Stronger Than Skin

by Stephen May

  The thought that this creature had been cuddling up with Anne Sheldon all this time – while I had been down here cleaning the kitchen – filled me with a hot and sudden rage. I had a dim sense that this might be irrational so I tried to contain it. Tried and failed.

  ‘Well, Mr Masterson. I think you should, ah, take your tobacco and, ah, fuck the fuck off.’

  Masterson’s face darkened. The rodent smile vanished. ‘There’s no need to be uncivil. We’re on the same side you and I.’ He stopped, licked his lips. ‘And it’s Doctor Masterson.’

  ‘James has been very kind.’

  Anne. Finally. She stood in the doorway, a diminished version of the woman who had hurled her Dart around the country lanes of Cambridgeshire. The woman who had lain belly to belly with me in the soft dusk at the end of a long summer’s day. The woman who had shown me everything. ‘He’s even lent me his car.’

  She was whey-faced and frail, shrouded in a grubby towelling dressing gown, goose pimply legs beneath the hem. Eyes rimmed red. Mascara traces in the lines beneath them. Skin puffy. Moving with the careful steps of the convalescent.

  She was in a state right enough. In a bad way. Objectively, I could see she looked terrible. Nevertheless, my heart turned over at the sight of her. The faint trace of a smile still glistened at the edge of her mouth. My skin prickled suddenly. There was heat in my face. My body remembered the way we had moved together. The way we had tumbled and sweated in all the rooms of this house.

  ‘Mark,’ she said, ‘my exquisite boy.’ Her voice was languid, no heat in it. It made me feel constrained, nervous, paralysed. Mocked. Maybe she was still angry about how I had left Cambridge without a word, missing the party that was in my honour. Well, I could explain that at least.

  ‘I take it I’m, ah, surplus to requirements now then?’ Masterson. Sulky.

  ‘Yes, James. Yes, I think you probably are. For the nonce. You’re a brick to let me have the car. An absolute sweetie. I won’t forget.’

  He looked gutted. As well he might. No proper man wants to be called a sweetie. Might as well call him a eunuch. As Anne well knew. Cruel. Not that I cared. Masterson’s presence was a profound insult to me at this moment. A weeping sore.

  There was a ripple of awkward silence as Masterson went to pull his Timberlands on and tie his laces. Timberlands. In red. The idiot.

  When he stood up, he shook my hand again. He gave Anne a moist kiss on her proffered cheek.

  After he’d gone – Christ, he took his time with those laces – Anne sighed and answered the question I absolutely didn’t ask. The question I wouldn’t dream of asking.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, darling, but I didn’t fuck him. Credit me with a little taste. But I did need someone round last night for… well, for reasons. Mostly we played backgammon. Now, you were making coffee I think.’ She nodded to the jar of Nescafe. ‘Not instant, please. Let’s try and maintain some standards even while the barbarians are at the gates. While you’re doing that I’ll go and get decent. Oh, and could you get some paracetamol? I think there’s some in that drawer.’ She indicated the drawer she meant and smiled. I got the full wattage of it this time. The whole wide laughing brightness of her teeth and lips. I found I was smiling too. Maybe I should kiss her now.

  ‘I’m very pleased you’re here you know,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got Bim to thank.’

  ‘Good old Bim.’

  ‘He said you were shagging winos.’

  ‘How silly. A dear man, but what a vulgar imagination he has.’ She went, stepping lightly down the parqueted hall. She seemed stronger with every moment.

  I opened the drawer and there was paracetamol in there all right. Boxes and boxes and boxes of it. Someone had been buying in bulk. Someone was in a lot of pain a lot of the time. Someone’s life was more or less all headache.

  I kept two packets. Threw the rest away. You didn’t keep live ammunition in the house. Spray cans of air freshener should be all the toxic danger you had in a home.

  31

  Ella and Jack watch one police car leave and another one arrive. It’s like a baton change in a relay race at sports day, thinks Jack. He doesn’t say this because he is afraid of whatever nasty thing Ella will say back. She’s been angry nearly all the time these last few days and so has his mum. You have to be so careful what you say in this house now.

  Keeping her eye on the car, Ella is speaking. Jack isn’t sure whether it’s to him or to herself. He’s not sure if she even knows the difference.

  ‘You know what happened yesterday?’ she says. ‘Three policemen watched a little boy drown. He’d broken a window with his football and they were chasing him and he ran into a canal. The police wouldn’t go in and get him. Said it was dangerous. Said there were weeds under the water and that they weren’t allowed to go in after him.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ he says. He pulls at her arm. He wishes she would look at him.

  Ella says, ‘But that’s not the worst thing.’

  Jack wonders what could be worse than this. Thinks this might be the worst thing he has ever been told.

  ‘The worst thing is they wouldn’t let anyone else dive in either. There was a crowd of about a hundred people and the police wouldn’t let anyone go in for him. They all watched him die right in front of them.’

  ‘Is that really true, Ella?’

  ‘Really, really true. Cross my heart. Emmy told me. She was there. She saw it all.’

  Now she looks at Jack.

  ‘How old was the boy?’ he says, his voice just more than a breath.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looks at him for a long beat. ‘About eight I think.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he says.

  ‘I swear,’ she says. ‘They can’t rescue children who are drowning but they can sit outside our house munching all day long.’

  Jack is happier now that he’s pretty sure Ella is making the story up, thinks she was just trying to frighten him. That’s okay. He’s used to that. Jack thinks that maybe there was a boy that fell in the canal but he probably didn’t drown and the police probably didn’t just stand and watch. How could they?

  He peers hard at the shapes in the police car. Sure enough the man police officer is eating some kind of bun. ‘That’s Alex,’ he says, ‘he’s always eating.’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ says Ella.

  32

  I didn’t know if I was meant to follow Anne up the stairs. It was what my blood and muscles wanted, but she was so coolly detached it made me hesitant. I would take nothing for granted. I would wait for an unmistakeable invitation, maybe see how things were at dusk, when the hour between dog and wolf came around. See if we were friends or enemies then.

  In the meantime, I opened windows and gathered up cups, plates, glasses and bottles and took them all through to the kitchen. Soon the sink was full again and there was a platoon of empty wine bottles by the back door.

  By the time Anne came back down the stairs I had thoroughly Mr Sheened the cloakroom and was making a start on the downstairs study. So absorbed in this task was I that I didn’t hear Anne come in and I jumped when she put a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  She was showered, smelling of expensive apricoty cleansers, face immaculate, dressed in jeans and a grey sweater. She looked round the room, her eyes grave. Then she brightened.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the miracle worker?’ she said. ‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day. But, please, please, please stop it. You’re making me feel inadequate. That coffee now? Or shall we be terribly decadent and have wine?’

  ‘You decide.’

  ‘Oh good. I was afraid you’d insist on coffee. Surprisingly puritanical, the young I find. And, actually, I know exactly what we should drink at a time like this.’

  Still no reference to the way we had been with each other just a few short weeks ago. I wondered if maybe it was possible that she was feeling shy too and was relying on alcohol to dissolve this wall t
hat had somehow sprung up between us. It was just about possible.

  We drank a powerful red wine from New Zealand – ‘they’re really getting their shit together over there’ – and Anne smoked and I tried to explain about missing the party but she just flapped her hand in a way that made it clear that we weren’t going to talk about that kind of ancient history.

  I asked her about the car crash. She told the story in a few curt sentences. It was a simple one. An angry woman driving too fast in the rain. An S bend on a country road. A tractor. A hedge. A ditch. A write-off.

  ‘I’ve always been an emotional driver. How I’m feeling in my head is reflected in what happens on the road. But everyone walked away unharmed. And, you know, at the time it was somehow quite exhilarating.’

  ‘Bim says you were over the limit.’

  ‘Four times over, they say. Which leads me to think the limit must be quite shockingly low. God, what a boring little nation of milk-sops we’re becoming. Scared of drink, scared of smoking, scared of every damned thing.’

  She took a deep pull on her fag, and I noticed how her fingers shook as she took it from her mouth. ‘Scared of sex too,’ she said. ‘Have you seen those adverts? The ones with the tombstones on? Everything’s getting very Victorian. Worse, because at least the Victorians had the guts to be hypocrites. This lot, the arseholes in power now, I’m very much afraid they actually believe they’re saving us from ourselves. They genuinely want to Do Good. The self-righteous bastards.’

  ‘You’ll lose your licence. Automatic ban for a year.’

  ‘Frankly, my dear, that’s the least of my worries.’

  ‘Tell me the big worries then. Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  She thought about this. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, on the thin blanket of smoke that hung there, as if it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. When she spoke, it was in a resigned, faraway voice.

  ‘Do you remember how to roll a joint?’

  I did. Like riding a bike it’s not something you forget, and, as I skinned up, Anne told me about Philip Sheldon standing here, in this room, straight-backed, voice even, announcing that not only was he leaving her, he intended to marry Mish Saker, that they were going to start a family.

  ‘That’s how he put it. They were going to start a family. Pompous arse.’

  He’d told her that not only was he having a child with Mish, he hoped to have many more with her, three at least. He told Anne that he would, of course, have to sell both this house and the cottage in France. A shame but there it was. Oh and he’d told her that he’d never been happier. In fact, he believed he’d never been happy at all until he met Mish.

  He’d told her that once the child was born, Mish and he were going to move to the USA, to California, to make a fresh start. To be near the research facilities of the American chemical giant that was going to pay him the insane mega-bucks to work for them.

  They’d found a lovely place. Perfect. Five bedrooms, studies for both Mish and himself. Room to entertain. Oranges, figs and almonds growing wild. Furthermore, and he hoped that Anne would see the sense in this and not make a damn fuss, he intended to stop paying the school fees for Dorcas. But it was entirely reasonable because they wanted to take her with them.

  It’d be perfect for her. She’d go to a local school. Be with her new brother or sister. Have a warm, Californian Disneyland life rather than the chilly, damp Enid Blyton life they had inflicted on her up to now. She’d love it. Anyway, she could always come back for holidays if she wanted. If Anne felt that she could cope.

  Dr Sheldon hoped Anne wouldn’t be selfish enough to stand in their way, but if she did try he was certain that he’d emerge victorious in court, especially given Anne’s recent contretemps with the law. Given her drinking. Given what he was sure any decent judge would see as an unacceptably chaotic lifestyle, her lack of any means of support.

  That was the gist of it.

  ‘He’s going to take everything, you know. Really, I’ll be left with nothing.’

  ‘People get divorced all the time. It’s no big deal these days.’

  ‘Yes. And the women end up broke while the men end up with their new bits of stuff living the life of bloody riley in the California sunshine. I think that is a biggish deal actually. Not to mention, when couples get divorced at least the women usually get the children, but he’s right, he’s going to get Dorcas too. I know he is.’

  She sounded bitter and she gave me a hard, cold look. For that moment it was as though she hated me. But of course it wasn’t me she hated. It was only all men. All women too for that matter. All young women anyway. Then she sighed and her body, which had become tight and hunched, seemed to unfurl slightly. She took a pull on the spliff, offered it to me. I shook my head. I couldn’t have said why, but at that moment, I just didn’t fancy it.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and I felt like I was flunking some crucial test. ‘But at least have some more wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

  She was gone for a good fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes where I tried to distract myself from wondering what was going on here exactly by prowling around the room, taking books off the shelves, stroking the smooth curves of the sculptures, picking up the photo of an anxious-looking, gap-toothed girl in plaits, Dorcas, I supposed.

  Fifteen minutes during which I saw a long medical word on the top letter of a tottering pile of unopened post. It was a word that rang a bell somewhere in the back of my mind. Reminded me I must remember to call home, get the latest on my dad.

  ‘You know, people hate nosy parkers.’ She didn’t really sound annoyed, she actually sounded like she’d got herself together a bit. There was light back in her voice. A kind of quiet music.

  ‘You were a long time.’

  ‘Yes. I went to the cellar and I had trouble deciding. But I think this should hit the spot.’ She poured us each a glass. We toasted one another silently. It was easily the best wine I’d ever tasted. I was only really used to cheap stuff admittedly, but this was a revelation.

  Anne smiled again. She had clocked my startled look.

  ‘Yes, it’s a bit special. I’m glad you can appreciate it. A lot of boys your age wouldn’t. It’s a 1973 Margaux. Philip’s of course. I’m drinking my way through his collection. I’m aware that some will find this petty, but I find that knowing I’m drinking his pension makes each mouthful taste better. Really brings out the fruity, oaky notes I find.’

  She held her glass up, eyeing it critically. The wine was dark, almost inky. ‘Do you think it’s small-minded of me Marko?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you should because it is. But I don’t care.’

  She finished her wine, poured herself another. Offered the bottle to me and I topped up my own glass. It really was bloody lovely. Anne made a deliberate effort now to stretch and relax. She smiled. She said, ‘So, Mark, what am I going to do? Any bright ideas? No? Well, do give it some thought. Set me right.’

  She went on to say how frightened she was, not just of losing her daughter, her home, of being broke. But how she felt physically threatened too.

  ‘It’s why I had poor old Jimmy Masterson round last night. Philip is vicious when he’s crossed. He’s capable of anything.’ She paused for a second. ‘I’m sure he’s got rid of the cats.’

  ‘By got rid of you mean...?’

  ‘Yes. At least they’ve not been around for a while and you’ve met them. Portia and Ophelia aren’t exactly hunter material, are they? Not the type to run off and try their luck in the wild. Soft as butter the pair of them.’ She seemed to come to a decision, straightened up in her chair. Looked me straight in the eye.

  ‘Do you play backgammon, Mark?’

  I shook my head. No backgammon in the Blue Pig when I was growing up – bar billiards, yes. Shove ha’penny, even – but no backgammon.

  ‘Pity. We’ll have to think of something else to d
o, won’t we?’

  33

  The something else turned out to be a walk. My idea. Anne was resistant at first.

  ‘But what’s the point?’ she said, petulant.

  ‘Fresh air is good for you. Walking is a proven mood enhancer.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want my moods enhanced. I think my moods are fine as they are.’

  But in the end she fetched a coat, pulled on knee high Cuban-heeled boots in green leather. Not really boots for walking, but they’d do. We set off out of Selwyn Gardens into Grange Road.

  We ambled past Wolfson College and past Newnham College. We stopped to look at the ducks from the Fen Causeway. We went past the Scott Polar Research Institute with its sculpture by the explorer’s mother in the garden. The sculpture that was titled Youth, and had uncalled-for optimism in every chisel stroke.

  All the time we talked quietly of nothing very much. We pointed out things of interest to each other. Oddly-shaped houses that were surely too narrow to live in. Blue plaques commemorating forgotten architects, forgotten inventors, forgotten poets.

  We imagined what might be going on behind the windows of college rooms. Anne spun detailed and believable stories of lonely mathematicians composing love letters to waif-like beauties. Letters they would never send to girls that would never know these forlorn numbersmiths even existed.

  I imagined a foreign tourist staying in the room where Cromwell had once slept, initial awe fading into prosaic irritation with the ancient plumbing and the mysterious coughing of an old college that made sleep impossible. Noises that could be the heat pipes, but could also be ghosts.

  We made our way up Hills Road to where it became Lenfield Road. We found ourselves in Silver Street and wandered to the Backs, where we watched some pretty Japanese kids attempting to negotiate a punt.

  Those kids were having a lovely time. The girls were shrieking with panicked laughter, as if they were on some scream-if-you-want-to-go-faster fairground waltzer, the boys were trying to be reassuring, commanding. Little admirals. They were having fun. The kind of innocent fun that might end in kisses later. You couldn’t help smiling watching that joyful vignette. I couldn’t anyway. Anne could. This whole scene annoyed her somehow.