by Patrick Gale
The sound of distant children made up Domina’s mind. She had to get the poor thing out of sight. It was outrageous that a keeper should not have found out already and buried it. Anyone might see it. She stood and brushed the leaves off her skirt, then she laid her Times open on the grass and rolled the goose into it. Using the paper as an improvised cradle (there were no worms or blood, but she was wary lest something seep out) she held the corpse in her arms and set off the way she had come. She left the path at the slope, knowing there was a keeper’s outhouse down in the shrubberies where people fed the squirrels. The neck proved a problem. It kept swinging awkwardly against her thighs. She tried to hold its beak in the fingers of one hand but it proved too slippery and left her grasp almost at once. No children were in sight, which was a blessing. It didn’t really matter if there was no one in the outhouse to deal with the bird, so long as she could get it well out of the way.
Suddenly she was aware of a dog’s bark approaching her from behind. She turned quickly, sending the goose’s head flailing at her waist, to see a large dog, like an Alsatian, only black. It was bounding down the hill, no owner in sight, and it appeared to be slavering.
‘No,’ cried Domina vaguely, and it was upon her. The dog wasted no time in seizing the goose by the neck that swung so temptingly within his reach. He seized and pulled surprisingly hard, in short fierce jerks. Because of the newspaper, Domina’s hold on the dead bird was far from firm. She could feel the body slipping at every tug. ‘No. No! Let go, you filthy animal! Bad!’ she shouted. Still he tugged, growling savagely on each effort and staring up at her with undisguised loathing for trying to stop his fun. Someone appeared on the crest of the hill. They were carrying a lead. The dog tugged again and this time the corpse almost left Domina’s grasp. She lost her temper and lashed out with a foot at his mouth. This only made the matter worse, for she all but lost her balance and he became enraged, shaking his head from side to side. Then the figure on the hill shouted.
‘No. Please don’t kick him. Japhet, get down! Japh! Here, boy!’ The youth ran down the hill and let out a piercing whistle with both fingers in his mouth. At once the dog relinquished his prey and ran back to his master with a welcoming bark or two.
Domina was near to tears. She wrapped the goose more firmly in its Times and prepared a harangue.
‘You ought to keep him more under control, you know …’ she began, then saw who it was, and stalled.
‘Hello. I am sorry. He’s still very young and he runs like the wind the moment he’s off the lead,’ said Quintus Harding.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just that I found this dead goose and I was trying to take it to the keepers before a child found it … or a dog.’
‘Goodness. The poor thing. Down, boy.’ He made Japhet lie down and came to touch her goose. ‘It can’t have been dead long.’
‘I know. It was still warm when I found it. There’s a keeper just down here, I think.’ She started to walk on down the hill and found Quintus Harding walking beside her. Japhet was now perfectly docile, and back on a leash.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Quintus said suddenly.
‘What? Oh that.’ Domina flushed. ‘I’m sorry I kept you awake.’ She felt inordinately coy. ‘Old college friend,’ she heard herself mutter heartily, ‘turned up out of the blue. Hadn’t seen each other in ages.’
‘It doesn’t matter actually.’
‘What?’
‘The rule about guests after midnight. That’s probably why Tilly didn’t tell you. She only has it to stop people sharing a room for one person’s rent. She doesn’t care about the general comings and goings. Thierry and Penny have overnight guests all the time.’
‘Really?’ She noticed that he spoke without a hint of archness or irony. His innocence bordered on the stolid. ‘He’s a lovely dog. What’s his name?’
‘Japhet. Normally just Japh; Japhet when you’re cross.’
‘How does he get on with Tilly’s dachshund … Beverly?’
‘You mean Grace.’
‘Yes. Grace.’
‘They’ve never met. Japhet isn’t mine. He’s Brother Jerome’s. I just take him for walks.’
‘Brother Jerome?’
‘He’s my tutor at the Greek Orthodox chaplaincy off Moscow Road.’
‘Ah. I see,’ said Domina, and tucked the goose’s head into her hand again.
9
Royal York Crescent
Bristol 8
Avon
Darling Mina,
Randy’s just told me that you’ve gone to visit your sick mother, which can mean only one thing. I’ll type the envelope for this and post it from the city centre in the hope that he won’t know who it’s from and will forward it to wherever you’re hiding.
Christ, Domina, you little fool! Why didn’t you feel you could tell me if something was wrong? I could see you were getting pissed off with his endless hours in that poky little study, but I had no idea there was anything worse. There is something worse, isn’t there?
My first reaction was Oh my God, it’s something I said, but then I got home and Rick told me not to be so self-centred. He said that of course nothing I said could make you leave Randy, it would just stop you talking to me for a bit. But then I thought really hard about the things I’ve been telling you recently and that worried me. I know you all think I’m just a dreary old lush who’s foul to everyone, then can’t remember a thing the next morning, but I do remember, Mina, honestly I do. I remember laying into Rick night after night. I can remember everything I said to Randy at that disastrous New Year’s Eve party last year. More to the point, I remember all I’ve ever said to you while in my cups.
I make no bones about the fact that I’m jealous of you. I’ve always been jealous of you ever since I had to do props for The Rose and the Ring at school. One could say it has given my life its sense of purpose. I’ve always been jealous and you’ve always known it. Neither of us can do a thing about the jealousy – it’s just there, the fact that you have always had the things that I’ve always wanted – but I should have been able to do something about the spiteful things it makes me say. I haven’t, and I’m sorry.
Mina, I’m rambling and you know why. Whether or not your running away in this ridiculous fashion is anything to do with me, I feel guilty. There. I’ve said my bit and now I feel much better and can face dinner at the Croxley-Hills’. I shall think of you, as I start slagging off that bitch’s lifestyle, somewhere between the second glass of calvados and the front door.
And if there’s ‘someone else’, I am hurt that I haven’t been told and I demand to know who they are at once.
Love as ever, etc. etc.
Ginny B.
PS At the theatre board meeting this morning I threatened a Harold Heartburne for the autumn and was almost strung up by the heels.
Apparently from Fi Templeton down to the lowliest ASM they want to do a revival of Sinful Living, so that is exactly what we’ll do.
Isn’t that sweet?
10
‘Fantastic, Domina,’ said the girl in the secretarial agency. ‘If you can give us a buzz around half-past five, we’ll let you know if we’ve found you any work for tomorrow.’
Something in these words took a profound hold on Domina and, as she walked back along Notting Hill Gate, she was transfixed by a pang of homesickness. The next eight hours were spent in a sustained and vain combat with the forces of cowardly regret. She bought herself a bag of nectarines and ate them on the top of the eighty-eight bus which she rode to the back door of the Tate, where she passed a valiant hour and a half wandering from room to airy room. The Tate was a favourite gallery; as a rule, the Early English collection never failed to lighten her heart. Today the women looked cold and fat, their lovers insipidly complacent. She drifted into the bookshop to stock up on postcards and spoilt herself with a new study of Fuseli’s life and works. Still the ache persisted. Mindful of the axiom that the gloom of f
riends is the best cure for one’s own, she telephoned Des and invited her out to tea.
Fortnum’s felt dowdy and airless. Des was late, as ever, so Domina went upstairs ahead of her and ordered herself Earl Grey and cinnamon toast. A Senior Wives Fellowship coach party, up for the day, were spread around several tables nearby. From the flashing of catalogues and paper bags, she gathered that they came fresh from the Royal Academy. She amused herself by eavesdropping, and the toast had the perfect balance of sweet crunch and warming spice, so by the time Des waddled into view, her clouds were already lifting.
‘Hello, Des darling.’
‘Hello you,’ snapped Des, blowing her nose.
‘Not hay fever?’
‘No, a bloody awful cold, and yes, isn’t it odd having one at this time of year?’
‘Poor thing,’ tinkled Domina. ‘Have some of my tea and toast while I order some more.’ She couldn’t help noticing Des wince with pain as she sat down. The woman’s hand flew protectively to her armpit. ‘Are you OK, Des?’
‘Fine. Honestly. Just a touch of cramp,’ said Des, and fumbled for her Woodbines while her client poured her some tea. Domina supposed that she was suffering in silence. If illness were in the offing she would worm out the truth. ‘How’s the Great Adventure?’ Des asked.
‘Great. Oh yes, could we have another pot of … you prefer Darjeeling, don’t you Des? … yes, a pot of Darjeeling please,’ Domina told the elderly waitress who was hovering, ‘and another round of cinnamon toast would be lovely. Thanks.’
‘She’s come back,’ Des intoned, as soon as the coast was clear.
‘Sorry. Who?’
‘Stella. Arnold’s wife.’
Mustering a suitably pained expression, Domina ransacked her memory and found one Arnold, a biochemistry teacher who had moved in with Des when his wife walked out on him a year ago. She had only met him once, at an outlandish North London bonfire party at the Peakes’. He had sported a beard and open-toed sandals.
‘Oh God. Des, what’ll happen?’
‘He’ll go back to her, I suppose, now that there’s no need to cry on my shoulder.’
‘When did she come back?’
‘He rang up last night. Said he’d got back from work and found her suitcase in his bedroom and her smalls drying over the bath. Said he thought he should stay over there for the night to see what was going on.’
‘But does he still love … ?’
‘I never knew he could sound so animated,’ she went on bitterly, exhaling smoke between her teeth and crushing the stub in welcome to the new round of toast. ‘Getting ready to wheel her out the fatted calf.’
‘Will she stay?’
‘I expect so. For a year or two. It was her third runner, you know. I was his third Mother Earth. D’you want that other piece of toast?’
‘All yours.’
‘Thanks.’ Des took the last piece of cinnamon toast and munched on it, lugubrious. ‘Go on, then. Tell me your news,’ she said.
‘Oh. Well. Nothing much,’ sighed Domina, feeling quite recovered and trying not to show it. ‘I applied for what Ginny Bingham would call “real work” this morning.’
‘I thought you’d come here to write.’
‘And recharge my batteries. If I were going to sit in my room all day, I might as well have stayed in Clifton.’
‘What kind of work? You’re not qualified to do anything.’
‘I can type, though. I registered at Westminster Bureau to be a temp. It’s bloody good pay, you know. I’d always thought of typists as the City’s little skivvies, but they must be rolling. Three-ninety an hour.’
‘Doctor Turner?’ The elderly waitress was hovering once more.
‘Yes?’ asked Des.
‘There’s a telephone call for you. A lady called Imogen Kramer.’
‘Thanks. Here I come.’
‘Very impressive,’ said Domina. ‘Who is she?’
‘Just another abortive little scheme of mine.’ Des stood and followed the waitress to the telephone. Domina went to wash the stickiness off her hands and to dab on some scent. When she returned to the table, Des was still away. She looked in her bag for some other diversion. The girl at the agency had given her a green plastic satchel. It said ‘Westminster Bureau – Total Temping Package’ on the outside. She pulled it out to take a proper look: Pen, pencil, rubber, shorthand notebook, pocket spelling dictionary and a button-mending kit. Very neat; nothing missing but a packet of tampons.
Des was almost skipping across the carpet. She was radiant. Something was badly wrong.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she laughed, ‘I simply don’t believe it!’ This time, as she sat down, she actually cried out.
‘Des, are you ill?’
‘No, no,’ Des snapped, almost angrily, ‘I said – it’s just cramp. But listen. Amazing news!’
‘What is it? Who is this Kramer woman?’
‘She’s going to buy V.J. Muldoon!’
‘Never!’
‘You should know her, she works on the new women’s venture at Pharos.’
‘You know they never tell me anything.’
‘Well, she wrote to me a few weeks back,’ Des was gabbling with excitement, she snatched a tremulous pause to light up a Woodbine, ‘wrote to me and bowled me over by saying she’d been trying to trace Old Muldoon’s trustees because she was convinced she was due for a revival. Dished me up a load of crap about how Jessamine carried a vital message for the Women’s Movement.’
‘And?’ If Domina had brightened her smile any further, her face would have split.
‘That was her now. She’s talked to the board and they’re prepared to make an absurdly inflated offer for the whole lot. She even wants to produce a boxed set.’
Des had been left sole trustee of the novels of her great-grandmother, who had written under the alias ‘V.J. Muldoon’, had scarcely been le dernier cri in her own day, and had been long out of print by her great-granddaughter’s. Des and Domina had come to use ‘Muldoon’ as a private word for obscure penury. In Domina’s mind, that Des was marked out to be the guardian of these understandably neglected works had set the seal on the comfortable fact of her financial dependence. Now she had to sit, croaking happy platitudes, and hear of the fresh career awaiting Jessamine, Gardyner’s Folly and their kin.
To expiate her envious indignation, she gave Des the new Fuseli book with a convincing spontaneous sparkle before she fell into a taxi. This meant that she now had nothing to read in bed, so she stopped at Hornton Street to enrol in the public library. She walked home over Campden Hill clutching some of the novels she had been meaning to read ever since they won prizes three or more years ago. She lay in a sweaty heap in the armchair in her room, rejecting each in turn, switching off the evening’s Prom, writing and throwing away letters to Randy and the Hateful Bingham. With no television to fill the void of the night ahead, she forced herself to wait until eight o’clock before racing downstairs to cook herself something with the curiosities she had brought home from a health shop. The consequent tofu chowder was disgusting, but she was obliged to eat the lot by the hope that someone would come down to share the vast, empty table with her. No one did. The house remained unexpectedly silent. She washed up her plate and saucepan and climbed the stairs to the attic where, with the aid of a toothmugful of gin and water (Gerald had managed to shatter the Angosturas bottle) she had a damned good cry and sobbed her way into an early night.
11
It was twelve-fifty A.M. and Domina needed a bowl of muesli. The cry had left her eyelids sore, but it had released the tension. As she walked stiffly to her fridge and took out the milk, she recalled having cried ‘Voglio mia Mamma’, through her tears, which was a bad sign and increased the necessity of a midnight feast.
‘Blast!’ The cereal was still on her shelf in the larder. She pulled her dressing-gown around her, dropped her keys into the pocket, and set out for the kitchen with her milk.
The house was now alive. R
adios chuckled from behind closed doors, and people were taking baths. Mr Punjabi was using the telephone on the stairs; at least, he was holding the receiver to one ear. He grinned and said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Tey,’ as she passed him. Domina turned off the chilly tiles in the hall onto the basement staircase, and heard voices from the kitchen. Hearing a girl’s tones as well as Thierry’s, she ran her fingers through her hair before pushing open the door.
Thierry was standing at the stove, making crepes and giggling. A girl, with abundant peroxide hair, was applying make-up and finishing a can of Diet Coke. At the other end of the table sat a boy, eighteen or nineteen, who toyed shyly with a glass of wine. As Domina entered, all three heads turned and the giggling stopped.
‘Hi,’ she enthused, feeling she had stepped on a Red Admiral. Thierry span round, pan in hand.
‘Domina, how absolutely lovely it is to see you!’ he declared in faultless Onslow Square. ‘May I introduce Miss Penelope Havers?’
‘Hi.’
‘… And Mr Billy … er … Billy.’
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, I’m Domina. I moved into the attic on Tuesday,’ said Domina, finding her muesli and a bowl and joining them at the table. ‘Just thought I’d have a midnight snack,’ she added, by way of explanation. Billy stared deeper into his glass and the girl was rapt in smearing a perfect scarlet sheen across her lips. Domina escaped into French. ‘How was work this evening, Thierry?’
‘I can’t stand it much longer. I think I must hand in my notice. As you see, the food is so horrible I have to cook my own! I think I’ll get a friend to swop. We do that, you see; we get bored, so we swop jobs from time to time. I think I’ll go to Blanchflore’s – the food there, c’est exquis. You want a crêpe? I’ve made far too many.’
