‘For the skins,’ he said. ‘They could be made into belts or something.’
Helen was unimpressed. ‘That colour? Who’d buy that colour? Like cats’ eyes in the dark.’
Her voice had softened, though. She’d constantly nagged at him over the years to show some business initiative. The TV company, she’d often declared, was merely exploiting him. They paid him a miserable salary and gave all the big reputation-building jobs to other people. It was up to him to make his own way, wasn’t it? Then she’d go on to quote her own father who’d started half a dozen small businesses in his time.
‘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.’