you must have taken the ferry over by yourself? Where were you going, and why?’

  ‘Daddy was going to catch the later ferry. I don’t know why.’

  ‘But you must remember?’

  I couldn’t think about that now. I snapped at Peter. ‘Stop asking me questions about that. For God’s sake, don’t you think that might be insensitive?’

  My voice was raised loud enough that a drunk diner from another table leaned over to Peter and said, ‘New to the mainland, is she? You want to make sure she doesn’t have a bomb in her bag, mate.’ He was smiling, being chummy. The previous year, an IRA bomb had killed eleven members of the Household Cavalry and seven of their horses.

  Peter bristled and turned red. ‘Piss off, mate, and mind your own business.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on, I was only having a laugh, wasn’t I?’ said the man, behaving now like he was the injured party.

  Peter was furious. We finished up our meal quickly and in silence. He paid the bill and led me out of the restaurant, passing the other diner, who was now very drunk, and even louder, to the mortification of the man he was dining with.

  ‘Sorry, man, I didn’t mean nothing by it, I quite like the Irish really …’ He began to stand up and I could see that he was considerably taller and broader than Peter.

  Peter was ready to square up to him, but I pulled at his sleeve and said sweetly to the man, ‘No offence taken, enjoy your dinner, but check under your car in the morning, all right, mate?’ I waited for the look of confusion on his face before we exited.

  ‘It’s not a great time to be Irish in London,’ Peter said.

  ‘Nobody would know you’re Irish,’ I said. Having lived there for five years, he already sounded posh English, and confident in that way that British people can. Back home, when you heard that accent on the television or radio, it added a certain weight to what they said. Authoritative and knowledgeable.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about … it was tactless of me, I should have thought.’

  I stopped him. ‘It’s quite all right, let’s not mention it again.’ I mimicked his clipped tones perfectly, and he looked at me, amazed.

  ‘You don’t have to change your accent –’

  ‘Oh, but I think I do.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You told me once that I wouldn’t fit in, in London. I’m going to prove you wrong.’

  He thought it was a joke that I might tire of, but I had changed my accent once before, from bog island to Westport, to impress his family. He just hadn’t been around enough to notice that.

  He smiled then at his brand-new wife, but at the end of our marriage, Peter would shout at me, ‘Who are you? I don’t know who you are. You don’t even sound like you!’

  At that time, though, he was in love with me. I did not have sex with him that night, and though he did not ask me, it was clear what he wanted. The next day we were both tired, but we got up and went to our house-viewing appointment. The house was small but twice the size of the flat, at the bottom of a long leafy avenue. It was empty of furniture. I could not visualize anyone living in it. While Peter went around with a measuring tape, talking about where the sun would hit the bedroom in the morning, I went into the small back garden. It was a yard. Tall trees on one side protected the house’s privacy from the next-door neighbour, and a high fence on the other side was doing its best to block out noise from the adjacent street. I could see a patch of sky between the fence and the trees. I closed my eyes and tried my best, but I could not remember exactly how the ocean sounded. Only three days away from it, and already I was lost. I felt Peter put his arms around my shoulders. ‘Did you see the stove? Come in and take a look.’

  ‘There isn’t enough sky,’ I said.

  The estate agent standing at the back door laughed indulgently. ‘Perhaps madam would prefer a penthouse apartment? We have one in Crouch End.’ He wasn’t being cheeky. He was deferential to me. The new accent and the new clothes had slipped on like a skin. This Delia commanded respect.

  ‘No, we need a house, with a garden. We’re having a baby,’ said Peter.

  ‘Oh, how exciting. Congratulations!’ The man shook Peter’s hand, and when he took mine I noticed him looking at my other hand. It was a moment before I realized that he was looking for my wedding ring. At the civil ceremony, we hadn’t needed one.

  When we left the house, and walked back towar
ds the Tube station, Peter insisted we go along the high street first. He stopped at a jeweller’s shop, and there he bought me a sapphire and diamond engagement ring and a solid gold wedding band. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘it’s official’, as if the certificate on the kitchen table in Walthamstow wasn’t validation enough. He paid a small fortune, and I thought that perhaps this life might not be so bad. We just needed a proper house with space, and sky. That evening, I allowed our marriage to be consummated. Sex was never as exciting again as it was that first time, so I used it, granting it and withholding it according to my mood. I learned slowly how I could be satisfied, but the physical sensation was only ever fleeting. I never understood why people make such an enormous fuss about it. That night, Peter held me tight and looked into my eyes. I stared right back at him.

  ‘We’ll make this work, won’t we?’ He rubbed my rising belly.

  The nausea and physical exhaustion of the first three months of pregnancy had now passed and I was feeling relatively normal again, but during the following week Peter made an antenatal appointment for me, which I attended alone. The obstetrician was kind, and told me that my baby and I were in perfect health.

  ‘There is no chance of a miscarriage then?’ I asked.

  He looked at me strangely. ‘No, nothing to worry about at this stage.’

  I was glad that Peter was back at work, as he had barely left my side at the weekend. He left me plenty of cash and showed me bus and Tube routes. He would buy a car soon, he said, so that we could go on family outings. He would even teach me how to drive.

  I spent my first weeks as a tourist, taking bus tours and river tours, seeing St Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, museums and art galleries I had read about in schoolbooks. Central London was magnificent. I walked along the Thames, branching off into Covent Garden or Westminster, marvelling at the scale, the grandeur and the architecture. Each evening, I had something to discuss with Peter, something to ask or tell him about what I had seen. He had been a student in Oxford, or as he used to say, pompously, ‘up at Oxford’, and had only worked in the City for the last two years. My knowledge of central London was soon better than his. The A–Z was my bible. The Tube map was his.