by Beth Morrey
“I don’t know. Ask around the park, I suppose, maybe someone can take her. If not, then it’ll have to be the rescue shelter, and God knows what will happen to her there.” She leaned forward and kissed Bob on the snout. “She can stay with me for a few more days at least. My landlord won’t know.”
Angela went out into the darkness, Bob at her clinking heels, and I closed the door and turned back to my empty, echoing house to finish my special day.
I spent what was left of the evening polishing off the rest of a bottle of wine. What would I want with a dog, for goodness’ sake? I didn’t like them, was far too old, there was no sense in getting involved in a domestic drama like that. No sense at all. Dogs were smelly, stupid creatures, always bounding off to sniff disgusting things. There was literally nothing to recommend them. I remembered Angela and Sylvie’s brutal analysis: lonely. A sad, pathetic, old woman, who should be grateful for a mangy old mutt’s company. How utterly mortifying. I drained my glass and smacked it down on the kitchen table, then moved it to wipe away the sticky rings. Lonely. I swabbed feverishly until it was clear.
Later, I went around the house turning off lights and checking doors, still thinking about this Fix, and her children. I wondered where they were, what exactly the husband had done, whether they were missing Bob. Arthur wanted a dog. He often talked about it, and Alistair always said, “Next year.” Quite right, a dog was a huge responsibility, not to be taken lightly.
We had a dog once, when I was very tiny. A black Labrador called Jonas. My mother adored him and would hoot when Henry dressed him up. One of my earliest memories was of us putting her wedding veil on him and her laughing. He just sat there and let it happen. When the war began he had to be put down. I didn’t know that until much later, but vaguely recall my mother sobbing as he was taken away. He wouldn’t have known a thing, of course—just let it happen like he did with the veil. I was too young to be upset, but I remember my mother’s stricken face for months afterward. She once told me that she never got over it, that the death of her own father wasn’t as bad as that day.
“It’s for the best,” I said to myself firmly as I looked in the cupboards and under the bed. And then, once I was in it, hunched against the cold, into the darkness and silence: “Happy birthday, Missy.”
Chapter 10
That night I dreamed about Jonas, this time an unwilling lamb to slaughter. He was bundled into a van, scrabbling and howling for my mother, her screams mingling with his barks, then an incessant scratching as his claws scraped against the door. I had to get him out. Pounding against it, my hands a bloody mess as I slapped and thumped. And then giving up, sliding down it, my back to the cold metal as I listened to Jonas on the inside, still scrabbling. Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Then a click and a thud. And then I was awake and my house was being burgled.
The noises took a while to process, in the haze of sleep and residue from the dream. It was hard to work out what was real, and even harder to acknowledge it. The quiet scraping, the dull thumps and fumbles; every sound made my whole body throb with horror. What could I do but let it happen? A defenseless seventy-eight—no, seventy-nine-year-old woman, alone in a huge house at two o’clock in the morning? I lay there, bound to the bed in my terror, listening to them moving quietly through the rooms downstairs, then started praying to a God I didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t come up. What would I do if they did? I had to let them get on with it, because the alternative was unthinkable.
I heard them creeping up the stairs—there were at least two of them—and closed my eyes tightly, grateful that the curtains were closed so it was too dark for them to see my uneven breathing. When they came into my room I stayed very still, not moving even when the flashlight played across my face. I worried they would be able to hear my heart pounding, but they didn’t really care if I was asleep or not—I wasn’t going to stop them. They went over to my dressing table and rifled through my jewelry box. Things Leo bought me, mementos my mother left me. Her pearls. The regard ring Leo bought me after Mel was born. The ruby earrings he gave me for our fortieth anniversary. Not the what, but the who and the why.
Concentrating so hard on lying still, at first I didn’t notice one of them had moved nearer and was standing by the bed looking down. I couldn’t see him of course, but I could hear him, feel his gaze. Still as I was, I stiffened, barely able to breathe, and then . . . the rustle of fabric as he reached out. I could sense his hand hovering above my hair, almost touching but not quite. That I, who so craved the comfort of human contact—a friend’s embrace, a child’s hand—should endure this. I lay like a corpse, so revolted that bile rose in my throat, but his companion suddenly hissed, the hand was withdrawn and he moved away. Then they went out again, and very slowly and carefully I breathed a sigh of relief, because it could have been so much worse.
They left rather less quietly than they came in, because the job was done by then. I couldn’t face going down to inspect the damage, so waited until my tears had subsided and then got up and opened the curtains, letting the streetlight in so that I could watch the shadows on the wall. When dawn came, I went down to the kitchen and saw that my new laptop was gone and cried again, because it had all my photos of Arthur on it.
When the police came, they said they’d probably picked the lock on the back door, that they were good at that sort of thing nowadays, as if it was a skill people learned in school. They said not to worry, that they probably wouldn’t come back now that the house had been “done,” but to change the locks and consider some additional security measures. So I got out the emergency locksmith although I couldn’t afford it, and he put on some extra bolts and recommended an alarm system. But the price he quoted was so extortionate that I balked and hustled him out of the door. No men in my house, not now.
I stayed in my kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, drumming my fingers on the table to drown out the silence (they’d taken the radio). I thought about Leo, and Percy the lunger, and Fix’s husband, and the burglar’s hand . . . As a girl, I’d always thought of men as the protectors—Fa-Fa in particular the mammoth gatekeeper of our family—but at Cambridge I realized that they had little comprehension of the damage they could cause. I supposed guardians were by their nature ruthless, in some respects. A monster not to be overcome . . . Cerberus who eats raw flesh, the brazen-voiced hound of Hades . . .
As the light started to fade again I couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t think anymore, so I put on my coat and let myself out, marching briskly down the road to the big house Angela had pointed out to me. Peering at the many doorbells, I squinted until I saw 7C A. BRENNAN and pressed it firmly. After a little while I heard a familiar voice, harsh with cigarette smoke. “It’s me. Missy,” I said. The door buzzed, and I went up, catching my breath on each landing.
Angela greeted me at her door, eyebrows raised. Otis poked his head out from behind her, followed by Bob on the other side. She wagged her tail in greeting.
“I’ll take the dog,” I said. “Just until your friend sorts herself out.”
For a second Angela was impassive, and then her face broke into an earsplitting grin, the tiredness and worry wiped away. She leaped forward and hugged me, too hard. But I found I didn’t mind.
“You won’t regret it,” she promised. “She’s the best dog.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday. It was my birthday. I was a bit depressed.” I felt shamed by both admissions and looked away before Angela could spot the tears in my eyes, bending to scratch Bob awkwardly on the ear. She panted and nudged me for more.
Angela clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! Honest, I really am, I had no idea. God, what a stupid cow, barging in like that.”
“It’s all right,” I said, pinning my smile in place and straightening up again. “I suppose you brought me a present, in a way.”
She laughed. “Fancy a drink to celebrate?”
She led me
into her flat, and as I bent again to pat both Bob and Otis, I could already hear the sound of a cork popping. Angela reappeared, holding two very large glasses. At least half a bottle in there.
“Happy birthday, Missy,” she said.
Chapter 11
With Otis passed out on the sofa, we drank prosecco and ate leftover macaroni and cheese warmed up in the microwave. Her flat was tiny—a living room with a kitchenette at one end, a minuscule bathroom off the rabbit hutch hallway and a bedroom with twin beds pushed together, one for her and one for Otis. I was a little shocked, but she assured me this was pretty good for London. As we ate the pasta, she told me about her friend Felicity and her dreadful husband.
“She met him through work—she’s a journalist like me, but much more principled. Writes about climate change, saving the whales, that sort of thing. She was interviewing a local businessman about some campaign that was going on, something about cutting down trees. He asked her out, and you know. Six months later they’re married and she’s up the duff.”
Angela scraped a spoonful of cheese sauce out of the serving bowl and continued. “He changed after they were married. Started slowly, just comments about her appearance and stuff. She was skin and bone by the time he started hitting her. He’s really careful and you’d never suspect a thing talking to him—very plausible. But I’ve seen the bruises.”
“Why didn’t she get out sooner?”
“The children, I suppose. Though you’d think they’d be a reason to leave. But mostly because she had nowhere to go. He threatens her, says she’ll lose the kids—and she believes him because she’s had years of him grinding her down. She hasn’t worked in ages, she’s got no money. But I’ve been trying to persuade her for months, and last week she finally agreed, but only after he nearly put her in hospital. Bastard.”
I took a gulp of wine. “Where are they now?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
“In a women’s refuge. We’re trying to get her to press charges. But at least she’s out. And, thanks to you, once she’s sorted herself out she can have Bob back and get on with her life. She really loves that dog.” She reached down and scratched Bob, who was waiting for scraps. Angela told me I wasn’t to feed her anything from the table, as that encouraged begging. She had to be walked twice a day, fed twice a day and brushed regularly to stop her fur from matting. Then there was worming, and anti-tick treatment, and teeth cleaning and Lord knows what else. I was regretting my decision again but then thought of Felicity’s bruises, and my back door, and resolved to make the best of it.
As I gathered my things and put on my coat, Bob perked up and started prancing around excitedly. Her sudden enthusiasm was irritating.
“See, she wants to go with you,” observed Angela from the sofa, where she was finishing her wine and stroking a sleeping Otis.
“Well, I’m not taking her on a walk or anything, only back to my house,” I said, clipping on her lead.
“She might need a wee on the way,” warned Angela. “Oh, that reminds me.” She jumped up and went over to her little kitchenette, rummaging in a drawer before triumphantly producing a package, which she handed over to me. “Poo bags! You’ll need a lot of those.”
This, as far as I was concerned, was the most appalling aspect of owning a dog. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to cope with it, but took the package and put it in my coat pocket.
“Well. I should be going. Um, thank you,” I said rather stiffly when I’d got to the door.
Angela came over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “No. Thank you. You’ve done a great thing. I promise you’ll end up enjoying it. There are loads of dog walkers in the park, a whole pack of them, and they’re great fun. I’ll introduce you.”
Gingerly holding Bob’s lead as we walked home, I flicked through my little Rolodex of worries: What if the animal bolted? Would I be yanked off my feet? How would I stop her? Then the bewildering list of food that was toxic to dogs and must be kept away from her: chocolate, grapes, onions—what else? Toxic like the lake in the park. Recalling Angela’s promise, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to mix with the dog walkers there, lonely as I was. I’d seen them, and they’d seemed a little eccentric, always getting into fights with cyclists, and parents, and pretty much anyone who didn’t appreciate their pets as much as they did. But I’d done it now, so we’d have to get on with it. Hopefully Bob would be cheaper than an alarm system. Maybe even better company.
We arrived back and I unlocked the door, listening for intruders as we went in. Bob immediately started sniffing around the house, tail wagging, scoping it out. I went through to the kitchen and made myself some tea, then took it to the living room, where I found her curled on the sofa. Angela said she’d never been allowed on furniture and I certainly had no intention of letting her adopt any bad habits.
“Off!” I said sternly, holding one finger in the air and experiencing a distinct lack of authority. Bob stared at me and scratched behind one ear with her back leg.
She probably had fleas. I went over to the sofa and pushed her. She resisted for a second, then tipped off in a sudden flurry of limbs. Scrabbling to regain her balance and dignity, she retreated to a position by Leo’s armchair and eyed me warily. She should have somewhere to lie down, at least. I looked around the room but there were no rugs of any kind, so I sacrificed my sofa throw, arranging it in a bed-shape on the floor near the fireplace. She stepped onto it, turning round and round before settling down with an inordinate sigh. It was a shame there was no fire in the grate. Maybe I’d make one up tomorrow.
Picking up Mel’s book, I read for a while, occasionally looking up to check on Bob, who was sprawled in a running position, snoring, nose and legs twitching furiously. It was strangely soporific, and gradually the book slid onto my lap as I dozed.
Awoken by a loud and prolonged yawn from the fireplace, I looked at my watch and saw it was after midnight. Bob was watching me, head on one side. She yawned again.
Creaking to my feet, I shuffled to the door, turning back to look at her on her makeshift bed.
“Well. Good night, then. Stay.” Bob’s tail thumped the floor.
I pulled myself upstairs to get ready for my own bed, but just as I was preparing to switch off the lights, there was the scrabble of claws, and a second later her face appeared at the door.
This was not part of the plan at all. She had to be on the ground floor, deterring intruders, not lounging around in my bedroom. “No!” I said firmly, leading her back downstairs. She followed me, tail wagging, then sat expectantly in the living room as I wondered what to do. In the end I dragged a couple of chairs from the dining room and made a barricade at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe I could buy one of those gates people got for toddlers. More expense.
I went back up to my room and closed the door, listening out for her whining or scratching, but heard nothing. Angela had said she was a very good dog. One just had to be firm. I went to sleep thinking about where we would walk the next morning, and if we might meet Otis. He could throw a stick for her, and she could wait outside the playground while we played on the swings.
I slept deeply, and in the morning when I awoke, two things struck me at once. One: Bob was curled at the end of my bed, snoring loudly, hairs all over the covers, the door to my bedroom still closed. And two: for the first time in my life, ever since Fa-Fa told us that story about the ripper who sang nursery rhymes from the wardrobe before he cut up his victims, I hadn’t checked the cupboards before I went to sleep.
Cave canem. Beware the dog.
Part 2
Above the cloud with its shadow is the star with its light.
Pythagoras
Chapter 12
It was the summer of 1958 and I was looking up at the roof of the Senate House and musing how they had got the car up there. A peculiarly Cantabrigian student stunt. It was gone by then, of course, but it took nearly a
week, and in the end they had to hack it to pieces to get rid of it. It was a shame, really—I liked it perched on the apex, its incongruity somehow reassuring. Anything was possible.
I was a lofty graduate, working as an archivist in the university’s Classical Faculty Library and wondering what to do next. Unlike my contemporaries, I wasn’t being pressured by my family to get married now that I had a degree. Henry was busy trying to break into politics, and Mama was as likely to tell me to find a husband as she was to suggest I get a tiger as a pet. As a young girl, my mother—then known as Lena Schorel—had sneaked out to hear Sylvia Pankhurst speak, and was very put out when the First World War began, because it cut short her fledgling career as a suffragist. She had also been rather disappointed when women finally got the vote, because she so enjoyed fighting the good fight.
Neither my brother nor my mother were at all interested in my marital state, and with no other family to speak of, I was left to my own devices. Perhaps my father would have had a say in the matter, but William Jameson was one of the casualties of the Second World War, and we rarely spoke of him, because the loss felt like too sharp a thing to touch. Fa-Fa had died just after the war ended, marching out one morning to buy tobacco and dropping like a stone in the street. He’d have liked that—nice and clean, no messing about. Jette had retreated even farther into her shell after he died, and when she quietly passed away just after I went up to Cambridge, it was barely remarked upon. Maybe by that time we’d become inured to death. Aunt Sibby only cared about her animals, so my mother took over the house in Lancaster Villas, which became a kind of campaign base for various activists. If I went back there, no doubt I’d be dragooned into joining one of her causes.
But what did I want to do? I wasn’t sure, walking down King’s Parade that evening in August, clutching a pile of books to my chest and mulling it over. Then I saw Leo Carmichael walking toward me, his golden hair fiery in the sun, and remembered he was all I ever wanted. For a second, the flood of memories nearly floored me and I swayed, dizzy with it. Whispering to my mother in the drawing room; the cold and bright light; prone in bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the stale sandwiches. He could not know, he could never know, how much this meant. I hugged the books tighter, preparing to look unconcerned and uninterested. As he approached, for a second I thought he didn’t recognize me, but then his face cleared and he smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure.
