Skin Deep

by Liz Nugent

  But every Friday I left the house early with Peter and travelled as far as King’s Cross with him. There, I changed levels and platforms, and caught a train to Southend-on-Sea or to Margate, and walked their piers and sat on the rocks, drinking the sea into my brain, topping up for the week. On my only visit to Canvey Island, I felt utterly cheated that it was not an island at all. Peter laughed at my outrage when I told him. ‘Come on, Delia, Oxford Circus isn’t a circus either!’

  The English Channel could not possibly compete with the wild Atlantic.

  The goats on Inishcrann had been there for as long as anyone could remember, Daddy said. They were distinguishable from all others by their unusual green eyes. They’d be used for milk and meat, but their real value was in their skins. In ancient times, the island women would make gloves of their skin that were then sold to noblemen and their ladies across Ireland and beyond. It was the Quilty family that had the running of the goats.

  From time to time, a goat farmer from the mainland would come over with one of his own nanny-goats for breeding purposes, but our billies were choosy about who they mated with. The foreign nanny-goat wouldn’t always take the fancy of our billy. The farmer would pay good money for the attempt, and if it was unsuccessful would be spoiling for a fight afterwards, feeling cheated.

  When the mating was successful, the nanny was kept on Inishcrann until the first kid was born, and that kid would be kept with the Quilty herd. The nannies gave birth to one or two kids at a time, and it was tough luck if the nanny only had one kid. But a goat born of the Quilty herd was a money-spinner all by itself.

  One year, our best billy-goat went missing. The whole of Inishcrann went searching every cave and crevice to look for that goat, and the Quiltys put up a reward because this lad was fierce valuable and could put out ten kids a year. But the goat was not found and it was thought that maybe a gust had blown him off a cliff, though it had never happened to a goat before, only children.

  It was many months later when news reached Inishcrann that a farmer in the parish of Kilmane had been attacked and eaten by his own billy-goat. It was the talk of the nation, because goats were never flesh-eating creatures, but of course the islanders were always the last to hear of any news at all. That goat had the townland terrorized, and an army of men and boys were unable to catch him or kill him or get within an acre of him.

  The Quiltys, known for their expertise in the way of goats, were requested by the local chieftain to come over and see if they could capture and slaughter this beast with a taste for human flesh. They were offered good money to kill him.

  The Quiltys were a big family in those days, and fourteen of them undertook the expedition to Kilmane to catch that wildest of wild goats. No sooner had they crossed the border into the Cankilly demesne, than the billy-goat appeared to them on the top of a hill. The Quiltys knew immediately by the cut of him that he was their own, and he came to them when called, as docile as the lambs he had grown up with, and they could see the gladness in his green eyes. Further enquiries proved that the eaten farmer was one of those disappointed that his own nanny hadn’t been covered by Inishcrann’s best billy.

  The farmer’s widow was whipped by the Quilty men until she admitted that her husband had rowed across to the island in the dead of night four months earlier and stolen the Quiltys’ prize possession. A fight broke out between the Quilty clan and the local boyos with sticks and knives, but the billy-goat fought on the Quiltys’ side and they sailed home victorious.

  That same billy-goat lived another thirty years and fathered many kids, and when he died the Quiltys, out of respect, did not have him skinned, but buried him instead in their family grave at the south of the island.

  Daddy said that billy knew where he belonged and that being away from home sent him out of his mind. Daddy said people should know where they belonged too, lest they become savage and deranged.

  ‘Everything has its place,’ Daddy used to say, ‘and everyone, too.’

  14

  In those first weeks, I took on my newest name. My husband learned that my real name was not Walsh, the name of my adoptive parents, but O’Flaherty. Now I was to be a Russell. Delia Russell sounded like a woman of significance, and when I received my own credit card with that name on it, I felt like my new identity was confirmed. Peter set about educating me, and I was an enthusiastic student for the first time since my ill-fated Leaving Cert studies. There were to be linen napkins with the place settings at dinner time. I was no longer going to lick my knife. I was to say ‘Peter and I’ and not ‘me and Peter’. I resented Alan and Moira for not having taught me these things.

  Peter told me his friends were shocked when he had told them he was married. He arranged for me to come and meet them after work one evening for Christmas drinks in a wine bar near his office. ‘Maybe pretend you’re twenty-one?’ he said. Of course. We were excellent at pretending. There were seven or eight colleagues and their wives or girlfriends, all in their twenties and early thirties.

  ‘No wonder you kept her a secret,’ said Daniel, Peter’s partner and co-owner of Russell Wilkes, ‘she’s bloody gorgeous. You’re a dark horse.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ I said, smiling sweetly.

  ‘You don’t sound Irish at all,’ said Hannah, Daniel’s wife.

  Peter gave me a sideways wink.

  Daniel laughed at her. ‘You’re Scottish, darling, you’re hardly one to talk.’

  Hannah had bleached blonde hair, bright red lipstick and dark eye make-up. She looked like a rock star in her leopard-skin printed shawl and high heels. I had seen that look on magazine covers, but nobody in Westport ever dressed like that. To look at her, one would think she’d be cockney, but her accent was refined. I noticed after some time that all upper-class Scottish people had distinctly English accents. I thought that I could fit in quite well. We drank champagne for the first time that night, and these new friends toasted the bride and groom. Peter made a speech about how I had always been the love of his life. I gazed warmly into his eyes and played along.

  I loved the taste of champagne, the subtle fizz on my tongue and the dry coating it left on the back of my throat. An older woman, called Vanessa, said it wasn’t healthy to drink too much while pregnant. Peter agreed. He had bought a book on pregnancy and read it constantly, leaving it on the bed, in the kitchen, on the sofa, hoping, I think, that I might pick it up. I thought Vanessa was Peter’s secretary. I had heard him mention her before. In any case, she was a busybody who had no right to opinions on my body, but during the next round of drinks somebody bought me an orange juice. I accepted it politely but did not drink it.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Vanessa, noting my disdain, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, darling, but it’s not good for the little one.’ She reached out to touch my bump, but I recoiled from her touch and ignored her patronizing tone.

  ‘So do you work for Daniel and Peter too?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, I’m an investor,’ she said, laughing.

  I looked to Peter, but he and Sam and Daniel were smoking cigars at the far end of the bar.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked. ‘How did you meet Peter?’

  ‘Oh, our families have known each other for years. I’m afraid I haven’t quite joined the workforce yet. I’ve only finished university.’

  ‘I see, you must have good genes, you still look like a child! What did you study?’

  ‘English and philosophy at Trinity,’ I said, because that’s what I’d heard Katie O’Malley was doing.

  ‘Well, darling, my advice to you is, as soon as that baby is born, get yourself a nanny and get a job. Women need to be in the workforce these days, you know. We have a lot to offer. It’s no good being dependent on a man any more. Find something that you’re interested in and work at it. And if being a stay-at-home mum floats your boat, that’s fine. Just make sure you have your own bank account. Motherhood is a job too.’

  ‘Actually, I plan to work in publishing.’ There had been a doc
umentary on television the previous evening about publishing.

  ‘Well, that’s simply marvellous. Brains as well as beauty? You have the complete package.’ She called over to Peter, ‘You never told me she was clever as well. I’m impressed.’

  Peter looked at me, and nodded. ‘Oh yes, she’s a smart one all right.’

  I was the one who was impressed. All of these women were well groomed, with perfect hair and painted nails. The men wore sharp suits and good shoes.

  Afterwards, at home, Peter said, ‘Why did you tell Vanessa you went to Trinity?’

  ‘Well, I have three years to account for, since I’m supposed to be twenty-one.’

  He was embarrassed. ‘Right. Good thinking. I’ll get you the English texts so that you can swot up on your Joyce and Shakespeare. Nobody’s ever going to ask you about philosophy, and even if they do, all you need to say is that you’re a devotee of Nietzsche. They’ll be so shocked, that will shut them up.’

  We laughed, and it felt comfortable for the first time. Like we were actually on the same team in a game.

  ‘Who the hell is Nee— who?’

  ‘He famously said God is dead. I happen to agree.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God.’ It felt daring to say it.

  ‘Really? I have a most unusual wife! Can we please not go to Mass every Sunday then? I only went last week because I thought you wanted to. I’ve only been into a church for weddings and funerals since I left Westport six years ago. Don’t tell my mother.’

  ‘We’re terrible sinners,’ I said, grinning.

  ‘You’re an absolute Jezebel,’ he said, and we fell to kissing, more passionately than we had before. That exotic name again. I felt a genuine warmth for him, but then he ruined it.

  ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘What?’ I had seen letters in Harry’s handwriting hidden at the bottom of the bin. Peter needn’t have worried.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned Harry. It’s as if he never existed. I honestly thought you would hate being dragged to London, that breaking up with Harry would be upsetting for you, particularly under the circumstances.’

  ‘What is the point of being upset about Harry? I can’t change anything now.’

  ‘But you were going out with him for over two years. You must have … have cared for him. Do you miss him?’

  I thought about it for a split second too long. I didn’t want an argument. ‘Why would I think about him? I am pregnant with your baby and my future is with you.’

  My answer seemed to puzzle Peter, but in a positive way.

  ‘And one day, you might love me?’

  What is this ‘love’ that everybody is so obsessed by? There have been people I enjoyed spending time with, people who made me laugh sometimes, people who have taken care of me, fed and clothed me, but am I expected to reward them with declarations of love at every turn? I don’t know what it is. The only person I ever had strong feelings for was my father. I loved him. But if Daddy felt the same way about me, why did he shoot himself? I don’t think love is useful.

  I smiled at Peter, and he kissed me again.

  Christmas came and I had to go shopping for proper maternity clothes. On my first spree I had bought clothes one size bigger, but now nothing fitted across my chest either. I was nearly halfway through the pregnancy, but although I felt relatively healthy, the baby hurt me sometimes with its kicking and pressing down on my bladder. My breasts had almost doubled in size and there was no hiding the bump any more. People stood to let me sit down on the Tube or the bus. I hated that kind of attention and spurned their courtesy, relishing their embarrassment when they thought I was merely overweight.

  Peter sent home extravagant Christmas gifts to his parents, and a tweed jacket to Harry, a jacket that I knew Harry would never have worn, even if nothing had happened between them, or us. Peter bought Christmas cards and stamps and gave me a list of his friends and colleagues. I patiently wrote ‘with best wishes from Peter and Delia Russell’ on each card, but I didn’t send any to Westport and did not spend any time worrying about how Moira and Alan would be spending Christmas. We had Christmas lunch in the Strand Palace Hotel. Peter said that next year, the three of us would go to the Dorchester. It took me a moment to realize who the third person was. Peter had got a good bonus and said that we really should look at buying a house soon, as I would shortly be in my nesting period. Every time he mentioned the pregnancy, I gave him the silent treatment.

  ‘I know you’re scared,’ he said, ‘but you’ll feel differently when the baby is born.’

  15

  In the new year, we began in earnest to look for a new home. Peter found one in East Finchley, not too far from the first one we had viewed. It had a large back garden but the house was probably the same size as Alan and Moira’s, not nearly as big or grand as Peter’s family home. I did not hide my disappointment.

  ‘When exactly are you going to be a millionaire?’ I said.

  ‘Not yet. We’re only getting going. This house will do to start. You can’t compare London prices to Westport. This is one of the most expensive cities in the world to live in.’

  ‘Well then, let’s move!’

  Peter laughed. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Home, not Westport, I understand that we can’t go back there, but Sligo, or Connemara, or even Donegal, somewhere on the west coast.’

  ‘Delia, be realistic. I’m a stockbroker with my own up-and-coming firm. London is where it’s at. There is nothing to compare it with in Ireland. I’m never going home. We’re never going home. You are going to get used to it, I promise. Once the baby is born, you’ll make friends with other young mums.’

  I started to walk out of the room, but he put out his arm to stop me. ‘I still get the feeling that you are just visiting sometimes, but you’re my wife and this is your home.’

  ‘I can’t … I, I miss the sea.’

  ‘We can go on holidays. We can go for weekends to Brighton or Eastbourne, or wherever you like.’

  Peter was trying to keep me happy, but he was also incredibly busy. He worked a lot of weekends and I spent a lot of time on my own. There was no point in me trying to get a job in my late stage of pregnancy. He had encouraged me to join antenatal groups and bridge clubs and cooking classes, but I preferred to spend my time on trains to the coast every chance I got. I kept these trips to myself.

  Eventually, I found another house, detached, on a third of an acre in Ealing. Peter was reluctant. ‘It’s way out of our league. Maybe in ten years’ time, but we can’t afford this now.’

  I forced him to come and look at it with me. The two reception rooms were spacious, the garden was beautiful. This is where I wanted to live.

  ‘It’s beautiful, of course it is, but we can’t …’

  I sulked for a week. I took the train to Brighton and checked into a hotel for a night. I knew Peter would be going out of his mind with worry. He was so relieved when I returned that he immediately capitulated. ‘Fine, you’ll get your house, but we’ll have to cut back on everything else. You got used to that credit card too quickly. No more shopping.’

  Moving house took up time, the bedrooms needed to be decorated, furniture needed to be sourced. Peter sent away for catalogues, but I couldn’t decide, so I hired an interior designer, Isabelle, recommended by Daniel’s wife, Hannah. Peter hit the roof. ‘What are you doing? I told you, we don’t have the money for this, Delia! We have a baby coming and that’s not going to be cheap either.’

  ‘I can’t un-hire her. What would Hannah say?’ I knew that Peter was the brains behind Russell Wilkes. Daniel Wilkes came from old money, and was Eton-educated. His name opened doors in the City, but it was Peter’s powers of persuasion and ambition that kept them going. I don’t think Daniel even worked full-time. He was more of a figurehead for the firm, but Peter still had to keep on the right side of him, so he understood why I couldn’t renege on the deal I had made with Hannah’s friend.

  The designer, Isabelle, made all of
the decisions for us. I liked her immediately. She dressed in bright clothes and wore long dangly earrings. After our first meeting, she produced a bottle of champagne from her bag to seal the deal. Peter left her and me to work out the finer details of what would go into each room. She could see that I didn’t particularly care for a pastel-coloured baby’s room, so she went ahead and had it painted olive green with recessed bookshelves. Peter ordered a cot, but I closed the door on the room and ignored it.

  Isabelle had extremely good taste and was not remotely judgemental. She had had two abortions and felt no guilt whatsoever. She was a self-confessed party girl, and I learned quickly never to phone her before twelve o’clock. Over the course of eight weeks, we became friendly. She and I and Hannah went to each other’s homes and on nights out together. Isabelle had grown up in a large country house, but now she lived in a tiny flat in Mayfair and declared herself a born-again virgin.

  Isabelle told me that Hannah was jealous of me. Hannah had always been the centre of attention until I came along, but now, everyone in their circle of friends was talking about me. That cheered me. I could tell that Peter did not quite approve of my friendship with Hannah and Isabelle. It was annoying because he had encouraged me to get to know people. He thought they were a bad influence with their afternoon drinking and smoking, but as the pregnancy progressed, I began to withdraw more from their company anyway.

  I hated the way my body was changing, hated the swollen ankles, the constant weeing, the acid reflux and the sore breasts. My hair was thinning and my legs seemed to twitch all night and keep me awake. I suffered from excruciating pelvic pain from time to time. The doctor insisted all of this was normal. Peter did his best to keep me comfortable. He ran a bath for me every evening and bought a tape of whale music which was supposed to soothe me. I became more bad-tempered as time went on. I gave up on housework and lay on the sofa in the afternoon, watching black and white films, often sneaking a little brandy from our drinks cupboard. I hadn’t read any of the baby books that Peter had bought.