by Fiona Gibson
‘Why couldn’t we bring Surf?’ Midge asks, rocking wildly.
‘He’d get too excited, run off and go crazy.’ Too much noise and color are triggers for Surf—as are running taps and music (particularly the higher octave). Queen, he can cope with, unless it’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’ which makes him snappy and irritable. Passing traffic causes anxiety. I hope he’s behaving, being left home alone all afternoon. On workdays I pop home during breaks between lessons. Dogs are meant to greet their owners with bounding enthusiasm. Surf looks deflated when he sees me, as if I’m a blind date who’s failed to meet with his high expectations. Or maybe he’s just disappointed that I’m not Dad.
Jojo wants to get off the wheel and ride on the ghost train, but we’re trapped at the top, in this quivering basket. Midge smears buttercream from her lips onto her camouflage T-shirt. ‘We’re going back,’ she says suddenly.
Jojo jabs her with an elbow.
‘What?’ Midge mouths.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe it’s stuck.’
‘No,’ Midge murmurs, looking down at the crowds, ‘I mean we’re going home. To Birmingham. We’re moving back in with Dad.’
My stomach lurches. ‘You mean all of you?’
‘Yeah,’ Midge says dully.
‘But why?’ You can’t is what I mean. You can’t leave, not now.
‘’Cause Mum’s fallen in love with Dad again,’ Jojo says, without looking at me.
‘That’s great,’ I manage to say.
‘Suppose so,’ Midge murmurs.
‘So you’ll be going back to your old school?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And your old house.’
‘Uh-huh.’ They’re probably making this up. Kids have wild imaginations, like kaleidoscopes twirling too fast. They crave happy endings, like in the wild swans story, when Elise threw the nettle coats over the birds and she had brothers again.
‘Are you pleased,’ I ask, ‘about going back?’
‘Of course,’ Jojo says. ‘He’s our dad.’
The big wheel starts turning, bringing the three of us slowly down to earth.
I drop off the girls at their house and drive to the supermarket, where I gaze at the shelves of pet food. Phrases like natural juices and gently cooked quality meats crop up over and over on the lurid labels.
There are varieties for small dogs and big dogs. As Surf comes somewhere between, I choose Bouncer Lamb with Vegetables for Large Breeds because he has a large-breed personality. I have stopped minding the pungent smell when I open a tin, or perhaps just don’t notice anymore. My house probably reeks of mutton laced with Jean Patou, which might explain why a new pupil switched from weekly to fortnightly lessons with no warning. Her mother said, ‘Melissa’s finding it hard to fit her practicing, with all her other activities.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, figuring I’d just take Surf for a walk instead. I no longer feel as if I should fill every spare minute with teaching.
I check my shopping list. My handwriting, which once merited school prizes, has deteriorated to a lopsided scrawl. I pick up the fruit I’m forcing myself to consume, to keep vitamin levels up, and fill the boot with my shopping. My car has been fixed but is, according to the garage man, nearing its end. I used to check its oil and water and clean it regularly, inside and out. Its interior has acquired a dusting of crumbs and pale dog hairs, and smells oily, of Surf. I even let children eat candy floss in it. Jojo, whose turn it was to ride in the front on the way home from the fair, dropped tufts of pink fluff at her feet.
At home, Surf has gnawed a cushion, dragging out its white stuffing like lumps of fake beard. I snatch the Yellow Pages from the bookshelf and find dog-related services—Boarding Kennels, Dog Breeders, Dog Grooming—but no foster homes for unruly hounds, no canine adoption services.
I coax Surf from the sofa and into his fraying basket in the corner of the living room. He settles himself onto its grubby green cushion and gives me an accusing look. Before becoming a pet owner I hadn’t realized that dogs can actually glare. And it does smell in here—of Surf’s fur and breath. I have tried to bathe him but the sound of the tub being filled had him barking frenziedly and scurrying downstairs away from my bottle of Glossy Doggy shampoo and flannel. Nothing would placate him—not even a pig’s ear from Feathers ’n’ Fur—and he calmed down only when the water had swilled down the plug hole.
Diane told me that Jojo still freaks when having her hair washed. They’ve tried the shower, bath with towel over the face, dry shampoo that accumulated in floury lumps and made her hair look even dirtier. ‘You’ve just got to keep at it,’ she said, ‘and show them who’s boss.’
‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘I’m used to his dog smell.’
Diane and the girls had a dog, back in Birmingham: a stout yellowish thing with wiry fur and a permanently dribbling nose. Diane had wanted to call him Flash, like the Queen song, but he was too idle to Flash anywhere. Midge had insisted on Zack, a space-age name.
George was so torn up when they left that they agreed to take only the hamster and leave Zack (plus, their new landlord didn’t allow dogs). According to Diane, Zack is the most well-behaved animal you could ever encounter.
After feeding Surf, I rap on her door. She appears with her hair trapped beneath a shower cap, possibly gleaned from that Wolverhampton hotel, and wine-colored dye smeared all over her forehead. ‘Stella,’ she says, ‘come in—can I help you with anything?’
I watch, transfixed, as an inky dribble descends toward her left eyebrow. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I think you can.’
Maggie wants to move out of Silverdawn Cottage to a smart, modern bungalow in Penjoy Village. She wants people around her—amenities. Without Dad she feels isolated. The garden, like Surf, is proving too much to cope with. She can’t bear to see it running wild, after all the work he put in.
I think, He’s been gone for less than a month.
‘So you’re selling the house,’ I say, cradling the phone in bed.
‘No, dear, Silverdawn’s only rented. I’ll just give four weeks’ notice.’ She says this as if I should have known. None of it—not even the garden—was really Dad’s.
‘Have you started packing?’ I ask.
‘Nearly done, no need for you to come and help,’ she says, even though I haven’t offered.
‘You sound pretty organized.’
‘Getting there, Stella. Just a few bits and pieces now, which I’m hoping to sell—kitchen table, chairs, your dad’s desk….’
‘I wish I’d known.’
‘I’ve kept some things I thought you’d like,’ Maggie rattles on. ‘His books, all his cookery things—the implements….’
She set this in motion, without telling me, in case I asked her to stop.
‘You don’t want me to come, do you?’
‘Visit me when I’ve moved, got the place looking nice. I’m very busy at the moment, breaking up the house….’
It sounds like she’s snapping bits off, like Hansel and Gretel at the witch’s house. ‘I wish you weren’t doing this,’ I say.
‘Well, I’m sorry. I just feel I have to move on.’
I start to say he was my dad—she can’t do this without my permission, without asking me—but it comes out as ‘He was mine.’
And Maggie’s voice wavers as she says, ‘He was mine, too.’
‘What we’re talking about,’ Diane says firmly the following Saturday, ‘is an unruly kid. When it comes down to it, there’s little difference between children and dogs.’
The five of us—Diane, the girls, me and Surf—have arrived at the grassy expanse in the park where the Slab used to be. She has ordered Jojo and Midge to sit quietly on a bench, not to cause any distraction. ‘I want to help,’ Midge whines, but Diane wants no interference. ‘I need to work with the owner,’ she announces, as if she’s forgotten that she knows me, ‘and establish some ground rules.’
Her newly wine-colored hair looks lik
e a wig she’s wearing for a joke. Surf bounds around my shins, trying to shut out her strident voice. It must be her training voice. ‘Often,’ she says, ‘discipline problems start at home. Surf can’t be told off for begging at the table, then offered tidbits. Consistency’s what we’re talking about.’ I think of the countless times I’ve caught Midge flicking Party Hoop crumbs from the table in the direction of Surf’s snapping jaws.
‘Is there any point in this?’ I ask. ‘Dad said surf’s untrainable.’
‘No dog’s untrainable, Stella. It’s good for him, to learn to respond to instruction. We’re strengthening the bond between dog and owner.’
Owner. I am Surf’s owner. He licks my hand tentatively. Given time, he might actually like me.
I must walk with him as I normally do, so Diane can identify problems. There are so many—he strains forward, then tries to snap at the lead, finally plonking his rear on the damp grass—that she looks quite exhausted, and we haven’t even begun to teach him anything yet.
Patience is vital. I must never lose my rag, never shout at him. ‘You’ll put him off,’ Diane says, as we hurry home through proper rain. ‘We can mix in some games for him—lots of praise and affection. Learning should be fun. But you’ll need a proper choke-lead instead of this ragged bit of leather. Next lesson, we’ll help him achieve a successful sit.’
I thank Diane, repeating her mantra as Surf lurches indoors: I am the boss around here. Leader of the pack.
Alex turns up as I’m finishing a lesson. Melissa is showing potential, despite the fact that her previous teacher—a shouter, apparently—nearly put her off music altogether. I’m trying to be extra-patient, like in Diane’s obedience classes.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex says at the door, ‘you’re busy….’
‘Come in, we’re nearly finished. You can wait in the kitchen.’ I wave a hand in its direction, forgetting that he lived here, that this was once his kitchen, too.
He ambles through to the living room the instant she’s gone, and slides his arms around me. I’m conscious of the roughness of his sweater, how unfamiliar his body feels now. I pull away and offer to make coffee.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks, lacing the words with concern.
‘I’m okay. Sometimes I forget and think he hasn’t sent me a recipe for ages. I’ll even check my post for his handwriting. You know how he was—I’d get three in a week, then nothing for months.’
‘Like busses,’ Alex says, trying to lighten the air.
He won’t sit down properly but perches on the table’s edge. Surf growls irritably from the basket. ‘And you’ve taken on his dog,’ he adds.
‘I haven’t taken him on. He’s just mine now.’
‘You’re not going to find him another home?’
‘Why, are you offering?’
He laughs and says, ‘It’s not really the right time.’
I look at him. He hasn’t come to check on my welfare but to tell me something. ‘So,’ I say, ‘what’s happening with you?’
‘That girl I was seeing,’ Alex says. He looks levelly at me. I feel nothing.
‘You’re still seeing her,’ I venture, to fill the space. ‘It doesn’t matter, Alex. You can do what you like.’
‘She’s pregnant.’
‘Lucky you.’ There’s a thud inside me. Surf bounds off his basket and nuzzles against me, then lies on his side with his legs flexed, wanting a belly scratch. I crouch beside him, grateful for the distraction.
Alex sighs, choosing the words that won’t make him seem like the bad guy. ‘We’re not together anymore, but I’ll still be around, be involved. I just thought you should know.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’ So that’s his latest project: a baby. Unlike a fishing rod, it can’t be hidden away at the back of a wardrobe and replaced with an acoustic guitar.
‘I’m not ready, you know, to be a dad,’ he continues. ‘It’s not as if we planned it. We didn’t mean it.’ Didn’t mean to do it, like Midge burning herself on the grill pan.
‘What’s her name?’ I ask.
‘We haven’t decided on names yet,’ he says, thinking I mean the baby and not the long-legged girl from the market.
‘And when’s it due?’
‘She’s got four months to go.’ He gives me that big-eyed look that once turned me butter-soft and got me to promise that I’d spend more time with him and play my flute less often.
This time, it doesn’t work.
He tries to hug me again but I turn away and press firmly on surf’s back, the way Diane showed me, to help him achieve a successful sit. ‘I’ve never held a baby,’ Alex adds. ‘Don’t know what to do with them.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ I say.
Diane isn’t using a cowboy company like Easy Moves because George, the girls’ dad plus his two brothers are bringing a van in which their possessions will be lovingly loaded and transported back to Birmingham. ‘He’s insisting on doing the removal himself,’ Diane tells me. ‘I think he’s scared that I might change my mind.’ She stuffs cushions into a bin bag and knots it firmly.
‘I could take the girls out,’ I suggest, ‘so you can finish packing in peace.’
‘Please,’ she says, ‘they’re doing my head in,’ even though they’re quietly watching a Scooby video. Diane won’t disconnect the TV and video until they’re ready to go.
‘Could you pack their swimming things?’ I ask.
She exhales, figuring: another job to add to the list. ‘Give me five minutes,’ she says, untying the black bag and gently placing the toaster on a cushiony nest.
‘Stella,’ Jojo says as she climbs into the car, ‘I’m just not keen, you know, on going in the sea. All that stuff, around your legs—’
‘Its called seaweed, Jojo.’
‘Yeah. It’s disgusting.’
‘We’re not going to the beach,’ I tell her. ‘We’re going to Aquasplash.’
Midge leaps into the pool and careers to the far side by means of her unique crawl/doggy paddle hybrid. Jojo swims steadily, her jaw set in fierce concentration. I’m aware of a rippling shape beneath the surface, of someone swimming powerfully toward me, and swim to the poolside to let him pass.
He surfaces, shaking water from his hair like a dog. ‘You’ve got company today,’ Ed says. He grabs the rail, kicks out his legs.
‘They live next door,’ I tell him. ‘Midge, the younger one, has been badgering me to bring her here for ages.’
‘How have you been?’ Ed asks.
‘Okay. Sometimes I’m just getting on—you know, teaching, shopping, ordinary stuff—then suddenly I’ll remember. And it’s so strong, this feeling, it really shocks me. It’s not as if I saw him often. We weren’t close—he could be so grumpy, belligerent….’
‘Yes, mine, too.’ He laughs softly.
‘Your dad…’
‘Disappeared when I was twelve. We eventually found out that he’d gone up the highlands, met this woman, was living in caravans, scraping a living selling scrap.’
‘And he’s still around?’
Midge is lying on one of the lily-pad floats, using her hands to propel herself toward us. ‘I wasn’t sure,’ Ed says, ‘until Kate, my friend from back home, came down to see me. Said my dad had been seen around Glasgow.’
‘I think I saw her. I was passing the launderette—the café— one night…’
‘Known each other since we were babies,’ he says.
‘Whose baby?’ Midge squawks, lunging toward me and flinging skinny arms around my neck. I can’t tell if they’re splashes of pool water or tears on her face.
‘No one’s, Ed was just—’
‘I’m going to really miss you,’ she cries.
‘Are you moving?’ Ed asks as Midge peels herself off me.
‘No, it’s the girls—they’re going back to Birmingham to be with their dad.’ I think, hope, he looks pleased.
I watch the girls swimming their widths and lengths, aware
of Ed watching me. And when I dive into the lagoon from the board, it’s to show off to him, like a ridiculous child. He’s clapping when I come up for air, and I flip under again to hide my burning face. I surface beside Midge on her lily pad.
‘You’re not scared anymore,’ Ed says as the girls and I head toward the changing rooms.
‘You like him, don’t you?’ Midge yells through the speckled blue cubicle wall.
‘Who?’ I ask, feigning innocence.
‘The one you were staring at.’
‘Midge, I wasn’t…’
‘Yes you were. D’ you love him?’
‘I hardly know him!’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘he’s nicer than that cross man you went to the butterfly place with.’
Our last supper is a feast of prawn cocktail crisps, Chewits and insipid hot chocolate from the pool’s vending machines. We occupy three sides of a flimsy white plastic table in the café. ‘It’s him,’ Midge hisses as Ed strolls through the reception area and steps outside.
‘Go after him,’ Jojo commands.
‘What, you mean chase him?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘Grown-ups don’t do that! They don’t chase people.’
‘So what do you do?’ she asks, leaning toward me, as if awaiting a potted lecture entitled Growing Up For Beginners.
‘I’ve forgotten,’ I say helplessly.
She sniggers, tipping the remains of her hot chocolate into her mouth. ‘Hey,’ she adds, ‘there’s this scheme thing at my old school—my new school—where you can lend instruments for no money, and they’ve got flutes.’
‘That’s brilliant. I really hope you’ll keep playing.’ I busy myself by fixing the love-heart badge that is pinned to her fleece and had worked its way round to an upside-down position.
‘Are you sad?’ Midge asks, examining my face.
‘No,’ I manage to say, ‘I’m really happy for you.’
‘Can we have more crisps? And one of them peppermint Aeros?’
I post more coins into the machine. Our spoils slip down a whole lot easier than Dad’s farewell fondue.
George is apologetic-looking with fading hair that straggles down his back. He shakes my hand weakly and his eyes moisten as he says, ‘Great job you’ve done with our Jojo and that piccolo, Stella.’
