‘I like the colour,’ said Jenny.
‘And it’s high time you were back in bed.’ Helen took refuge in scolding her. She propelled Jenny towards the door. ‘Matt, don’t stay up all night if you can help it.’
She left him with a feeling of emptiness and bewilderment. He’d neither won nor lost, but could he really talk to her now? As for trying to sell the skins, it had been a passing idea, nothing more. Now he’d have to go through the motions at least, if only to avoid being shunted off to a mental home, certified insane.
With a sharp knife he removed the heads of the two worms, then slit them down the belly and began cleaning them out, dumping the guts and bones on an old newspaper. The stench from the gobbets of half-digested meat made him feel sick. As thoroughly as he could, he cleaned the skins, trying to remember what he’d learned a few years ago while working on a short film about taxidermy. It hadn’t been much.
When he went up to bed, Helen was still awake. She lay with the light on, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes red. An open paperback lay on the rug within reach, but he guessed it had only been a pretence at reading. She didn’t even turn her head as he came into the room.
Stooping awkwardly under the low rafters, he got undressed and slipped into bed. No response when he leaned across to kiss her. He switched the light out.
Helen was breathing unevenly. Outside, the breeze quietly rustled among the trees. A dog barked somewhere far away. From the cottage came the occasional creak as it settled down.
He reached out for her, thinking he should make a gesture at least. She rolled over towards him, snuggling into his arms and sobbing unrestrainedly. No point in saying anything. What good could words do? He held her close. Gradually the tears eased; the crisis passed.
She was the one who started to make love, desperately searching in the darkness for his mouth, forcing her tongue between his lips, digging her fingers into him as though trying to unbury something she’d lost.
Gently he caressed her, but she broke impatiently away from him, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the nightdress over her head. To see better, she opened the curtains and stood for a few seconds at the window, her full breasts in silhouette against the starlit sky. Then she crawled back to his side of the bed.
For just over a week now he’d been out of hospital; on his first night home they’d attempted to make love, a perfunctory ritual with neither of them very interested. But this was different.
She found his hardened sex, running her spread fingers over it, moving up to his stomach, then down again; up to his ribs, exploring him with her hands, her lips, her tongue, till at last he swung over her, towered above her – her face expectant – and lowered himself into her.
She moaned and clung to him. ‘Matt … Matt…’
And it was more than mere sexual pleasure. He could just see her eyes in the dim light. The barriers which had grown between them, neither knew how, began to dissolve. They recognized each other at last. Turned back the clock, or so it seemed. The old firm…
They had breakfast next morning out in the garden, peeling off their sweaters as the warm sun dissipated the remaining wisps of sea mist. Maybe she was right, Matt was thinking; maybe his mind had become obsessed with sewer worms. And what was so different about them, after all? Nature contained many a threat. Puff adders, rattlesnakes, spitting cobras… Mankind had learned to live with them all.
The quiet was shattered by the splutter of a motorbike approaching through the lane. One final roar announced the rider’s virility before he switched off the engine and came striding through the gate: a boy of about nineteen, swaggering, assertive, with what looked like a knife scar down one cheek.
‘Telegram.’
He handed it over and sauntered off again, revving his engine several times before letting in the clutch and throwing up a shower of dirt in the lane.
‘From Jimmy Case,’ said Matt, showing it to Helen. ‘Wants me to ring him.’
‘If it’s work, tell him you can’t do it. You’re not ready yet.’
‘Depends what it is, doesn’t it?’
They had no phone at the cottage, so he would have to go down to the post office. On the way he would pass the craft shop. No harm in trying, he thought. Without saying anything to Helen or Jenny he went into the shed and wrapped the two rolled-up worm skins in a sheet of old newspaper.
When he came out, Helen was standing by the kitchen door. She had a resigned look on her face.
‘I’ll see if they’re interested,’ he called out, tucking the parcel under his arm. ‘Shan’t be long.’
But he didn’t hurry; it wasn’t that sort of day. The sun had already taken the early morning chill off the air and the little fishing town was settling into a slow, lazy rhythm. Swarms of tiny flies hovered above the scattered patches of dog-shit and decaying rubbish in the lane between the houses. He brushed them away from his face. Even the stream seemed subdued.
As he turned into the cobbled street he glimpsed the sea beyond the harbour, dazzling like pure silver.
At the post office he found the telephone occupied by a large, buxom woman who gave the impression she’d settled down for a good long chat. Well, Jimmy could wait. He turned back up the road towards the craft shop.
The string of open sandals was already hanging outside the door and the girl was rearranging the display in the window. She’d a slight sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, he noticed. Quick eyes with long lashes. Full red lips, without lipstick. Today she was in a plain green dress of some rough folk-weave material, drawn in at the waist by a cord.
A bell tinkled as Matt pushed open the door. She looked round and smiled at him.
‘These things are always untidy!’ she laughed, pushing a wisp of hair back. She wore little cockleshell earrings, but her
hands looked practical. ‘Customers never put them back properly. Never buy any, either.’
‘What do they buy?’
‘Oh, sandals mostly. And sun hats.’ She paused, then added disconcertingly. ‘And what can I sell you? A belt? A key-case? Wallet? Look around. Take your time.’
‘I really need some advice.’
A quick expression of disappointment. ‘Oh, if it’s accommodation you need, I’m afraid—’
‘It’s this,’ he interrupted her. He pulled off the newspaper wrapping and unrolled one of the worm skins across the counter. Its colours sparkled with life.
‘Oh! Oh, it’s absolutely gorgeous!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘But what is it? I’ve never seen anything like it before!’
‘D’you think there might be a sale for this sort of skin? I mean, I imagine you do most of this leather-work yourself?’
‘Mm,’ she nodded. ‘But I wonder how easy this would be to work? It’s some kind of snake, is it?’
‘In a way.’ He unrolled the second skin. ‘Unusual, aren’t they?’
‘Very.’ She picked one up, fingered it, examined it from both sides, then took it to the door to see it in direct sunlight. ‘Not well prepared, are they? Somebody who didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘Me,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘But I’ve three more I haven’t skinned yet. Do them yourself if you’re interested.’
‘How much?’
‘What d’you suggest?’
‘I’d be taking a risk.’
‘I’ve taken a few already, getting them. They’re sewer worms. Heard of them?’
She had. For the first time she seemed to notice his two missing fingers; then she glanced up at his face and suddenly flushed with embarrassment. ‘You’re that cameraman, aren’t you? It was in the local paper – and how you’d bought the old fisherman’s cottage up the hill. I’m sorry, I should’ve recognized you.’ Her face reddened again, as though she’d said the wrong thing.
‘What about the skins?’
‘I’ll be frank. It depends how they turn out. I’ll not know till I’ve tried.’ She hesitated. Then, in a rush, she admitted it’d been a bad summer so far, she couldn’t risk laying out money on them, but if he’d accept a percentage – ‘Twenty-five?’
‘Maybe I’ll shop around a bit.’ He began rolling them up again.
‘There’s nowhere else in Westport.’
‘London?’
‘Make me an offer,’ she invited.
‘Fifty-fifty and no haggling. I get the skins, as many as you need, and you do the rest.’ He remembered the worms’ hard little eyes staring intelligently at him in the sewer; there was something satisfying about the thought of fishing them out one by one to be made into decorative belts or women’s evening purses. ‘Only I’d expect you to peddle them around Harrods and Liberty’s, not only down here.’
For a moment she regarded him pensively; then suddenly she grinned with a flash of white teeth, welcoming the challenge. The tip of her tongue appeared for a tantalizing second. ‘My name’s Fran,’ she introduced herself. ‘Frances Whyte.’
‘It’s agreed, then?’
‘Agreed.’
In October that year there was a heat wave. The teachers were on strike in Middlehampton, otherwise Tim and Annie would both have been in school. As it was, they walked disconsolately along the unkempt grass verge running the length of the high wall which surrounded The Cedars and wondered what to do. During the summer holidays there’d been no problem. They’d found a spot where they could get over the wall quite easily; the house was shuttered and closed up; no one had bothered them.
To a stranger’s eye, they might easily have been twins. Tim’s hair was straight, and longer than Annie’s; hers was curly. But they were both ten years old, the same height, dressed in identical blue T-shirts and faded jeans. For as long as they could remember they’d lived next door to each other.
The garden of The Cedars had been ideal for them, with plenty of trees as well as lawns, an orchard and a vegetable patch which an old gardener came in to tend once or twice a week. They’d built a rough shelter for when it rained; stole tomatoes from the greenhouse when they were thirsty; connected up the hosepipe when the sun was too hot and pranced about naked in the spray. Occasionally they’d talked about filling the empty swimming pool, but never risked it.
Now the owner was back.
On the first day of the strike they’d gone over the wall as usual but immediately had to duck down behind some bushes at the sound of voices. When they’d peeped out they’d seen a bronzed, active-looking man in light fawn trousers and a black open-necked shirt practising putting shots on the newly-mown lawn. A brand-new Jaguar, vivid red, reflected the brilliant sunshine glaringly on the drive.
‘Something in the City,’ Tim’s father had said, whatever
that meant. ‘Stinking rich. Spends his summers swanning around the Med on a yacht.’
Tim and Annie whispered together hurriedly and decided to beat a retreat, but as they moved he spotted them. In a loud, imperious voice he demanded to know what they thought they were doing, didn’t they realize this was private property, they were trespassing, it would serve them right if he set the dog on them. Tim took a step forward, defending himself hotly, declaring they weren’t harming anything, they weren’t stealing,
honestly
…
A girl appeared behind the man, inquiringly. She wore a black bikini and long, blonde hair down to her shoulders. Beyond, Tim noticed the unaccustomed sparkle of the water in the filled swimming pool.
‘Darling, let them go. They’ve learned their lesson!’ Her voice was soft with a touch of laughter in it; as she looked at Tim and Annie her lips twitched.
‘Right, but don’t let me catch you here again!’ the man bawled, and he stood watching them as they climbed out the same way they’d come in.
As he remembered it two days later Tim’s lips tightened. They’d known it couldn’t last for ever but the man, whoever he was, had no need to shout at him like that. He stared at the wall. Somewhere on the other side… His foot caught in a tangle of grass and fern; he kicked it free, savagely.
‘We ought to get our own back,’ said Annie, speaking his thoughts. ‘And I know how.’
‘How then?’
‘Biters!’ She added: ‘They’d make ’em jump, and nobody could prove it was us.’
She explained her plan.
Tim’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. ‘That’d show ’em!’ he approved grimly. ‘That’d just show ’em!’
‘Make ’em jump!’ Annie repeated.
They dashed back home, excited, for their wellies and fishing nets. Tim appropriated a large glass jar from the garden shed; he tied some string around its neck to make a handle.
‘Where are you off to?’ his mother demanded, leaning out of the bedroom window, her face harassed as usual.
‘Out!’ he called back.
They’d first come across the tiny green worms they’d dubbed ‘biters’ one day back in the Easter holidays when they’d had to look after Annie’s younger sister, Joan. That was a bore as usual, specially when she’d insisted on ‘exploring’. They’d decided on the woods beyond the rubbish dump.
The village where they lived was already part suburb, swallowed up by Middlehampton where their fathers worked. In one direction were farms, with miles of cabbages and row upon row of greenhouses; in the other a petrol station with broken, rusting cars in an oil-stained field behind it, and the municipal rubbish dump which they skirted in Indian file.
Then Joan discovered it was more interesting to play in the stream – in reality, little more than a trickle of water at the bottom of a ditch by the side of the dump. She paddled happily for two or three minutes before they’d had to pull her out screaming. Two green biters had attached themselves to her leg, one on the calf and the other lower down on the ankle.
Fortunately her reaction had been immediate, and they were able to pull them off before much damage was done. They’d had no choice but to take her home, wash the wounds and stick Elastoplast over them; they’d also drilled her not to mention the biters in case they got into trouble for letting her go in the ditch. They’d made up some story about her being cut by barbed wire hidden in the long grass.
‘This is where we saw ’em last time,’ Annie announced, staring down into the water. ‘But I can’t see any now.’
It was a fairly clear spot where the water was almost transparent. Farther along the ditch were a couple of rusting tin cans and a twisted bicycle wheel. A slight breeze came from the direction of the rubbish dump, carrying with it an acid smell of ash and decay.
‘There!’ He began to climb down the sloping side of the ditch to get nearer. ‘Hey, they’ve grown bigger. Whoppers!’
‘Be careful!’
‘They can’t bite through my wellies.’
They found one, about six or seven inches long. Before it spotted them, they’d swooped it up in the fishing net and dropped it into the glass jar.
Another, also by itself.
But no more until they moved farther along the ditch when unexpectedly they came across three of them together. Annie netted one, but Tim’s wriggled out again before he could transfer it to the jar. This was even more fun than they’d imagined; and the knowledge that these green worms could bite back added extra spice.
‘
Ouch!
’ Annie had some trouble getting one of them into the jar; she tried to help it along with her free hand but it bit her through the net, which she dropped. She sucked her finger, grimacing, but her eyes laughing. Some, she seemed to imply, deserved to go free.
The jar looked quite full when they stopped, and it was as much as Tim could do to prevent the worms escaping. He screwed down the metal lid in which he’d punched several air holes, then held it up to examine them.
‘Don’t like their eyes,’ Annie commented with a deep shudder. ‘Like they was cutting into you, an’ they’re only the size o’ pins!’
The risk that the jar might be discovered if they took it home was too great, so they hid it in a rain gully at the foot of the long wall surrounding the estate. After tea, when it was getting dark, they came out again to look for it. Annie found it. Tim climbed on to the wall first and she handed it up to him, then followed.
One by one they dropped noiselessly down on to the soft earth. Everything was quiet. No sign of a dog either; in fact they were convinced he’d been bluffing and didn’t own one. Annie went forward first, then beckoned Tim to follow.
The house showed some signs of activity. There were lights in several of the rooms, and occasionally a shadow against a curtain. But no one was looking out and it seemed the way was clear across the lawn to the swimming pool. They ran across together, lightly but not quickly. At the edge of the pool Annie held the jar while Tim unscrewed the top; once it was off she tipped the jar over and shook it.
A series of mild plops told them the worms had dropped into the water.
Tim fumbled to get the lid back on again before they
dashed for cover among the bushes, crouching down, listening and waiting… Not a sound.
Just as they were about to move to the wall the garden was suddenly flooded with light from car headlamps whose beam swung around as though searching for something. They pressed themselves down against the ground, scared of being caught out now. It wasn’t the red Jaguar either, which they’d seen still parked in the driveway.
The powerful engine purred and then cut out. The lights died. The quiet clunk of expensive doors. Then:
‘Darlings, how nice of you to come!’
Tim and Annie waited till the guests were inside the house before making their getaway over the wall. Once they were on the road again, running along towards their homes, their hearts sang. They laughed, danced, pushed each other.
‘Boy oh boy, when they go swimming tomorrow morning! Oh boy!’
At The Cedars the party was going with a swing. Andrea watched as Gordon raised himself from the carpet, tummy upwards, a glass of champagne balanced on his forehead, gingerly manoeuvring himself to the point where he could begin to stand up. An informal party, he’d called it, just for the five of them. His idea of informality was a close-fitting white sweater with spotlessly new jeans which looked as though they’d been specially tailored for him.
But at his request Andrea had put up her long blonde hair, using the diamond hairpins to hold it in place. She wore a simple, clinging dress in green, with nothing underneath. The other two girls who’d arrived with Vincent – Tina and Gail – also revealed the ‘naked look’ whenever they stood against the light. It was going to be one of those evenings.
She imagined it was all laid on for Vincent’s benefit. An important American client, Gordon had called him. His accent, though, was more central European. Fifty if he was a day, she judged. More like sixty. He wheezed when he laughed; his ridiculous little moustache bobbed up and down.
Tina and Gail squealed with laughter at Gordon’s antics.
From an escort agency, probably. Odd the types they chose. Tina was on the plump side, with full breasts which bounced every time she moved; Gail was the opposite and had that skeletal look, every bone indentifiable.
More squeals. Gordon was on his knees now. Andrea moved to the sofa and sat up on the back with her bare feet on the cushion to keep out of the way. Christ, he was a bore! If only she’d realized…
She remembered the two children they’d caught in the grounds that morning. He’d been at his most pompous, bawling the poor kids out as though they’d committed some mortal sin climbing over
his
wall, leaving their footprints in
his
soil, disturbing
his
woman at her sunbathing…
That was the key to him: possession.
She could walk out at any time, of course. No need to stick around. But go back to what? It was over four years now since she’d left university with a degree in literature and a head full of nonsense only to discover that shorthand and typing would have been more useful. So she’d gone through the routines: secretarial course, job at the BBC, meals in the canteen, sharing her dreams with the producer she worked for, moving in with him, moving out again a year later, and finally throwing up her job in order to temp. Hundreds had trodden the same path before her.
Then, sent along as a temporary typist to Gordon’s office in the executive suite of a city skyscraper, she’d found a different door opening. He’d been quite blunt about it. Couldn’t give a damn about her brains or her shorthand, but she was good to look at, sense of style, lively, pleasant… The rewards could be very big, he told her. To prove the point he counted out a thousand pounds in cash and pushed it across to her.
She’d taken a week to think it over. In her shabby Tooting Bec bedroom she’d stripped off in front of the wardrobe mirror. Her body was good. She was proud of her hair. She had fluent French and Italian. She could drive, swim, dance, ski, play tennis and fuck – all of them well. So why waste her life over a typewriter?
‘Oh!’ Squeals of laughter again as Gordon almost lost his balance, then recovered it, but not in time to prevent the
champagne spilling down his sweater. Tina’s breasts quivered like jellies; Vincent’s moustache went into contortions. Andrea flashed them a broad smile, politely.
‘Time it was washed anyway!’ Gordon blustered, getting up and peeling the sweater off. ‘Ouf! I’m hot! What weather for October!’
He touched a couple of switches on the wall. The curtains parted with hardly a sound; greenish lights flooded the swimming pool on the lawn.
‘A swim, anybody? The water’s heated.’ He glanced meaningfully at Andrea. ‘Think I’ll go in.’
Obediently she stood up on the sofa. ‘Me too!’ Balanced on the cushions, she reached behind her back with one hand, found the zipper and drew it gently down. Her green dress tumbled to her feet. She stood there naked.
Vincent’s eyes bulged; his over-large abdomen trembled beneath his white shirt.
‘The water’s lovely,’ she coaxed him, stepping down from the sofa. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
Tina’s breasts had escaped from her dress even before she’d touched her zip; she helped Gail as Gordon opened the French windows.
They crowded down to the pool with Vincent wheezing excitedly behind. Gail jumped in first, followed by Gordon, then Tina and Andrea. Vincent remained on the edge bathed in green light, the glory of his manhood shrivelled and retiring.
‘Vince, darling, do come in!’ Tina summoned him in a little girl voice. ‘It’s lonely down here without you.’
He squatted for a second or two on the side, then lowered himself into the water. As he did so, there was an anguished scream from Gordon. He began thrashing about, his face agonized.
‘Gordon, what’s—?’ Andrea never finished her question. She drew in her breath sharply as the pain shot through her thigh. ‘Get out, everybody! We have to get out!’
A second intensely sharp pain gripped her belly, low down near the top of her right leg. She reached under the water, fearful of what her fingers might find.
Tina let out a piercing scream, then tried to scramble for the side but lost her footing and fell back again. Gordon moaned loudly like a heifer in labour. Gail shrieked with hysteria, splashing about, then sinking, rising to the surface spluttering and shrieking once more, then sinking again…