Various Pets Alive and Dead

by Lewycka, Marina

  ‘I think I’ve made a ’it, miss.’ He winks at Clara.

  What a horrible little boy, Doro thinks; no wonder Clara gets shrewish, having to put up with a class full of kids like that all day, every day.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ says Clara, and they all troop upstairs, stamping on the treads like a wooden-legged army.

  Megan watches them go, with that catlike expression in her grey-green eyes.

  ‘She’s a reyt little biddybob, in’t she?’

  She pulls cigarette smoke deep into her lungs, and expels it with a cough. Doro notices that her hands are trembling.

  ‘Thank you for letting us have her,’ says Marcus.

  His eyes meet Megan’s once more, and Doro thinks, yes, that was the right thing to say, but there’s something still unsaid, something waiting to be said.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, letting her resentment bubble out through her facade of politeness, ‘is how you could just go off and leave her.’

  Megan starts coughing again, leaning over and covering her face with her hands.

  Upstairs, the wooden-legged army seems to have gone into battle. There’s a clatter on the floorboards, and a crash, followed by a scream. Marcus jumps up and races up the stairs.

  Doro rolls her eyes and sighs. ‘Kids!’

  Then she notices Megan has started to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you. But I just want to know why you left her behind.’

  Megan hunts through her bag for a tissue, saying nothing.

  ‘Didn’t you love her? Didn’t you miss her?’

  Megan starts to sob, keening like a child.

  ‘He wouldn’t have her. He said he’d have Carl, but not Julie.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Just another bloke. A businessman. From Leeds. It didn’t even last that long. He said I had to choose between her and him.’

  Doro moves her chair close and puts an arm around her. ‘And you chose him?’

  Megan moans. Her eyes and nose are streaming. ‘I thought she’d be happy wi’ you lot. I thought you’d look after her better’n I could.’

  She dabs hopelessly with her sleeve. Doro fetches a roll of kitchen paper and puts it on the table.

  ‘You thought she’d be better off here, because Marcus was …’

  ‘Yes. You’re blaming me like I’m some kind of monster, but I thought he’d have told you by now.’ She gets out another cigarette, but her hands are shaking so much she can hardly keep the flame to the tip of it. ‘And because of you, Doro. The way you loved her. Thank you for looking after her. I never said thank you, did I? She’s turned out lovely.’

  ‘It was …’ Doro pauses, trying to catch the thoughts whirling through her head.

  My duty? Just one of those things? Somebody had to? Worthwhile? A pleasure?

  ‘It was nothing!’ Marcus yells down the stairs. ‘Just a broken bowl.’

  The darkness is absolute. Then after some time, a faint grey oblong appears behind the curtains, with a stripe of pale silver down the middle, where the curtains don’t quite meet. As she lies watching, the grey lightens, and now she can hear birdsong. A thrush. A blackbird. And some sounds she doesn’t recognise. She listens. It must be dawn. How long has she been lying here, trying to get back to sleep? In the darkness of the room she can hear his breathing – short, shallow breaths. No snuffling.

  ‘Marcus? Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes. Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not angry with me, are you, Doro?’ He folds her in his arms, pulling her close into his sleepy warmth.

  She wriggles a bit, then relaxes. ‘No, not very.’

  ‘Not very?’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ She’s glad it’s dark, and he can’t see the tightness around her mouth.

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first. Then the longer I left it, the harder it was to tell you.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me.’

  ‘I wish I had too. But it wouldn’t have made any difference, would it?’

  She thinks of the ways her life might have been different without Oolie. She might have moved back to London. She might have risen in her career and become the principal of her college. She might have gone to Italy and married Bruno. She might have written a bestselling novel. She might have become a guru. She might …

  ‘No, probably not,’ she says.

  CLARA: The SPA

  Clara settles her class down with the age-old trick of asking them to write about their family, and wishes she could sneak off to the staffroom for a fag, à la Mrs Wiseman, but instead she gazes out of the window, and finds herself wondering whether that broken bowl yesterday, still half full of Oolie’s breakfast porridge, was an accident, or whether Jason pushed Oolie on purpose. The way he grinned when Clara reprimanded him was a giveaway. It’s odd that he isn’t in school today, but his attendance is patchy at the best of times.

  She notices that someone has left a scattering of little black chippings under her chair again. She must mention it to the cleaners before she goes home.

  But at home time, Robbie Lewis sidles up to her.

  ‘I just got a text off Jason, miss. The bailiffs is coming to their ’ouse. ’E says can you go round? It’ll be a reyt laugh.’

  If Jackie and Jason are really being evicted there’s probably nothing she can do, but she decides to call in anyway.

  It’s after four, and the traffic is building up as she weaves her way through the estate. Jason’s house is in Hawthorn Avenue, known locally as The SPA. As she turns into the small road of scruffy red-brick semis, she sees a sleek black shiny four-by-four with ‘FIRST CLASS FINANCE’ written on the side, parked on the verge. She rings the doorbell and Jason appears, almost swallowed up in a man-sized sweatshirt, a shifty smile on his face.

  ‘Mam, me girlfriend’s here!’ he calls indoors.

  The house is incredibly warm and smells of fried food, cat pee and air fresheners. A television is blaring somewhere, booming voices pierced with blasts of laughter like gunfire. The floor is covered with debris – scattered clothing, shoes, packaging, random bits of broken plastic – as though people have fled from a battlefield. Bulging cardboard boxes are lined up along one wall. As she stands in the hall wondering whether she remembered to lock her car, Mrs Taylor appears, looking fragile and girlish in skinny jeans and a white blouse.

  ‘I got a message …’

  ‘Come in, miss. Put the kettle on, Jason.’

  ‘I saw Mr First Class Finance’s car outside …’

  ‘Trev Fertle. Tricky Trev, we call him. He does a lot of business on t’ SPA.’

  ‘Why’s it called The SPA?’

  ‘Single Parents Avenue. We’ve all got mortgages. Now he wants me to consolidate.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I think it means taking out another loan. But see, I lost my job …’ She sighs.

  ‘I’m sorry. Jason said the bailiffs are coming. And you need a new cooker.’

  ‘What bailiffs? What cooker? That kid! Jason? What you been telling everybody?’

  Before he can answer, the doorbell pings.

  Mrs Taylor opens it a crack. ‘You can’t come in, Trev. I’ve got company.’

  But the visitor has his foot wedged in the door; he forces it open, and shoves past her into the hall. Clara hovers in the living room, wondering whether to intervene.

  ‘You’ve really let me down, Jackie!’ Mr First Class Finance is more gelled-up and speeded-up than ever. ‘See that out there, Jackie? You know how much that cost? Fifty grand. How’m I gonner pay it off?’

  He jiggles from foot to foot. His jeans look ready to dislodge and slip over his hips any minute.

  ‘I told you, I lost my job. I’m owing on my mobile contract.’

  ‘I’ve got a business to run, Jackie. I’ve got expenses.’ He kicks one of the boxes, denting the cardboard. ‘Planning to do a flit? Leave me in the shit?’

  ‘Give us
a break, Trev. Just a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You’ve been a bad girl, Jackie.’

  Clara can’t see the look in his eyes, but she can hear the menace in his voice.

  ‘I like bad girls. You know I’ve always fancied you, Jackie.’

  He reaches out a quick hand. Jackie pulls away.

  ‘Don’t be a tosser, Trev.’

  Clara steps into the hall, ready to back her up.

  Trev’s eyes glimmer with recognition. ‘Weh-hey! The sexy school teacher too!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Lay off me mam! And me girlfriend. Or I’ll do yer!’ Jason puffs out his shoulders in his baggy T-shirt.

  ‘You, you little minger? Don’t make me laugh. See this?’ He unzips his black jacket and grips Jason by the ear, pulling his head down towards the label. ‘Ver-soddin-sachy. Now fuck off while I see to these ladies.’

  ‘Ow! Gerroff!’

  ‘Stop that this minute!’ Clara snaps in the voice she usually employs with playground bullies. ‘You’re assaulting a minor!’

  She grabs his sleeve. He pulls back. With a tsic-tsic-tsic-tsic of rending cloth, it comes away in her hand.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done! You know how much this cost?’ His face is like a purple storm in which the pimples glow like pinpricks of fire.

  ‘Looks like Ver-soddin-trashy.’ She flings the sleeve on the floor and stamps on it.

  Then the doorbell pings.

  Nobody moves.

  But whoever is on the other side has a key, for there’s a scraping sound and, a moment later, the door opens and in steps Megan: red lipstick, red high heels, red umbrella. She seems so much bolder and brasher than the Megan Clara remembers from the commune.

  ‘What’s going off? Jason told me to come round.’ She turns on Mr First Class Finance. ‘Whatever it is you’re selling, Tricky, she don’t want it.’

  ‘Weh-hey, the glammy granny too! I’m up for it!’

  ‘Piss off, parasite!’ She pokes him with her umbrella.

  This is turning out to be much more fun than Clara had expected. She grabs his other sleeve and gives a tug.

  Megan yanks at his belt. ‘Get his keks down!’

  ‘Yeah! Three on one! Mind my shirt, it’s Ralph Lauren! I’ll take the granny first!’

  ‘You mucky shite-gob!’ Jason shouts. ‘Watch out, Nana!’

  He steps back, bends, takes a run, and slams his bullet head hard into Trev’s groin. Trev yelps and doubles over in pain.

  ‘Nice one, Jason,’ Megan purrs. She winks at Clara. ‘The Doncaster kiss.’

  Clara smiles nervously.

  Then the doorbell pings.

  Jason opens the door and Councillor Loxley steps inside, grey-suited and steely. He surveys the scene with gimlet eyes.

  ‘Someone called my office,’ he says. ‘How can I help?’

  Clara meets his eyes for a moment, and gives a little bewildered shrug.

  Mr First Class Finance raises his head. ‘Dad …’

  ‘Stop right there,’ says the councillor. ‘I’m not your dad. Remember? I warned you …’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir, for coming, sir!’ Jackie flings her arms around him. The top button of her blouse pops open.

  Then the doorbell pings.

  The councillor straightens his tie, Jackie adjusts her top, Megan wraps the belt around her knuckles. Trev stuffs the ripped-off sleeves into his pocket. Clara holds her breath as Jason answers the door.

  A massive muscle-gone-to-paunch hulk of a man, complete with tattoos and string vest, is standing on the path. He’s pushing a porter’s trolley. On the trolley is an enormous gleaming white cooker. Behind the hulk and the cooker is Mr Philpott. He has a bunch of red roses in his hand.

  ‘Fair nymph!’

  He steps forward, brandishing the roses at Jackie. He’s wearing his brown suit and smells of some sickly sweet perfume which Clara recognises as Zoflora. Jackie buries her face in her hands.

  ‘Jason, what’ve you been up to?’ hisses Megan. ‘Go an’ make us a cup of tea.’

  A smile flits across Jason’s face.

  ‘Look here, spud,’ barks the councillor, ‘it’s not wanted. Take it and bugger off.’

  ‘Bugger off, yoursen!’ Mr Philpott waves his arms theatrically. ‘To a nunnery go! I knew your family when they lived in t’ Prospects, Malc Loxley. When you and your cousins nicked all t’ lead off of t’ chapel roof. And him and his gang of lawless resolutes –’ he jabs a finger at Trev ‘– should’ve been banged up for that fire. But it were all hushed over.’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ says the councillor.

  ‘What fire?’ asks Clara.

  ‘So d’you want this cooker, or what?’ The hulk is getting impatient.

  ‘Aye, put it in the kitchen!’ orders Mr Philpott.

  ‘No!’ shrieks Jackie. ‘I don’t want it. There’s nowt wrong wi’ my cooker!’

  ‘Hang on, mate. That’s a good cooker.’ Mr First Class Finance is assessing it with an entrepreneurial eye. ‘What’s the spec? How much d’you want for it? Maybe …’

  Mr Philpott looks suddenly wily. Jackie looks relieved. Megan looks perplexed. The hulk looks hulky. The councillor looks at his watch. Clara looks from the councillor to Mr First Class Finance – yes, there is a definite resemblance. Jason appears carrying a tray with eight cups of tea – hot, strong and sweet.

  As she manoeuvres her car off the verge back on to Hawthorn Avenue, she sees in her rear-view mirror that the black four-by-four has already been backed up to the house and Mr Philpott, the hulk, Mr First Class Finance and the councillor are all heaving and shoving the big gleaming cooker into its open hatch. Jackie, Megan and Jason are standing by and watching.

  Jason blows her a kiss as she drives off.

  It’s twilight by the time she heads back towards the M18. The sky is streaked with purple, but the countryside is flat and colourless, spotted with dark bushes and hedges and small red-brick houses where shadows are gathering. The rush-hour traffic has died down, and the evening traffic hasn’t started up yet. Where the A6182 crosses the railway line she passes through a scrub-covered dell which is a favourite spot for fly-tipping. Someone has been at it again, she observes, and then she notices that the quantity and bulk of black bin bags that have been dumped look familiar.

  She’s exhausted and hungry and she could just drive on by and leave them for the wind to blow around, or for someone else to clean up – but she’s not that sort of person. Slamming on the brakes, she reverses her car and goes over to investigate. And yes, sure enough, it’s the recycling bags from school, which Mr First Class Finance took away.

  She opens her boot and rearranges various junk to make room. Behind another box of newspapers awaiting the recycling and tucked under the tyre tools, something green catches her eye. It’s her purse – the one she thought Jason had stolen. It must have fallen out of her bag. She checks: her credit cards, the three ten-pound notes, they’re all there.

  She loads up as many of the bin bags as she can cram into the boot, the passenger seat and back-seat space, and drives back to Sheffield. The rest will have to wait for another day.

  SERGE: Dr Dhaliwal

  Serge couldn’t face work on Monday – in fact, he doubts that he will ever be able to face it again – but just to cover himself on Tuesday he signs on with a local GP, a Dr H. Dhaliwal, who turns out to be thin harassed young woman, barely older than him, who questions him in some detail about his accident.

  Why didn’t he put out his arm to break his fall? Did he black out?

  He doesn’t know.

  She confirms that his nose is fractured and listens to his heart in a way he finds vaguely erotic. No one has shown such interest in his body since … since … Tears mist his eyes.

  How did he get home, she asks?

  He doesn’t want to go into all that, so he tells her he can’t remember.

  ‘So you’ve suffered loss of memory?’

  ‘Totally.’<
br />
  She diagnoses a moderate concussion, sends him off to the hospital for a raft of tests, orders him to lay off alcohol and to take it easy for a week. She advises him to phone in sick.

  ‘Shall I come and see you again?’

  ‘Only if the symptoms return.’

  I am a symptom! My whole life is a symptom! Help me, Dr Dhaliwal!

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  She smiles kindly. Actually, she has quite cute dimples.

  He’s not sure about her concussion diagnosis but, amazingly, when he phones to extend his sick leave (‘I’m feeling sort of anxious. And a bit depressed’) she doesn’t quibble.

  He spends the time on his own in his penthouse, watching autumn speed into winter from his window. Brisk clouds race across the sky, and brown leaves appear on his balcony out of nowhere. The evenings are cold. One night, it snows.

  By the second week he’s beginning to get seriously bored, so he logs on and opens his accounts. In his absence, Dr Black has been doing very nicely. Not only is his cash reserve flush, but SYC has gone through the roof. Serge gasps when he totals up the numbers: he is worth £1.13 million. How did that happen? Pity he sold Edenthorpe Engineering too soon, else it would be even more. Really, this stock trading thing is quite a doddle once you get the hang of it. A peep at Kenporter1601’s transactions reveals that he’s been selling too. Weird. To look at the transactions, you’d think the two of them had mounted a concerted bear raid to drive the price of Edenthorpe down deliberately – though his role was purely accidental.

  His personal finances also seem very healthy. Further investigation discloses a credit to his card account of £10,488.81 from the Poire d’Or restaurant. Nice one. Though a bit late.

  The only irritation is a constant tirade of texts and missed calls from Doro, plus a few from Clara and some from an unknown number. He deletes them all. At a time like this, he has to focus his mind on positive thoughts.

  He phones the HR department at FATCA to inform them of his progress and is surprised to receive by post, a few days later, a get-well-soon card from his colleagues. There are five signatures. The Hamburger is missing, but Maroushka is there – a curly Cyrillic scrawl in the top right-hand corner. This has the effect of considerably speeding up his recovery.