We Think the World of You

by J. R. Ackerley

  The expedition was more rewarding than I had dared hope. An almost deserted pub on the far side of Regent’s Park supplied me with what I most needed, a couple of pints of refreshing beer, also with a plate of meat-and-two-veg., which I shared with Evie. On our return I decided to let her mount the stairs by herself, for she could not very well spiral out of the roof; and the experiment was interesting in that the twisting staircase seemed to make her as giddy when she was off the lead as it made me when she was on it. She started off with such speed that I wondered whether she might not acquire a permanent curve in her backbone; but the curve she did acquire was in her mind, for when she reached the landings she constantly lost her sense of direction and, circling still, came flying down again without stopping, so that I was forever meeting and parting from her, gaining her, as it were, only to repel and lose her once more.

  The success of the break ended there. The afternoon passed much as the morning had done, excepting that I was left more severely alone. My outgoing mail, such little as I managed to write, was not collected unless I placed it on the mat outside my door where the incoming mail was now deposited, for the post-girls were too scared to come in. Even so, Evie heard their timid steps and never failed to issue her warning. I left early and, having once more negotiated Baker Street, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens, had the good fortune to find a taxi at Palace Gate to convey us to Hammersmith Bridge. Evie, when we reached home, was as fresh as a daisy; I was not; but strenuous though the day had been I derived retrospective satisfaction from it nevertheless; at any rate I had brought her through it; she had been initiated into my working life, and, meeting her strange gaze as she reclined on the bed, I told her that I hoped she had learnt a rope or two and would do better on the morrow.

  When she woke me I heard a pattering on the roof. The weather was another thing I had omitted from my calculations. What on earth should I do now? Perhaps the rain would stop by the time I was up and dressed. On the contrary it was coming down harder than ever. I knew from experience that one phoned for taxis in vain. I phoned, in vain. Buses were out of the question. How could I walk her to London in this downpour? I stared at her alert, expectant face in dismay. At the base of her ears, in the openings, I noticed, the system of head hair began in a kind of spray. It was as though she had a light gray flower, a puff-ball, stuck in front of each.

  “You little bitch!” I said crossly.

  Then I remembered the Metropolitan Railway in Hammersmith, which I seldom used, though what I regarded as its cynical humor always entertained me when I did. Fair promise, foul reward! After luring one on with the offer of a choice of stations romantically rural in their names—Royal Oak, Goldhawk Road, Shepherd’s Bush, Ladbroke Grove, Westbourne Park—it then ushered one through some of the ugliest and grimiest districts of Central London. But it presented me with a practical solution now; Hammersmith was a terminus; there were no complications of any kind; a train was always waiting, level with the platform, and it would take us direct to Baker Street. When the rain had abated a little we set out.

  Evie behaved abominably. I removed her from the train at Royal Oak, I could no longer endure her piercing and violent challenge to everyone else who got in, nor the cold looks and indignant mutterings cast at me from the other end of the compartment where the rest of the passengers huddled. Why, oh why, I asked myself as I took the intolerable creature out and walked her on through the rain, did she have to go on like that? The same thought recurred to me in my office throughout the day. So obviously brimming with intelligence, so fond of me, why, why, in spite of everything I said to her, did she seem unable to understand that my director and other members of the staff, with whom she saw me constantly in conversation, were therefore friends and could be permitted, they at least, to enter my room without being repeatedly threatened? Before the day’s work was half done she had reduced the whole department to a palpable state of nerves. In the afternoon, in extremity, I fell upon her with an exclamation of rage and gave her the soundest biffing with my hands that she had so far received from me. For a moment she concealed herself beneath my desk; then she emerged and stood looking at me with an expression of such sorrow and, at the same time, such dignity, that, falling forward upon my letters, I sank my head on my arms. “Evie, Evie,” I said miserably as her nose pushed in against my cheek, “what are we to do?” But I knew the answer already. I could not go on. I could not bear another day. I had had enough. The strain and the worry were too great. Her meat was finished and mine too, for I had given her my week’s ration; how could I shop for more? She would have to go back to the Winders in the morning.

  Did she sense that decision? She seemed particularly quiet that evening, gazing at me with her longest and her fondest looks. “Forgive me, sweet creature,” I said. She had, indeed, I knew, lavished upon me in these five days her love and care; according to her notions she had done her best to entertain me and guard me from harm; she had been a good companion.

  The course of betrayal is often made wonderfully easy. Everything conspired the following day to smooth my guilty path. After phoning a wire to Millie to expect us, I started off early and walked Evie all the way to my office—the last long walk she would get for some time—to glance at my letters. When I descended with her to search for a taxi, one cruised towards the entrance of the building as though it had been ordered. At Liverpool Street a train was waiting for us. It was quite empty. Evie got into it without hesitation. No one attempted to board it at any of the other stops. She herself stood silently on the seat with her back to me looking out of the window as though trying to recollect something that had happened before. We were at Stratford in a trice. On the way back to Millie’s she did not pull as much as usual; when we reached the house she turned automatically in at the gate.

  Millie opened the door; and it was instantly evident that something was wrong.

  “Come, Evie,” she said, frustrating the dog’s attempt to greet her. Of me she took no notice at all. Uninvited though I was, I followed them down the passage. To my surprise, for he should have been at work, Tom was in the kitchen eating some fish. He took no notice of me either. Dickie, presumably, was with his minder.

  “ ’Ere, Evie,” said Tom, getting up with his plate in his hand, “ ’ere’s a bit of fish for you.” Evie slunk under the table. “Come on, old lady,” he coaxed her. She remained where she was. With his disengaged hand he lifted the heavy plush tablecloth. Evie’s eyes shone greenly up at him out of the gloom. This was humiliating and provoking. “Go on in!” he exclaimed vexedly, moving round the table to drive her out; and with the way to the scullery now clear, she slid into it. Tom followed her and shut the door. Millie went over to her stove. I was not invited to sit down.

  The silence became oppressive. I punctured it.

  “The journey was easier than I expected.” Millie, her back to me, made no reply. “I hope it hasn’t put you out, my keeping Evie longer than I said?”

  With sudden determination Millie spoke:

  “You know what I think and I haven’t nothing more to say. You promised faithfully you’d bring her back Tuesday and you’ve broke your promise and I won’t never trust you again and we don’t want no more help from you.”

  I looked at her in a consternation not unmixed with guilt. She was scarlet in the face.

  “Promise? I made no faithful promise. I said I’d bring her back Tuesday; then I thought I’d keep her a bit longer and told you so. Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it do matter. And it’s no good you trying now to make it seem it don’t. You took her under false pretenses.”

  “My dear Millie! What are you talking about? Haven’t you had my wires and my letter explaining the difficulties?”

  “Yes, I got your wires and your insultin’ letter. Since you think this ’ouse is ’orrid and nasty and not fit for a dog to live in, I don’t know how you can set foot in it yourself, and you’re not called on to do so no more.”

  She was clearly extremely angr
y and, I thought, close to tears.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” I said mildly. “But I must say I don’t see how. I’ve certainly never insulted you intentionally. I’ve only been thinking of the dog’s good, I’ve kept you informed and, after all, I’ve brought her back.”

  “Yes, but only after I wrote you like I did.”

  “Wrote me? I’ve had no letter from you.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Millie, on a less confident note.

  “Millie dear! Don’t call me a liar. I’ve had no letter from you at all.”

  “Then why have you brought her back just now?”

  “Because I couldn’t keep the poor creature any longer. I told you in my letter that I was afraid she’d be too much for me.” Her angry gaze examined me incredulously still. “When did you write?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I left my flat early this morning, before the post came.”

  But she had gone too far to retract.

  “Well, you’ll find it when you go home, and I don’t take back nothing that I said in it. You promised you’d bring Evie back Tuesday, and you not only broke your promise but you wrote me an insultin’ letter what has hurt my feelings very much. I know my Johnny’s in prison without you keep throwing it in my face, but I won’t have you nor no one call him cruel, for a more tender-’earted boy never lived as never ’urt a animal in his life, and Evie was quite all right here too in this ’orrid house, well fed and well looked after——”

  “My dear Millie,” I interposed irritably, “I know that perfectly well, and I’ve never said anything different. All I said was that she was never taken out, and that it wasn’t right. And you yourself agreed it wasn’t right. And if it wasn’t right it was wrong. And since Johnny knows that his dog never goes out——”

  “Well, he don’t know,” said Millie defiantly, “for he wasn’t told. Tom told him different.”

  Silence fell upon this statement.

  “I see,” I said at last. “Tom lied to him.”

  Millie flushed and turned away.

  “Call it what you like. There wasn’t no call to worry the boy. He’s got plenty enough to worry him already.”

  “He’ll have plenty more,” I remarked dryly, “when the dog bites the baby.”

  Tom re-entered the room and, without glancing at me, sat down in his arm-chair. His face with its leaden coloring and hollow cheeks looked even uglier than usual. That they were both waiting for me to go could not have been more obvious. Reluctant as I was to leave matters like this, what could I do? It was, after all—their silence conveyed it as eloquently as speech—none of my business. What held me a little longer was simply the closed scullery door. I looked at it and a feeling of physical sickness seized me. She loved me and I had given her up. Could I ask to say good-bye to her? But I was frightened. The anger in the room frightened me. There was nothing left but to say good-bye to them.

  “Then I will go,” I said. “Good-bye.”

  Millie had the grace to say good-bye too, though without turning around. Tom said nothing. Neither of them saw me to the door.

  Millie’s letter was waiting for me. I picked it up and went into the kitchen. On the floor was Evie’s water-bowl and the vegetable remains of her dinner of yesterday. I emptied and washed both the dishes and put them away. The place was as silent as the grave. On the way to my sitting-room I trod on something in the passage. It was a carrot. A feeling of the deepest dejection overcame me, and I sat for some time motionless in my chair, Millie’s letter unopened in my hand. Then I read it.

  Frank,

  I received your letter, part of which was insulting, you came here on Saturday and said that as you had some free time, you thought it would be a good idea to take Evie for a weekend with a promise that you would bring her back on Tuesday, you have not only broken your promise to me, but betrayed my trust in you, Evie was quite happy here too, and for 6 months I have fed and looked after her and all through the cold winter weather Tom has not only lost time from work but has gone and lined up in the cold for her meat and now that she has grown into a fine bitch and we have got her free from worms, you come along and take her from us, but she has got to come back. My son who is the owner of the dog, gave her to me to look after, until he could look after her himself and said that no one was to have her, also you got Evie up there and you can bring her back to Stratford and to the life in my house that is so dreadful. And lastly I know only too well that my son is in prison without you throwing it in my face and you are wrong, he loves animal as much as his children and would not dream of having it shut up, like he is himself. I am very annoyed over this affair, but it is not the first time your horrid words has made a lump come in my throat, I shall be home at 12 o’clock Thursday when I shall expect Evie.

  Millie.

  And 12 o’clock Thursday was the very time I had taken her back. No wonder Millie had thought it cause and effect! What a good thing I had not received the letter first—if she believed I had not. But the genuineness of my denial had impressed her I felt sure. A barge passed silently down the river across my window, as though drawn by an invisible thread. . . . How quiet the flat was, unbearable. . . . I trailed aimlessly back to the kitchen and trod on the carrot again. With a sudden howl of rage and pain I picked it up and hurled it into the dustbin. Bloody cheek, treating me like that! And after all I’d done for them! Stupid people, ignorant and obstinate, daring to assert themselves against me! Anyone would think I’d been trying to steal the blessed dog. Tom was at the bottom of it, of course. “Tom won’t like it when he finds her gone.” What a pity I hadn’t taken her back Tuesday. Millie had been on my side then. Now she wasn’t. Tom had fussed her up. “False pretenses”—he’d put the phrase into her head I was sure. “What did I tell yer? ’E don’t mean to bring ’er back. ’E took ’er under false pretenses. You didn’t ought to ’ave let ’er go, mate. You won’t never see a ’air of ’er no more. ’E ’ad ’is eye on ’er from the start.” I could hear him saying it. “Val’able bitch”—but no, they couldn’t have thought! It was too monstrous! Johnny had offered me the dog in the first place, and had sanctioned my taking her out since. What did it matter to them if I took her for a walk or a week? She wasn’t their dog anyway, and—Millie must know it—Johnny would be delighted for me to have her for as long as I wished, especially considering. . . . But of course he didn’t know! They’d lied to him, or Tom had! And Millie had let the lie pass! “There wasn’t no call to worry the boy.” But that wasn’t the reason at all; it was to save Tom’s ugly mug. “If you and Tom goes on taking her out,” Millie had quoted in that earlier letter. Yes, that was it! He’d promised to take her out and then been too idle to do so, but he’d pretended he was doing so all the same! How disgraceful! How wicked! And he’d had the impertinence to call Megan “sly.” And honest Millie had connived at the lie! But she’d been ashamed! She’d gone as red as a turkey cock! What a crew! So Johnny had no notion what was happening to his wretched dog! But he’d know when Megan saw him and gave him my message. Today was Thursday; she’d probably been already. Well, we would see. . . . Meanwhile what was I to say to Millie? For Evie’s sake I had better be careful. Indeed yes, what a pity I hadn’t taken her back on Tuesday. Yet I would have kept her even longer if I could! The letter misted over as I gazed at it. I would have kept her for ever, for ever and ever. . . . But they were not to know that. . . .

  Dear Millie,

  I found your letter waiting for me when I returned. I’m so sorry to have upset you by keeping Evie a little longer than I said, but I did not think it would matter. I knew that Johnny would be grateful to me for giving her the exercise she needs and which you can’t give her and Tom won’t, so I thought you would be pleased too, the more so since you often say she is such a nuisance. I never intended to insult your house. I only said it was bad for her to be shut up in it, just as it would be bad for her to be shut up in mine. And I see now that I was wrong to find fault with Johnny, since it
seems that he was not told the truth. I can say no more than this, and I shall, of course, respect your wish about sending no further help.

  yours sincerely.

  Dear Frank,

  thank you for your welcome letter which I received safe this morning, I am entirely to blame for going off at you like I did and I am very sorry indeed and hope you will except my apology, Dickie is not at all well, I should have taken him to the doctor today but he seemed so queer as he has a cold and also two more teeth nearly through the poor kid is having a tough time, one side he has like a large egg the side of his face, I have got flannel with camforated oil on it around his throat also enough medicine until Monday. I hope you are keeping well this changeable weather.

  all the best and love.