by Beth Morrey
It took a little while to find the files, but eventually I unearthed a whole folder of pictures. Not just the ones that I’d lost, but new ones too, photo after photo of Arthur enjoying his life in Australia. On the beach, on the terrace next to a barbecue, sitting on the sofa alongside a giant stuffed bear, round the dinner table with his Australian grandparents, Emily’s mother looking just as dottily devoted as me. In all of them he was beaming away, bathed in love and light. Then more photos of our Christmas together last year, him sitting on the sofa with me watching The Snowman, my hands stroking his hair, as I gazed down at him. And finally, one last picture of Alistair, Emily and Arthur unfurling a banner on the beach that read MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRANDMA!, all bronzed and glowing, grinning at the camera. I drank them all in, thinking how tragic it was that Emily had lost the baby, but also how lucky they were, because how perfect—how utterly, heartbreakingly perfect—was the boy they had already.
Closing my laptop and blinking back the well in my eyes, I switched off the lights and made my way upstairs, Bobby at my heels. I patted the bed and she jumped up, ready to snuggle. We curled up together, and, putting my hand down, I realized she’d brought her stuffed rabbit with her. It seemed our family—our little oikos—was now three.
Part 4
Transit umbra, lux permanet—“Shadow passes, light remains.”
Chapter 33
On New Year’s Eve I agreed to dog-sit Decca and Nancy, who were scared of fireworks, while Sylvie went to a party in Maida Vale. I wasn’t particularly upset at the idea of spending that night alone, since I’ve always considered it to be an overblown affair—too much expectation, not to mention the staying-up-till-midnight requirement, which seemed to me to be an aggressive kind of party etiquette, like telling guests what kind of wine to bring or forcing them to move two places down the table during dinner.
I was quite happy to sit with the dogs on the sofa, watching television and eating the shepherd’s pie Sylvie had brought over as a thank-you. Everyone seemed glad to see the back of the year, as if all the terrible things that had happened to the world would evaporate on the stroke of midnight. But it had been such an auspicious twelve months for me personally that I rather wanted to hang on to it. Perhaps if I was asleep when the clock struck twelve, I might carry over some of the magic with me.
That evening, as I was feeding the dogs and clearing up, there was a knock at the door, sending Bobby into her usual frenzy, with Nancy and Decca providing the accompaniment. Angela stood on the porch, looking rather thin and pale, her hair in a messy topknot, holding a bag that smelled of vinegar.
“Do you mind if I eat these with you? My mother’s come back with me, and she’s driving me mad. I poured all the milk down the sink so I could go out to buy more. Mam has to see out the year, and everything else, with a cup of tea. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I moved aside to let her in and she followed me into the kitchen, where I continued washing the dishes while the dogs noisily ate their food. Angela opened her bag on the kitchen table and sat, dipping her chips in ketchup and contemplating Otis’s numerous pictures taped to my fridge.
“How was Christmas?” I asked, stacking my plate on the sideboard.
“Tense,” she mumbled through a mouthful. “My mother’s only happy if she’s telling me about people who’ve died, and what’s more, she’s teetotal. Like, she last had a sip of cider in 1992 and says anyone who drinks on their own is an alcoholic. Plus she thinks I should have married Otis’s father, Sean, even though he’s a useless twat. But he’s a useless twat from our village, so ideal marriage material. And now she’s come for a visit, so I’m sleeping on the sofa and she’s asking why I haven’t bought a house yet. Is it because of all the immigrants? ‘Jesus Christ, I AM an immigrant,’ I said. And she said, ‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’”
“Oh dear,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Do you want a drink?”
“No,” she sighed. “She’ll smell it on my breath and there’ll be hell to pay. It’s like being a teenager again, but without the illicit sex.”
I hung up the tea towel and went to sit at the table with her, while the dogs, having polished off their own meal, roamed around hoping for scraps.
“Sylvie off at her party?” Angela indicated Decca and Nancy, slavering at her knees.
I nodded. “I’ll turn the radio on when the fireworks start, poor things. Do you have any resolutions?” Leo and I used to make them together, three each. His were always the same: to finish writing one book, start another and give up chocolate—he was particularly partial to Toblerones and used to bring them back from his work trips. He generally managed the first two, never the third. Mine changed every year, and usually centered around new hobbies I intended to take up. One year I decided to learn the cello and even went as far as looking at one in a shop on Church Street, but the price put me off. Leo used to tease me about it, calling me Jacqueline and asking how I was getting on with the Elgar. I’d still like to learn.
Angela swallowed and sucked her greasy fingers. “Give up smoking,” she said. I smiled indulgently. She’d been trying to give up since I’d met her, wielding various implements in place of her beloved cigarettes. The implements came and went; the cigarettes stayed. “What are yours?” she asked, tossing a chip for Decca, who snatched it out of the air and moved away from Nancy to enjoy it in peace. Bobby panted patiently, waiting for her turn.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. I think . . . I’m all right at the moment.” Angela, throwing Nancy her chip, turned toward me, eyes narrowing.
“That’s good.” She threw a chip to Bobby, who snapped her jaws into thin air, letting it fall to the floor, where it was immediately snatched by Decca. “Oh dear, poor Bobs. Here you go, girl.” She held out another and Bobby took it gingerly.
“She’s never been very good at that,” I observed, getting up to put the kettle on.
Angela laughed and ruffled Bobby’s lustrous mane. “What will you do,” she asked, “when Fix wants her back?”
I kept my back to her as I filled the kettle and turned to put it on the hot plate. The clock on the wall ticked. Bobby chomped on her chip under the table. The tea towel was hanging slightly off-center and I moved it back into place.
“Well?” said Angela gently.
I turned to face her. She looked concerned—worried, even—with Bobby’s head on her knee, hoping for more.
“I . . . hadn’t really thought about it,” I faltered. “Does she want her back?” I hoped Fix might have decided to move on in her new life without a dog, while I moved on with one. Ships that passed in the night, with Bobby the lifeboat between us.
Angela sighed and rubbed her nose. “I don’t really know. I hardly ever hear from her, and then not many details. Originally she said she needed several months, a year even. But the plan was always to give her back eventually. She’s Fix’s dog.”
But I looked at Bobby, licking her chops and thought: She’s not; she’s mine. And realized in that instant I would do anything to keep her.
“I’m sorry,” Angela said, registering my expression. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just . . . I didn’t expect it all to work out this well. You’re so good together. It’s a shame—well, you know what I mean.”
The kettle whistled and I went to pour the tea.
“Try not to worry,” said Angela. “Fix might not want her back for months, longer even. No need to panic.” She seemed to be reassuring herself as well as me.
We drank our tea, and Angela talked about Otis, who was looking forward to his second term at school, but I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation, thinking of my mother and Jonas the Labrador, and the day we got Leo’s diagnosis. The marble was back in my throat and I kept noticing flecks of dirt on the kitchen units, itching for disinfectant to distract myself from the looming branches crowding my vision. Bobby, my Bobby, my oikos.
>
Eventually Angela said she’d better go or her mother would send out a search party, so she wished me Happy New Year, threw her vinegary bag in the bin and disappeared into the night as the first fireworks started up. The dogs began to pace restlessly, ears flattened against the bangs, so I decided to call it a night. I washed my face and brushed my teeth in the bathroom, intently watched by three pairs of eyes, Bobby in the middle with her rabbit in her jaws. Switching on the radio to drown out the noise, I climbed into bed and patted the blankets. All three of them jumped up and started arranging themselves, turning and curling their way to comfort, with little heed for mine. My legs heavy with dog, I lay listening to the distant pops and squeals, only slightly deadened by classic FM. They were playing Elgar. Not the cello concerto, but the Enigma Variations, which I’ve always loved, particularly “Nimrod.” Now though, the strains of the theme sounded uncomfortably portentous, heralding the New Year and whatever it might bring. When the bongs of Big Ben chimed, I was still awake, eyes fixed on the window as the odd firework flickered across the black: 2017, my eighty-first year on Earth.
Sensing my unease, Bobby nuzzled her head against my arm. I put it around her and caressed the soft fur, breathing in her warm scent, lulled by the gentle sighs and snores that surrounded me. Last year I’d so longed for things to be different, but now I wanted everything to stay the same. Semper eadem. That was my resolution, right there. Carry on as we were.
Chapter 34
After Sylvie had picked up her dogs, I took Bobby for a piece of toast in the park café on New Year’s Day. We sat outside on the veranda, watching the passersby, and I fed her buttery crusts and remembered my lonely walks there a year ago, when I was mourning my lost life and planning a visit to a toxic lake to watch some fish being stunned. Now here we were, tucked up together, greeting acquaintances, both human and canine, planning the day’s activities, looking forward to the week ahead. Frolicking in our lake and inviting everyone in.
Putting thoughts of Bobby’s departure out of my mind, I enjoyed getting into my routine again. Angela went back to work, Otis went back to school and I went back to the library, logging books, reading to the children and helping members find what they needed. I also listened to Deirdre’s woes, as she was worried about funding cuts and how they would affect services. She was quite fiery on occasion, quoting statistics, telling me that there were two hundred and eighty million library visits in Britain every year, that people went to libraries more often than they went to soccer matches, theaters, emergency rooms and church combined.
A library visit every nine seconds, she said. I liked to think of it, and would sometimes sit in my chair in reception counting the ticks of the clock and imagining people entering libraries up and down the country with requests like the ones I heard every day. “There’s a book someone recommended, I can’t remember the author or the title . . . How do I use the computer? . . . Could you help me fill in this form? . . . I need something to help me understand Shakespeare . . . Have you got that new film with the shark in it? Not Jaws, another one.” My very own set of Enigma Variations to decode.
The weather turned colder and wetter and I was glad of my new coat and Wellington boots, as Bobby’s walks became increasingly sludgy. We started to recognize the fair-weather dog walkers, or at least notice their absence when the rain came. Denzil always turned up, though he was missing Miguel, who had gone back to Spain. Maddie and Simon came out with their Border Terrier and their new baby, Timothy, though they both looked gray and exhausted. Tim wasn’t a great sleeper: “We’ve decided we prefer Tiggy, after all.” I saw Phillip and Dexter, though not at the same time. Dexter raced past first, ears flapping, with what looked like a dead rat in his mouth, and Phillip followed, puffing, a while later. “Have you seen him? Where did he go?”
Then we would head home, where there was always a treat to be found, a fire to be sat in front of, or a visitor to be greeted, whether it was Sylvie popping in for a gossip, or Hanna, who’d taken to coming round for a cup of tea and a chat, to improve her English. We didn’t see so much of Angela, but she was busy with work—or maybe didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t kept up her resolution.
I pottered about quite happily, taking down my decorations, sorting out the last few things in the attic, sending Alistair the occasional update, and retrieving Bobby’s stuffed rabbit from whichever incongruous corner she’d left him. Named Bruce Bunny by Otis, Bobby’s toy now had one ear missing and was looking rather grubby, but was a permanent fixture, carried around tenderly in her jaws and dropped in various places for me to find. After “burying” him under cushions, rugs, beds, and forgetting where she’d put him, she would wander round the house whining until Bruce was unearthed, whereupon they would have a passionate reunion and he would be borne off to her corner for a thorough going-over. She was an odd dog and I loved her dearly.
One night when we’d lost and found Bruce, and I was just settling down with some pasta to watch a new period drama, we were interrupted by a phone call from Sylvie.
“Have you seen Angela lately?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “She’s been working a lot, I think. Why?”
“She just called me and sounded strange.”
“Maybe she was drunk?”
“No, it wasn’t that. She was tense. It was like . . . she’d called me about something and then decided not to talk about it, after all.”
“Do you want me to go round?”
“Would you? I’d just be easier in my mind.”
* * *
—
So I put on my new coat and boots, then collected Bobby’s lead because she didn’t want to miss the outing, and we marched down the road to Angela’s flat. A light was on at the top of the house, so I pressed the doorbell. For a while nothing happened and then I heard her voice, low and rough through the intercom. She buzzed me up and we embarked on the lengthy sets of stairs, Bobby squeezing ahead and turning to wait for me every few steps. By the time we reached the top I was breathless and slightly dizzy, so when Angela opened the door I had to push past to go and sit on her sofa to recover.
“What are you doing here?” she asked rather abruptly.
I coughed. “I just thought I’d drop by, as I haven’t seen you in a while. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She was still holding the door open, and after a second she closed it, a little reluctantly.
“Where’s Otis?” I looked around.
She frowned. “He’s asleep. It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“Oh,” I said, coughing again and stalling for time. She looked unkempt, with a hint of gray roots, and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. “I just wondered . . . would you like to come on a walk tomorrow?” It was a Saturday, and she and Otis often joined me at the weekend.
She started to object, then thought better of it and shrugged. “OK, then.” I lingered to see if she would ask me to stay for a drink, but she just stood by the door, clearly waiting for me to leave.
I struggled to my feet, still a little breathless. “I’ll pick you up at ten, shall I? We could go for a coffee.” She nodded and followed me as I went back out onto the landing, leaning against the door as I clipped Bobby on her lead. I waved good-bye but she was already turning away, so we made our way slowly back downstairs and headed home.
“Something wasn’t right,” I murmured as the dog trotted by my side in the darkness. Bobby paused, sniffing a lamppost, and hacked up a cough that suggested she had a chicken bone stuck. I supposed it was as good an observation as any.
The next morning I dutifully went back again to pick up her and Otis. We waited at the gate and they appeared a few minutes later, both bundled in winter coats, as it was an icy day, a thick frost covering everything the sun hadn’t reached yet. Angela was so well wrapped I could barely see her face, scarf covering her mouth and hat pulled down low. Otis had the necessa
ry gear on, but it was a precarious arrangement, scarf already trailing, coat falling off his shoulder, hat askew. Usually Angela would be stopping to re-zip, re-tie and re-position but today she didn’t seem to notice, and it fell to me to straighten him up while she stared at the ground and scuffed stones with her shoe.
We walked wordlessly, which wasn’t unusual, but today it felt different. Our silence was usually companionable, unforced, no real need to break it with platitudes. But now I felt compelled to gabble, comment on the weather, anything to provoke some sort of response from her. Otis, at least, was oblivious, dashing this way and that, fetching sticks, chasing birds, and stamping in puddles.
I opened my mouth to indulge the urge, then closed it again, remembering Jette’s silences, and my mother once telling me talking made no difference; to my grandmother it was just empty noise, the buzz of an untuned radio. So instead I looked at the stark, bare trees and thought of sitting on the bench with Sylvie when we first met, not really talking, just eating croissants and watching the ebb and flow of the branches above. I went into the café and bought us both a coffee, and Otis a biscuit, then we stood in the playground while he jumped on the trampoline, crumbs all over his coat.
“I need you to look after Otis for me.”
