He stood there, transfixed by her skin in the candlelight. Wonderingly, he put out his hands and cupped her breasts. They were small and firm; their hard nipples pressed against his palms. Though he was aroused, Colin didn’t want to move. He wanted to hold this moment for ever.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. Moving away, she slipped under the duvet and held out her hand. ‘Come in here.’
Salamanders occasionally have difficulty shedding their skins. Place them in a container thickly planted with tradescantia and carry out frequent water changes. There they perhaps will succeed in casting the skin among the tangle of plants and roots.
If snakes have problems in shedding their skin, administer a lukewarm bath for several hours. You must ensure that they receive sufficient air through the nostrils. Weak or chilled animals should not be subjected to such a procedure. By oiling with cod liver oil or any other oil, the skin can sometimes be softened and removed. This must be done very carefully, particularly in the head region and on the eyes.
That night Colin sloughed off his past. It lay there, an empty skin. He stepped out of it, into a new life.
The wedding was fixed for January. The speed of events left Colin breathless. Natalie took everything in hand, fixing the register office and a party afterwards at somebody’s uncle’s restaurant, arranging the mortgage (a hundred per cent) on a starter home (appliances included) in a new development out on the Selby Road.
Colin sleepwalked through it all. Dazzled with love, sluggish with satisfied desire, he surrendered himself to the current. He lived for the nights, when the world closed down and he held Natalie in his arms under her striped duvet. So this was what he had been missing! He felt cocky and proud, he felt he had joined the human race. And yet he pitied other people, for nothing they experienced could approach the intensity of his passion for Natalie – and hers, it seemed, for him.
For she seemed to love him; that was the miracle. His mother was suspicious. ‘She’s after something, that young woman.’
‘Her name’s Natalie, Mam.’
‘What’s she want from you?’
‘She loves me!’
‘It’s not your money because you haven’t got any. And it’s not your blooming reptile collection, she’s not that daft.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘She’s an ambitious hussy, what’s she doing with you?’
‘Please try to like her, Mam. For my sake.’
To tell the truth, he could hardly be bothered about his mother – he, who had been her devoted son. Love blinded him to her feelings. He became, for a short while, uncharacteristically ruthless.
‘Think of it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No cages cluttering up your house—’
‘Our house.’
‘No terrapins in the sink. Remember the fuss you kicked up about the toad spawn?’
‘It was in the ruddy bath—’
‘I’ll visit you every week, that’s a promise. You’ll be fine.’
He kissed her lightly on the forehead – he, who never kissed her!
‘She a local lass? What’s her family?’
Where did Natalie come from? Colin hadn’t asked. She had mentioned moving from place to place, mostly in the Leeds–Halifax area. What little he knew about her parents seemed unsuitable for his mother’s ears. He could picture Peggy’s face. Her mum, she’s had kids with four different men. She’s run away to Dundee with a fella half her age and her dad sells drugs on a Thai beach.
‘Her mum’s called Janey, she lives in Scotland at present. Her dad’s a businessman, he works in the Far East.’
His mam paused, taking this in. ‘What’s the hurry?’ she asked. ‘She pregnant?’
Colin assured her to the contrary. He already felt foreign – new clothes, bought by Natalie; a new, secret existence his mother couldn’t penetrate. Had she ever felt like this about his dad? The thought made him queasy.
Whatever her misgivings, Peggy was built to soldier on. She put a brave face on it and even had her hair permed for the big day.
The wedding was on a Saturday. Natalie drove round to Colin’s house, to collect him. His mother, dressed in her best coat and hat, was sitting on the edge of the settee; she had been sitting there, motionless, for some time.
With Natalie’s entrance the room lit up; her presence switched it on. Colin marvelled at her beauty. She wore a silky trouser suit thing with a flower in its buttonhole. His drab past was shunted into a siding; it was redundant. His real journey started here, at this moment. Somehow he still hadn’t believed that she would turn up, that she would go through with it. She sat down on the arm of a chair and smiled at them both. ‘Ready?’
‘You’re wearing a ring already,’ said Peggy. ‘I noticed it the first day.’
Natalie looked at her hand. ‘I forgot.’ The ring was made of plaited wire. She tried to pull it off. ‘It’s nothing. I just wear it for fun.’
‘On your wedding finger?’
She was still tugging. ‘Got some scissors?’
‘I can do better than that.’ Colin hurried out and returned with his toolbox. Opening it, he produced a pair of pliers. ‘Sure you want me to cut it?’
She nodded. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a bit of wire.’
So he cut it off, snip snip snip. He did it with great delicacy, for his huge hands were surprisingly sensitive. He could fix wiring; he could swab, with a moistened cotton bud, the gummed-up nostrils of an ailing iguana.
And an hour later, in Leeds Register Office, Colin slipped on her wedding ring.
A book was produced and she wrote, with a fountain pen, Mrs Natalie Taylor in her best schoolgirl writing.
The party was held in a Greek restaurant. Natalie’s mother Janey, who had been tracked down to Dundee, had arrived late. She had a tan – how had she got that, living on benefits? – and had dyed her hair a startling shade of purple.
Draining her glass, she stared at Colin. ‘That one?’ she spluttered, her throaty laugh startlingly loud. She and her boyfriend Greg were already merry, having stopped to celebrate on the journey south. ‘Blimey. No wonder he looks like all his Christmases have come at once.’
‘He’s really nice, Mum. He wants to look after me.’
‘But you’re not that sort of girl.’
‘I always have been,’ said Natalie. ‘You just didn’t notice.’
She looked at the line of grey along her mother’s parting, where the purple was growing out. Where were you, she thought, when I needed you? She felt a rush of warmth for Colin, who had restored order into her life; it was like starting out again, but properly this time. Colin would never betray her and she loved him for this. She realized: I want to make him happy. It was such an unfamiliar sensation, it startled her.
‘Oh well.’ Janey raised her glass. ‘Here’s to you, babe.’ She was overcome with her smoker’s cough.
In a sudden spasm of family feeling Janey had brought along one of Natalie’s half-brothers: Lawrence. He had been removed from Care for the day as this was a special occasion. Lawrence was a cheerful, coffee-coloured boy whom Natalie hadn’t seen for years, and now his voice was breaking and he would soon be a man.
Colin clutched Natalie’s hand. The appearance of this motley little family made his love for her all the stronger. She was vulnerable, a frail vessel adrift and he was the harbour. Where was her parents’ sense of responsibility? He wouldn’t be like that. He would stay married to Natalie for ever, they would grow old side by side.
They made their way from one table to the next, greeting friends. The man she had lived with, Mr Motorbike, hadn’t been invited. Colin would have thumped him. No – he would have pitied him, for losing her. No – he would have hugged him in gratitude. Colin’s head swam; he wasn’t used to drink. Nor had he ever been the host of a party; it was as novel a sensation as being a bridegroom. Both, for a moment, felt equally momentous. Strangers shook his hand; someone refilled his glass. Men envied him, he could feel it. Who could not envy him this woman of experience and spir
it, so radiant, so vibrantly alive, whose every movement was entrancing – the way she turned her slender neck to blow smoke past someone’s face, the way she leaned over the table to pluck an olive? But he could feel, too, a generosity of spirit, for it was the big day of his life and they were happy for him.
As time passed, the room grew blurred and voices boomed, as if underwater. He saw his mother gazing at a shish kebab as if it was about to explode. He stood up, to go over to her, and sat down again. He smiled at everyone, oblivious to the undercurrent in the room.
He’s ever so sweet, but . . .
Maybe he’s a great fuck . . .
You must be joking . . .
Why so quickly? She pregnant or something?
She’s older than him, maybe her biological clock’s ticking . . .
There were fifty guests at Andy’s Taverna: Colin’s mates and schoolfriends, with whom he had loyally kept in touch; Natalie’s friends from college, friends from other offices where she had worked in the past, the girls from NT. The same thought passed through all their minds: what on earth did she see in him? But then this often happened in marriage: the office stud choosing the dumpy home-maker, mismatches of this kind. Maybe people thought this looking at their own partners, love being far too mysterious for logic.
Natalie sat beside him, backed by a trellis plaited with plastic vine leaves. With her fork she tenderly fed her bridegroom chunks of kebab. Pointing to her hair, he whispered to her; she laughed and shook her head like a dog come in from the rain. Confetti spilled on to the table. She looked exhilarated; she wore the look of those in love, the unmistakable look of somebody guarding a secret: I know something the rest of you don’t.
A honeymoon was out of the question. ‘We’ll have one later,’ said Natalie. ‘When we can afford it.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Oh, we’ll manage it somehow.’
Sunday they spent in bed, only emerging to fry some chicken nuggets and drink Red Bull for their hangovers. The heating was on high. Natalie liked it that way but Colin felt suffocated, not to mention the expense. While she slept he opened the window. Wind whistled in and blew their wedding cards off the chest of drawers.
So this is marriage, he thought. I am a married man. When I walk into a room she’ll be there. Or she’ll be in another room, doing whatever she does. He thought of the tune from Friends, a show she loved: I’ll be there for you. I’ll hear her moving about, the miracle of her, the miracle that she’s alive, on this earth. And that it’s me she wants.
He picked the cards off the floor and closed the window again. He climbed back into bed. Cupped around his wife, he listened to the banshee wails that echoed from the multistorey car park. As he fell asleep they became the curlews, calling each other across in the place where she had first kissed him. Their cries echoed across the moors that were so near yet so far; they echoed down the years of his future.
The rains had ceased, long ago; the floods receded. Village high streets had re-emerged and life had returned to normal. That dark, miserable autumn was just a memory now.
On Monday Natalie was back at work. She sat there, a married woman, twisting her slightly loose wedding ring round her finger. Somebody had stuck a yellow Post-it on her screen: HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU, MRS TAYLOR. It must be from Phillip; Casablanca was his favourite film, in fact he had promised to lend her the video. But she had forgotten about Phillip. That was all behind her now, in another life.
Safe behind her frosted glass she slit open envelopes one by one. The cheques were all made out to NuLine Telecommunications plc. Finally, after thirty or so, she pulled out a cheque for £269.23. It was written to N. T.
Natalie held it in her hand. She held it gingerly, as if it might give her an electric shock. Its chequeness was intense; it was as if she had never held a cheque in her hand until this moment. This was the buzz of crime, the kick of it. She felt fizzingly alive to her fingertips.
The customers (Mr and Mrs L. Dimshaw) had used black biro. Natalie looked around – an instinctive, criminal gesture – but why should anyone be watching? Nobody could see her anyway, with partitions either side. She reached into her bag and rummaged around for her collection of pens at the bottom. She lifted them out and selected a black ballpoint.
Carefully, copying the writing on the cheque, she altered the N.T. to N. Taylor.
Then she slipped the cheque into her handbag.
PART TWO
Chapter One
MORNING LIGHT GLIMMERED through the curtains. The bedroom floor was strewn with clothes: tights, knickers, tracksuit bottoms. Beside the bed a digital clock glowed: 10.45. The walls were covered with posters: girl bands, boy bands, two posters of O-Zone and one featuring Damon alone – skin-tight leather and a sneer that said Everything I want, I get.
It was March. Outside it was cold, the clammy grey sky clamped down on the city. The bedroom, however, was stifling; its occupant liked it that way. Traffic thundered past, down in the street; it was used as a short cut between the motorway and Manchester city centre, it was always busy. A police car screeched past, its siren wailing.
In the bedroom, however, all was quiet. The sleeper, a humped shape under the duvet, exhaled a snore. The duvet stirred as she shifted her position. Young women, dreaming of love, can sleep their lives away.
A tap at the door. No response. Another tap, a little louder, and a woman stepped into the room.
‘Pet? It’s time to get up.’
The duvet moved. There was a groan, and a face emerged.
‘Your dad wants you downstairs; Lennox is going to be late.’
Chloe groaned and turned over.
‘I’m sorry,’ said her mother, and closed the door.
Chloe climbed slowly out of bed. She was not an unhelpful girl; in fact, she was generally good-natured. An amiable lass, was how she was regarded by the regulars. She just found it an effort to get out of bed. The air was thick; it was like soup, to be moved through sluggishly. And sooner or later, as part of the dressing process, she would have to come face to face with herself in the mirror. While she was still dozy, Damon whispered, I want you I want you. Once she was awake, however, and gazing hopelessly at her wardrobe full of clothes, the girl bands (Lurex, Mob Effect) would be looking at her contemptuously from their posters. In your dreams, said their glossy lips. Lose some weight, darling.
Chloe wasn’t fat; just big-boned. Besides, men liked girls with some flesh on them. Waifs were yesterday’s news. That was what Chloe told herself as she made her way to the bathroom, locked the door and lowered herself on to the toilet. The seat creaked.
On the wall hung a framed collage of photographs: herself as a baby; herself aged eight, dressed as an angel in the St Cuthbert’s Nativity play; herself aged eleven, holding up a rope of seaweed on the beath at Morecambe. Her dad had taken the photos; there were more of them, a drawerful somewhere. None of them were recent.
Chloe’s eyes filled with tears. She tore off some toilet paper and bunched it in her hand.
Downstairs, David was opening up. As he unlocked the door he heard the clunk as Sheila put ashtrays on the tables. As usual it was she, his wife, who had cleaned up and mopped the floor. David thought irritably: Where’s my lump of a daughter? Does she expect her mother to do all the work? Chloe was twenty-one; was the girl going to snooze her life away?
The bar smelt of stale cigarette smoke, the odour of his working life. He stood outside, on the pavement, breathing in the air. A Texas Homecare lorry thundered past. Every morning David stood here for a few moments before his first customer arrived (Archie Bacon, inevitably).
Opposite, Mr Hassan stood outside his shop, Europa Food and Wine. Next to it was an electrical repair shop belonging to Mr Hassan’s cousin, and next to that a computer shop belonging to the cousin’s brother; the family had taken over the street. David thought: If only Pakistanis drank, if only there were a verse in the Koran extolling the virtures of alcoholic beverages, t
hen he would be a rich man. There was a rush of office workers at lunchtime and, briefly, at six, but his customers were mainly of pensionable age, men who had lived in these few streets of Manchester all their lives. He was fond of them. As Sheila said: ‘They might be old lags, but they’re our old lags.’
David stood in the cavernous street; it was part of a one-way system and the traffic funnelled through as if blown by a giant bellows. Dwarfed by commercial premises, the Queen’s Head was the standard Victorian public house: etched glass, fancy plasterwork, a building whose charm was thrown into relief by the sixties office blocks that loomed up on either side of it. Sheila had planted daffodils in the window-boxes. She was a born home-maker; wherever they lived, she would settle in and make do. She was a placid woman, easily contented. ‘Well, one of us has to be,’ she said.
For David was a turbulent man, a prey to his emotions. Today he was seized with irritation. He looked up; his daughter’s curtains were still closed. What was the matter with the girl? At her age he was working at two jobs, moonlighting from one to play in a band, drinking all night, getting stoned, getting laid, composing songs to girls whose faces he had long ago forgotten and burning up the motorways in his old MG. Was Chloe going to do nothing with her life?
Right on cue (eleven o’clock) Archie Bacon appeared, hobbling down the street accompanied by his bull terrier. David folded up his paper and went inside. Sheila was on the phone. She stood behind the bar, polishing glasses as she spoke, the receiver wedged between her shoulder and her ear. There was something girlish about the way she did this; suddenly the years fell away and he saw her as she had been then, the first time they met. She was dancing with her baby sister, holding both her hands and pumping them up and down as her sister jumped about. The floor was filled with families – parents, teenagers. It was the last night of the holiday, Saturday, and the atmosphere had briefly revved up a notch, as it did on the final evening. Just for a couple of numbers, everyone took to the dance floor, but it was Sheila’s gaze that David held as he belted ‘Wild Thing’ into the mike. You make my heart sing. She wore a green dress and a necklace made of white plastic shells that bounced up and down as she danced.