A Dog Called Jack

by Ivy Pembroke

  “Wow,” said Sam. “You make me very glad I have mostly avoided first dates to this point in my life.”

  “Well, you’re on one now.”

  “Not at all,” Sam said. “As you yourself pointed out, this is at least our third date. Fourth if you count meeting at the school that time.”

  “Surprisingly, I don’t know if I’m going to count your son’s Year 4 orientation as a date,” deadpanned Libby.

  Sam smiled and stepped over a pile of discarded napkins, crumpled on the damp grass. He said, “But to go back to your original question: not too prying. My wife died a few years ago, and I felt like I’d finally . . . closed the door on that portion of my life. Which sounds harsh, and I don’t mean it to sound harsh, but there was a lot of grieving and a lot of adjusting, and then Teddy and I came out the other side, and I felt like everyone around us just . . . wasn’t going to let us. Like, everywhere I went there were all of these preconceived notions about how I ought to be behaving. And I realized suddenly that I’d neglected keeping up friendships over the years, meaning that the only people left around us were people I had known through Sara—my wife—and suddenly I wanted to . . . stand on my own? I guess you could say? In a way. I felt like I needed a chance to meet myself again. So I came home.”

  “I think that’s very brave,” said Libby.

  Sam glanced at her, and she looked serious and kind, but with not a trace of pity in her face. More her face was shadowed with something like respect, Sam fancied. He said drily, “That’s very kind of you. I think poor Teddy thought it rather foolhardy.”

  Libby shrugged. “Many worthwhile things look foolhardy in the beginning. Teddy’s too young to realize how truly tricky life is. He thinks the right thing to do will always be obvious. Bless them. Sometimes, at this age, I think I’m catching them right at that last gasp of childhood, right before everything becomes complicated and swallows them up.”

  “I know,” Sam said ruefully. “I’m trying desperately to enjoy it. I know I’ll miss this in a few years. But honestly, having a child is like . . . a constant open wound.” He heard himself say it, and then winced. “Wow, that sounds . . . horrible. But—”

  “I get it,” Libby said. “I may not have any children myself, but that means I have all of your children, basically. And I may not love to the absoluteness that a parent loves, I know that, but I know that that’s what love does to you: it leaves this constant open, vulnerable area that can be so easily pressed against and injured.”

  And Sam thought that Libby was amazing, for understanding what he was trying to say, and wondered wildly if it was too early in all of this to say, I think you’re amazing. What were the rules?

  Libby went on before he could decide. “If it makes you feel better, Teddy’s doing really well. Much better than at the beginning of the year. Not that he was doing poorly then, but there’s always an adjustment period. Luckily Pari’s taken him somewhat under her wing, and Pari is a force to be reckoned with. And I think he’s finally getting into the swing of the schedule. He told me the other day that he’s even starting to understand design technology. I can think of no higher form of praise, coming from Teddy.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Sam said seriously.

  “Oh, it’s really mostly Teddy,” Libby said. “And the job you’re doing raising him.”

  “You’ve made an enormous difference. You’ve made him feel safe and supported. He adores you.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Libby, smiling. “He’s sweet. Takes after his dad.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and laughed a bit, a little embarrassed and unsure how to take the compliment. So he decided to change the subject. “Tell me about you. Libby Quinn. Short for Elizabeth?”

  Libby nodded. “Indeed.”

  “And you were born here?”

  Libby shook her head. “A little village outside Bristol.”

  “But you always wanted to live in London?” Sam guessed.

  “I did,” said Libby. “Plus my mum died, and she was the main reason I had been in Bristol. So, like you, I was looking for a fresh start and I came here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said, “about your mother.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” Libby replied.

  Sam determined not to let the awkwardness last more than a moment. He said, “Do you like it here?”

  “I like it more now,” Libby said, with a sly sideways smile. How many species of smile did she have? Sam wondered. He wanted to catalogue them all. “It’s getting better.”

  Sam decided to play along. “Most places improve with my presence.”

  Libby chuckled, and then said thoughtfully, “You know how it is. You move to an entirely new place, it takes a little while to get your feet under you. I’d lived in my village all my life. I moved to London as an adventure, and it just . . . it’s not as easy to meet people as I’d imagined it would be. Great, big, seething metropolis, I thought we’d all be bumping into each other endlessly. But the truth is, I think people react to being constantly surrounded by other humans by closing in on themselves. In the village, you bumped into people and you’d say hello. But here, you bump into people and you say, ‘Excuse me.’ It’s taken me a little while to get used to it. I envy you, actually.”

  “Envy me?” echoed Sam.

  “Your street seems very close, and I think that’s lovely. You don’t see that much in London.”

  Sam considered. “I guess so. I really wanted that. I liked the idea of it. After all, I came here because I wanted to make friends.”

  “And you just went out and did it,” said Libby. “I admire that.”

  “Well, now that I reflect upon it, I suppose it was mostly Jack.”

  “Ah, yes, I have heard a great deal about Jack. Your dog, I gather.”

  “The street dog.”

  “The street dog?” said Libby. “What does that mean?”

  “He’s the dog who belongs to the street. We all share him. And at first when I moved in I thought it was as odd an idea as you do. I thought Jack would create all sorts of problems. I thought another creature to be responsible for was the opposite of what I needed. But now I . . . now I think Jack is really exactly what all of us needed. Jack brings all of us together. Jack does the opposite of creating problems. Jack solves them.”

  “He sounds like a remarkable dog,” said Libby.

  “He is,” Sam agreed, almost surprised to hear how he felt about Jack. Then he said, “And how did I end up babbling at you about our street dog?”

  “It’s okay,” said Libby. “It’s charming.’ ” She stopped walking, forcing Sam to stop as well, to turn and look at her.

  She had her collar turned up against the cold and her hair flattened around her head by the bright green hat she was wearing and she was so dazzlingly beautiful that Sam thought she looked like some sort of adorable wood sprite deposited in the midst of everyone.

  Libby said, “I don’t usually do things like this, and now I’m thinking that that might be what I’ve done wrong in London. I haven’t been willing enough to step forward and say things to people, and maybe I’ve let things . . . Anyway. I like you. I like you more every time I get to see you. And I think you like me, too, but if I’m reading this wrong, if you could just—before it gets awkward for Teddy—”

  Sam, with little forethought but with single-minded intention, stepped forward and curled his fists into the conveniently turned-up collar of Libby’s coat and pressed his lips against hers. Once, then twice. And then she uttered a little sigh and lifted her hands, carding them through Sam’s hair, and then Sam kissed her. The sort of kiss that reminded you why poets wrote sonnets about kisses, the sort of kiss that reminded you of the point of them.

  He drew back the merest breath and murmured, “I think you’re amazing,” deciding it was definitely not too early to say that.

  Libby’s cheeks were pink and her lips were pink and her eyes were bright and she looked deliciously well-kissed and her hands
curled into Sam’s hair as if to keep him forever there, which was ridiculous because Sam was never going anywhere.

  The booms and crackles and whooshes and rumbles of the firework display started, somewhere over their heads, casting Libby’s green eyes in shades of sparkling gold.

  Libby whispered, “Fireworks,” and Sam was fairly certain she wasn’t speaking literally.

  * * *

  It had been a very long time since Bill had gone on an outing for Bonfire Night. Normally he stayed home and made himself a nice cuppa and turned on the telly. If he was lucky, it was a night when Jack had decided to stay over, which meant there was someone there for him to criticize the telly to (and the telly always deserved criticism).

  On the whole, Bill had always told himself, staying in for Bonfire Night was much the best way to celebrate Bonfire Night. Firework displays were noisy messes and bonfires were thoroughly unnecessary and it was, on the whole, much more sensible to stay inside where it was warm and comfortable and didn’t cost one any money and didn’t require one to be surrounded by dodgy strangers.

  This was what Bill was reminding himself of, as he stood in the damp cold surrounded by—of all people—neighbors. He was reminding himself that being alone wasn’t so bad. That there was no need to get used to having all of these people around him. That he most certainly did not need all of these people around him. He had, after all, passed many a pleasant evening without all of this fuss and bother and nonsense.

  And yet.

  And yet it was rather nice.

  Max’s young man or husband or whatever a person wanted to call him was a nice enough fellow, who spoke to Bill very politely about proper topics like the weather, and was solid and practical in a way that Bill approved of. Max was decent but he could be flighty. The Indian family had always seemed rather loud and chaotic to Bill, and his opinion hadn’t changed on that front, but at least they appeared to be friendly in their own loud and chaotic way. Bill didn’t know the Polish bloke very well, but he seemed steady enough, and the Polish girl had smiled at him in a pleasant way.

  And then there was Teddy, who slipped close to him as the bonfire roared and said, “Hi.”

  Bill looked at him, this small American boy who had moved next door and insisted on . . . talking to him. Bill supposed he could talk back. “So,” he said. “What do you make of your first Bonfire Night?”

  Teddy smiled at him. “Pretty good so far. A little damp.”

  ‘It’s England,” Bill said.

  “It makes sense that you have to light a fire before the fireworks begin,” said Teddy, smile wide.

  Bill, out of practice with having a lengthy conversation like this, smiled in a tolerant way (or at least hoped that he did, and also hoped that would serve well as a reply).

  Apparently it served well enough, because Teddy kept talking (or maybe he didn’t need any encouragement). He said, “I’m looking forward to the fireworks. I love fireworks. Do you like fireworks?”

  Bill wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wondered if it wouldn’t be better to go back to not having to have conversations like this. He tried to consider the question seriously, to arrive at the right answer, and settled on, “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about it.”

  Teddy said, “Well, if you stopped to think about them, you’d probably like them, because they’re pretty amazing.”

  Which was when the firework display started, with a huge series of bangs. Teddy turned his face toward the sky, his joy obvious.

  Bill, after a second, looked toward the sky himself. Lights burst across it, showering down sparks of color. Bill, watching the show, wondered why he’d stopped going to them, wondered why he’d stopped thinking about fireworks.

  Because fireworks were brilliant.

  * * *

  It was much, much later when Pen finally sat down with her laptop again. She and Anna had had another cup of tea together, and then she had helped Anna home with her cats, and then she had returned home to the waiting Jack, who had rolled over to display his belly for some scratches. Jack had seemed calm as the remainder of the firework displays played themselves out, even bored. He snoozed happily at her feet, and Pen leaned out the windows and tried to see if she could see the displays in the skies.

  Then the neighbors began straggling back, chattering loudly and happily. Pen smiled, because it was a nice sound to have on the street. She sent Jack bounding out to all of them, and he danced around them barking in greeting and tripped over his own enthusiasm, and the kids basically fell on top of him in return.

  Pari and Teddy, once they were done fussing over Jack, waved to her and said the fireworks were so cool and amazing when she asked, and then Teddy started to say something about someone—possibly Miss Quinn—but was silenced by Sam suddenly playfully capturing his head in a headlock and waving cheerfully at Pen as he did so. Darsh and Diya also waved, apparently still oblivious to the fact that Sai was lingering behind them near Emilia. Part of Pen wanted to stop Emilia and Marcel, tell them what she’d discussed with Anna that night, but the larger part of Pen knew that it was Anna’s to share alone.

  Max said, as he walked by hand-in-hand with Arthur, “Hello there, Pen. How’d our Jack do?”

  “Oh, flying colors,” Pen replied, and looked at Mr. Hammersley, who was walking along with them. “How was it, Mr. Hammersley? Have a good time?”

  “It was all right,” replied Mr. Hammersley gruffly.

  Max threw Pen a wink.

  Pen grinned and went inside and settled into bed with her laptop.

  Where she found her blog still open.

  She reread her last few sentences, about Anna. Anna who had just spent the evening with her, being kind and honest and . . . and who was Pen, to be writing about her in this way? To be writing about any of them? What had she been doing here? Treating her neighbors as if they were fictional characters in a story?

  Pen deleted everything she had written for the blog that night and wrote instead: Happy Bonfire Night, all! If you’ve been following this blog, I thank you, and I do hope you’ve enjoyed it. However, I’ve decided to bring it to a close. No more adventures of Jack the Street Dog and the street who belongs to him! You see, I think what I’ve learned is: those adventures belong to Jack, and to us. :-)

  Chapter 12

  In honor of Remembrance Day, Year 4 will be visiting a local church, where we will pay a solemn tribute to those who have lost their lives for us. It will be a fitting way to impress upon the children the importance of remembering the past as we move forward into an exciting future.

  —Miss Quinn

  Max’s Christmas decorations were complicated enough that they appeared in stages. At the moment, he was working on a detailed woven tapestry that he spent hours one day creating by the rosebushes in his front garden, watched over by Jack, who lazed on the pavement and contributed helpful suggestions by way of periodic barking fits. Sam spent the day procrastinating work in favor of watching the complex project.

  He eventually remarked, as he went outside to wait for Teddy to come home from school, “That is quite a production.” Jack came over to say hello, tail wagging, and Sam scratched behind his ears.

  Max looked up and grinned. “Got to have impressive Christmas decorations. Who would want to buy art from an artist who has dull Christmas decorations?”

  “I suppose you have a point,” Sam agreed, even though he’d never given any thought to that particular subject before.

  Max, stepping back to examine his creation with a cocked head, said, “Of course, it’s difficult to judge how it’s going to look during daylight hours. It may be gray and gloomy but that’s no substitute for genuine night.” Apparently satisfied, he turned from his front garden to face Sam. “When are you putting your decorations up?”

  “I haven’t thought about it yet,” Sam admitted. “In America, we used to wait until after Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, if you want help, I am happy to help. Once I’m don
e with my own, I think I’m going to make Bill a display.”

  “Really?” Sam lifted his eyebrows. “And what does he say about that?”

  Max laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll come around. I’m ace at persuasion. Anyway, how are things with you? How’s ‘Miss Quinn’?”

  Sam had only one complaint about the kisses he’d shared with Libby on Bonfire Night, and that was that he’d been teased mercilessly about them ever since. He had so far managed to keep the matter from Ellen, but he was sure that Teddy would tell her about them as soon as he saw her.

  Sam said, with exaggerated patience, “Fine.”

  “And have you considered what you’re going to do for a second date? How you’re going to top the romance and mystique of Bonfire Night?”

  “Ha ha,” said Sam, and thought maybe life was easier when his neighbors didn’t really talk to him at all.

  “It’s a tricky time of year to start seeing someone,” Max remarked. “Christmas is right around the corner. You have to consider what level of gift you ought to get her. Very stressful.”

  “You could be a more supportive person, you know,” Sam informed him.

  Luckily, the children came down the street from school before Max could make Sam panic any further about the status of his relationship with Libby, and Sam greeted Teddy, who launched immediately into a hotly indignant complaint about school.

  “Miss Quinn says we can’t have Jack in the play! She says it’s against the rules!”

  “Well,” said Sam, “I’m sure she knows what the rules are.”

  “Well, the rules are stupid,” said Teddy. “The rules shouldn’t apply to Jack. Jack’s special. Does she know about Jack?”

  “She knows about Jack’s existence, yes.”