‘A bloody dog.’
‘So I gathered.’ Lincoln opened the door to see a skinny old golden retriever staring up at him with liquid brown eyes and a worried brow. He knelt down. ‘Hey there,’ he said, reaching out a hand, trying to calm his bubbling fury so the dog wouldn’t be frightened.
Caesar hesitated a second, clearly sensing the hostility in the room, but then burst into frenzied tail-wagging and tongue-licking. He knocked Lincoln to the floor and sat in his lap.
‘Get out,’ Tom growled. ‘Out!’ He waved the rolled-up TV guide at the dog’s ears as if to hit him, but Lincoln shot him a stare so fierce his father actually pulled his hand back. Caesar dropped his head and leaned his body into Lincoln’s chest.
‘What’s the story? Whose dog is this?’
‘Bloody Mitchell, two doors up. Asked me to throw some food at the dog for a few days while he was in Hobart. Turns out he had no plan to come back.’
Lincoln rubbed Caesar’s ears. ‘So, he’s yours now?’
Tom made an appalled noise in his throat.
‘Are you feeding him? His ribs are sticking out!’
‘He wanders.’
Lincoln rubbed Caesar’s greying muzzle. ‘No home, hey.’ He felt a lurch in his chest. An old dog like this would have a hard time finding a new home. He thought of Elsa, waiting for her son to visit, and the anger hit him again. ‘Why aren’t you looking after him?’ he demanded, still on the floor with Caesar’s panting, bony body in his arms. ‘Look at him.’
‘Not my responsibility.’
‘Well, whose is it? He’s an old dog, Dad. It’s nearly winter and it’s freezing out there. It’ll be snowing soon. How can you just sit by and watch him suffer?’ He knew he was talking about more than this dog. He was talking about Elsa, Tom’s own mother, stuck in a nursing home just six kilometres from Tom’s house. And instead of visiting her and showing some sort of kindness, he was blackmailing her for money.
‘It’s got nothing to do with me,’ Tom shouted, slamming down his mug. ‘I’m not the bloody RSPCA.’
‘But you are a son.’
Tom lifted his chin and examined Lincoln with calculating eyes. ‘So this is why you came? Not to see me, as my son,’ he thrust his pointer finger at his own chest, ‘but to harp on at me about your grandmother.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a piece of work.’
Lincoln gently dislodged the dog and got to his feet. ‘If that’s true, Dad, then the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ He strode to the front door, halted with his hand on the knob, turned back and called to the dog. ‘Come on, Caesar. We’re going home.’
The dog stood there for a second, looking nervously at Tom.
‘Garn, get!’ Tom threatened, and Caesar scrambled as fast as he could out of the house, sinking under a kick from Tom, and jumped into the Honda. Lincoln dropped the clutch and roared out of the driveway, tyres spitting up stones as he went.
He let out a growl of frustration. Just then, Caesar, refusing to stay in the back of the car, forced his way through the gap between the two front seats. He positioned himself across Lincoln’s lap, his nose pressed to the driver’s window. Lincoln had to arch and crane his neck over the dog’s shoulders, the stench of unwashed canine filling his nostrils along with loose hairs; the dog desperately needed a bath and a good brush. No matter how many times he pushed Caesar across to the passenger seat, the dog wormed his way back again.
‘I better not get a ticket, Caesar,’ Lincoln said, reining in his anger and reducing his speed.
He passed through Oatlands and briefly thought about stopping in to show Elsa the dog, but quickly concluded that the nursing staff wouldn’t be impressed to see a pooch of such appearance and fragrance. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to talk to her right now without ranting and raving.
Eventually, Caesar settled across Lincoln’s thighs with his head resting on his paws and his backside on the passenger seat and began breathing heavy, rhythmic breaths that suggested he’d found the most comfortable bed he’d had in years. And soon after, Lincoln found his left hand methodically stroking the dog’s grimy ears, his own breathing slowing in time with his new companion’s. Compassion wrapped itself warmly around Lincoln’s heart and he found himself creeping around corners so as not to wake the dog.
About twenty minutes out from Western Junction, in Campbell Town, warm drool made its way through Lincoln’s jeans and confirmed the dog’s deep slumber. And it made Lincoln smile.
9
The day was stretching into that time of the afternoon when retired folk started thinking of napping before dinner. A gentle lull settled on The Chocolate Apothecary. Christmas put her newest chocolate creations on a polished silver plate in the glass display cabinet and picked up the phone to call Val. The jealousy she’d felt when she heard the news about the wedding had long gone. She was happy for Val and Archie, and excited about the wedding.
‘Ahoy.’
‘Hi, Archie, it’s Christmas. How are you?’
‘Well, my back’s still playing up and the council is saying I need to move at least two of the cars in the front yard, but I’m fighting for my rights. Is a man’s own yard not his kingdom?’ he asked rhetorically.
‘Yes, indeed. I wish you luck with that. Keep me posted, okay? Is Val around at all?’
‘Val!’ Archie roared, only inches from the phone. ‘Christmas is on the line!’
There was the usual array of shouting and thumping noises in the background—the normal sounds of three mid-sized boys on a Saturday afternoon—and Val’s screeching orders to them to Get off your brother and Say you’re sorry, now!
‘Hi, Massy,’ Val said, her calmness at total odds with the shouting she’d been doing just a few seconds ago.
‘Hi. How are things? How are the wedding plans going?’
‘Good. The Leaning Church is booked for the ceremony, and Archie’s mum is finishing up her cake-making course this weekend so she’s bringing around some photos and we’ll choose a design for her to do a test bake. Do you think Cheyenne could line me up with some flowers?’
‘I’m sure she’d be thrilled. Leave it with me to organise. I’ll find out what’s best at that time of year.’ Christmas wrote herself a note and slipped the diary back into her apron pocket. ‘And just so you know, I’m working on some gorgeous wee wedding chocolates at the moment. I’d like to gift you bonbonnieres for everyone at the reception.’
‘Oh, Massy, that would be great. Thanks!’
‘And please, let me give you the flowers too. I’ll work something out with Cheyenne once you’ve chosen what you’d like.’
‘No, it’s too much.’
‘Don’t be silly. My baby sister’s only getting married once.’
‘We hope.’
‘Stop it,’ Christmas said, though she knew Val was joking. Her sister was cheerful by nature, having inherited Joseph’s robust mental strength. And she’d need it, living with all those boys.
‘Dad was talking about you the other day,’ Val said. ‘He was saying how proud he was of everything you’ve done in your life and he said he remembered you as a seven-year-old making tea for Mum when she was having a bad day and how you would sprinkle hundreds-and-thousands in it and tell her it was magic healing dust.’
Christmas was stunned. ‘I’d completely forgotten that.’
‘He said he had too. But he read the article in the in-flight magazine and it all came back to him and he realised you were doing exactly what you’d wanted to do when you were young.’
A lump the size of a small country lodged in Christmas’s throat and she blinked through blurry tears. Seven years old. The year Val was born. The year of her mother’s worst episode that Christmas could remember. The year Darla stared blankly through her eldest daughter’s eyes when Christmas tried to tell her about her day at school. The year Christmas had learned to pick out clothes every morning for her mother, rather than the other way around.
‘What was he doing on a plane?’
she said, needing to change the subject before emotion overwhelmed her. ‘And are you allowed to keep those magazines? I’m never sure.’
‘I’m not sure either. He’d been sent up to Melbourne for some sort of principals’ conference. It was over a weekend. How mean is that? You couldn’t pay me enough to be a teacher.’
‘No, nor me. But that’s Joseph, isn’t it, always conscientious, always trying to do the right thing. You’re a very lucky girl to have him,’ Christmas said, barely a whisper, but still, Val heard.
‘I’m sorry, Massy. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ve made peace with it. I’m happy for you. Now, has Mum RSVP’d?’
‘Not yet,’ said Val. ‘I suppose she’ll just turn up on the day wearing something outrageous.’
‘Animal skins, probably, given her current occupation.’
‘Don’t even joke about it.’
The ship’s bell over the shop door rang, heralding customers. Christmas smiled and gave them a wave. It was Cynthia Heather Who Liked to Wear Leather, with her two sons and daughter, all come for their weekly hot chocolate—Christmas’s own recipe of melted Belgian chocolate and cream. It was so thick it had to be eaten. She served it in small, painted Turkish tea glasses with wooden spoons.
‘Val, I’ve got to go. Give those boys a big hug for me. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
•
By the time he’d reached Western Junction and pulled into the driveway of Elsa’s house, Lincoln realised he was definitely feeling a strong pull of affection and responsibility towards Caesar. The dog had been cast to the elements to fend for himself. The people who’d done this to him, including Tom, who had ignored his suffering, had decided he wasn’t worthy of protection, love or commitment. Well, that ended, right now.
‘Come on, boy,’ Lincoln said, pulling on the handbrake with difficulty, wedged as it was underneath Caesar’s long body. ‘Wakey, wakey. Time to get up.’
Caesar lifted his head and the bags under his eyes drooped, making him look decidedly hung-over. He gazed out through the bug-spattered windscreen and gave a small whine as though realising, either for the first time or with finality, that he’d left his old home for good.
‘You’ll be right, mate,’ Lincoln said, trying to cheer him up with more ear rubbing. ‘Just wait till you see the size of the guest bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed in there that’s got your name written all over it.’
Caesar perked up at that and voluntarily moved off Lincoln’s lap. He shuffled to the passenger-side door, where he waited for his chauffeur to come and open it.
Inside the house, the dog trotted down the hallway, poking his head into every room, then came back to the lounge and lay down with a deep sigh in front of the fireplace.
‘Okay, we’ll make a fire, but first you need a bath,’ Lincoln said, rubbing Caesar’s belly with his foot. ‘Now, what should we bath you in? I haven’t had a dog since I was a kid, so you’ll have to forgive me while I work this out, but I know I can’t use human soap or shampoo on you.’ He checked his watch. It was late but he just had time to nip down to the corner shop and grab some pet shampoo before it shut. Oh, and he’d need dog food too. And a collar. And probably a leash.
‘Do you want to come for a walk?’ he asked Caesar.
Caesar stayed put.
‘Hmm. Okay. Rest up, old fellow, and I’ll be back pronto.’
At the corner store, he found himself standing in front of the pet section, a little overwhelmed. A barrage of accessories implored him to buy them: food bowls, water bowls, collars, leashes, shampoos, conditioners, odour neutralisers, worming tablets, flea products, nail clippers, squeaky toys, rope toys, liver treats, brushes, combs, heartworm tablets. He bought them all, just to be sure.
Back home again, he burst through the door with his arms weighed down by several plastic bags. Caesar, apparently rejuvenated from his nap, jumped to his feet and rushed to greet him, his nose jammed into the bags sooner than Lincoln could get the door closed. He snatched out a rawhide bone, his eyes wide with ecstasy, and began running in circles, looking for a place to lie down and chew it.
Lincoln battled on with the bags and dumped them on the kitchen bench. Taking out the first bottle of shampoo (he’d bought two different types in case Caesar didn’t like the smell of one), he considered his options. He’d never had to bath a dog this size before. The foxy they’d had when he was a small boy could be put into the laundry tub to be washed. That wouldn’t work with Caesar.
He went outside to find the hose, but less than a minute wandering around in the gale-force wind convinced him he couldn’t possibly put the old dog through that; he was skin and bone and the water would be ice-cold.
There was only one thing for it: he’d have to go in the bathtub.
He coaxed Caesar down the hallway and into the bathroom by taking the rawhide bone out of his mouth and getting him to follow it through the house. But as soon as Caesar saw the bathtub, he skidded to a halt and spun on his overgrown toenails.
‘No you don’t,’ Lincoln said, throwing his arms around the dog’s neck. With no collar, he was hard to get hold of, but somehow Lincoln pulled him back into the bathroom, then shut the door so he couldn’t escape.
Caesar cowered in a corner of the room while Lincoln filled the bath with warm water and poured in copious amounts of shampoo to form froth and bubble. The smell of tea tree rose gently on the steam. He opened the linen cupboard next to the vanity and pulled out as many old towels as he could identify—ones with faded colours or tattered edges. He whistled while he laid them on the floor, and spoke in a cheery, spirits-bolstering tone to the miserable-looking dog.
Once the water was sufficiently deep, Lincoln turned off the taps. ‘Okay, mate. Let’s get this done.’
He tried to move Caesar by lifting up his front end and placing his paws ahead of his body, hoping the rest of him would follow. Instead, Caesar went as floppy as a ragdoll and dropped to the brown tiles.
‘Caesar, come on, get up, buddy.’ But Caesar was limp and unresponsive.
Lincoln tried sliding him across the tiles, pushing from behind, but the more pressure he applied the more the dog rolled and seemed to spread across the floor. Every time Lincoln stopped one part of his body from escaping, another part took off in another direction.
‘Huh. Passive resistance. A remarkably effective tactic. Well played,’ Lincoln said, amused. ‘Perhaps I should rename you Gandhi.’
Puffing with exertion, he gave up and hauled the dog to the bath, then placed him gently in the water.
‘There you go,’ he soothed, sponging water over Caesar’s back and legs. He poured more shampoo down his spine and tail, rubbing and rubbing while the water quickly turned brown. Pieces of grass and dead insects and leaves floated on the surface. Lincoln poured more shampoo down Caesar’s legs, on his chest and the top of his head. The dog was soon covered in white foam.
Lincoln pulled the plug and let out the grimy water so he could start afresh. Seeing his opportunity, Caesar leapt out of the tub.
‘Hold on!’ Lincoln shouted as the dog shook himself violently, spraying foam over every surface and Lincoln too.
In spite of Caesar’s vigorous efforts, white drifts still clung to him like snow, and soapy bubbles glistened on his coat. It was clear that the bathtub wasn’t going to cut it. What Lincoln needed was a hose attached to the tap. He rummaged around in the vanity cupboard looking for such an item while Caesar ran in circles, wagging his long tail and flinging more filthy suds around the room. A big splodge whipped across the back of Lincoln’s neck.
He wiped his brow. It was now quite warm in the bathroom. Steam condensed on the walls and mirror and the exertion of manhandling Caesar had made him sweat. He stripped off his shirt and stared at the empty, grubby bathtub, the muddy paw prints on the tiles, and the shower just behind where Caesar now stood, shaking himself from nose to tail.
‘Let’s try this aga
in,’ Lincoln said. He pulled off his boots and socks, undid his belt, took off his jeans and underwear and stood naked in front of his charge. ‘You can’t win, Caesar.’
The dog’s ears flattened in defeat.
Lincoln turned on the shower, made sure the temperature was warm enough, picked up Caesar once more and placed him inside the glass cubicle. He let the water flow over them both, the skinny dog with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the rawhide bone near the door. Lincoln sang as he worked, the sight of the water rushing down the drain filling him with an unexpected and energising sense of triumph.
It was only afterwards, when Caesar sat wet and shivering, his ribs poking out at sharp angles, that Lincoln realised he needed help. He couldn’t leave Caesar like this to catch his death. He needed a hairdryer but didn’t own one himself. But who could he call?
He checked the time. Six o’clock on a Saturday night. Would she be home?
•
Christmas was indeed home, and had finished a meal of chicken soup, one of her staple foods she liked to cook in batches and freeze for the end of working days when she was simply too tired to do anything more than light the gas, pop a saucepan of soup on to heat, and slice off some crusty bread and slather it with butter.
After two bowls of soup she felt revived enough to sit at her desk and check her godmother emails. Mary Hauser had sent a message saying Christmas didn’t need to do anything because she’d managed to secure a washing machine for Veronika with just one phone call—Christmas’s ‘godmother fame’ was spreading, she’d said—and she was working on the newspaper article right now. Christmas smiled. Whenever a godmother gift came together like this it was as though every bad thing in the world was healed just a fraction.
But she’d begun to fall behind on some of her other fairy godmother projects, and had regretfully decided that she’d have to temporarily stop taking on any new requests. She figured it was better to do a smaller number properly, and complete them before she left for France, than a larger number poorly.
The Chocolate Promise Page 10
