Skin by Kerry Andrew review – atmospheric novel of loss, loneliness and yearning

Writer and musician Kerry Andrew’s second novel, Skin, is an atmospheric creation. It follows young Matty, an introverted kid from north London, whose father disappears one day. Matty is convinced that he’s killed himself, drowned or been murdered. However, there are no answers from Matty’s brittle mother, Rosa, or from the wider community, and Matty seeks solace – and clues – in Hampstead’s swimming ponds. Throughout the novel, water functions as an ever-shifting symbol: a place to belong, a space for freedom and play, a death-lure full of secrets, a comfort and a challenge: “It began to have its own call. Water has a song, a near-silent lilt. When you got closer – tarn, pool, river, proper swimming lake – the impatience made you sweat.” Skin stirs with references to water myths, from selkies and mermaids to sirens and cursed bodies of water.

The unease of identity is another strong theme: Matty’s Italian mother and Irish father find comfort and conflict in their homelands, caught by the ties that bind and those that anchor, creating an unresolved restlessness that they pass on to Matty. Meanwhile, Matty’s explorations of sexuality, gender expression and identity glimmer suggestively through the entire novel.

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Skin unfolds in three sections: childhood; roots seeking in Ireland; and a final third in which Matty tries to bed into family life. The middle section is the most successful, as Matty’s restlessness reaches into the landscape. In Ireland Matty’s search for belonging makes for some beautiful descriptions of wild swimming and the local scenery: “There was a sickly, yellow tinge to the deep grey of the sky. The low clouds looked as if they were full of rain but hadn’t released any. Instead, the sun picked out the highest mountain peak like a beacon, the striations jaggedly visible.”

The scene-setting is less successful in the first third of the book, where attempts to convey north London’s multiculturalism result in unfortunate cliches. Examples include the “Three large Indian women [who] got on the bus with shopping bags, talking loudly”, an Asian neighbour whose “stomach seemed even fatter than usual” and whose wife wears “saris in bright colours” and, most egregiously, two “black girls”, one with a “wide belly”, who sexually, racially and homophobically harass Matty with the words “little white boy… little batty boy”, one of them making “a sharp, definitely negative ‘mmm-mmm’ in her throat”.

The overall register is one of soft loneliness. But, as befits its title, Skin succeeds on sensation and on Matty’s perceptions, which flicker with melancholy. Matty’s ambivalence and yearning, and the book-long search for answers and security, combine to make Skin a thoughtful read.