'It's a pity we haven't a fridge, then we could freeze it into
setting.'
'I don't think you're meant to do that.'
More sighs. 'Well it doesn't look at all tempting. It's no good,
we'll have to give it up. Let's get on with the fireworks.'
I heard her clanking about with the saucepan and what
sounded like a tin tray.
'What are you going to do with it?' I asked.
'I'm putting it to cool on a tin under the sink,' she said,
'and it looks more like glue than toffee. I'll get rid of it
later.'
So we went out with our box of fireworks. Emma wanted to
come out as well, but I knew that November the Fifth is not the
favourite date in a dog's diary. They hate the bangs and get
frightened, so we left her inside.
'We'd better pull the outside door to,' said Anita, 'otherwise
Emma might get out.'
'OK,' I said.
Next I heard her putting a match to the little bonfire she had
I59
built and soon I could smell the f~il)ulous scent of the smoke,
hear the hiss and crackle of the wood burning and feel on my
face the heat of the flames.
'I think we'll have a Catherine Wheel first,' she said.
'Is that the one that goes round and round on fire?'
'That's the one.'
'Can I feel it before you start?' Anita handed me the firework
and I felt the round coil and the bit in the middle with the hole
in it, so I knew what it looked like.
I heard her knocking a nail into the fence. Then there was a
hissing and a whirling and whizzing sound. 'It's beautiful,' said
Anita, 'like a dragon's tail on fire going round and round, all
jagged yellow, with fabulous circles of blue and red spinning
in the middle.'
I could picture the Catherine Wheel perfectly. Then, when
it,had died away, Anita said, 'Roman Candle next ... it's an
incredible green light, lighting up all the garden, and with
great clouds of smoke ... hope the neighbours don't mind . . .'
I could smell the gunpowder and it was wonderful. 'Now it's
turning red ... now white ... it's dazzling.' Finally there was
a popping sound. 'And that's that. just a little ball of flame gone
into the air.'
And so it went on. Anita described it all vividly and I thought
that if her novel was as good it would be worth reading. It
didn't matter that I couldn't see anything: I could even visualize
the sky over the garden because, whenever there was a
crackling or explosion high up above, Anita would tell me about
whatever rocket had gone fizzing up. 'There's another one . . .
it's a burst of white, like somebody throwing a whole handful
of diamonds into the night and then losing them . . . '
At last all our fireworks had gone and we turned to go back
inside. I gave a push at the door. Nothing happened.
'It's locked,' I said. 'Did you put the catch down?'
'No. At least I don't think I did. Let me try.'
I heard her banging at the door.
'It's no good,' she said, 'and I haven't got my key. Have you
got yours?'
'No,' I said, with a feeling of apprehension, to say nothing of
cold, coming over me.
I6o
'We'd better ring the bell. There's bound to be someone in
the house.'
But although we rang and rang the bell, no one came.
'What idiots we are,' said Anita as we stood there shivering.
'We?' I said.
'Well ... me then!'
'I'm a bit worried about Emma,' I said. 'She'll think we've
deserted her. Can you see her through the letter-box?'
I heard the clink of the letter-box being opened.
'Yes,' said Anita, 'she's all right. I can only see her tail end
but she's in the kitchen.'
'I'll call her,' I said. I bent down and called 'Emma . . .
Emma!' But I heard no response, no click of paws up the hall.
Anita had a look. 'She's still in the kitchen. She's not taking
any notice.'
We both called as loudly as we could. It must have been a
weird and slightly disturbing sight for anyone passing by, two
grown people bent double against a door and shouting 'Emma'
through a letter-box.
Still nothing happened.
'Whatever is she doing?'
'I don't know,' said Anita. She was silent for a moment, then,
slightly aghast, she added, 'But I think I've got an idea . . .'
Then, as if suddenly possessed, Anita started shouting at the top
of her voice: 'Emma ... no ... naughty dog . .
I was quite alarmed. 'What's going on?'
Anita took no notice of me and carried on shouting: 'Bad
dog ... Emma ... leave it!'
'Leave what?' I asked.
Anita paused briefly and turned to me.
'The toffee!'
'Oh no!'
'Oh yes! And she's not taking a bit of notice. She'll be as sick
as a ... sick as a dog.'
'Oh, poor Emma,' I said.
'Poor Emma-what do you mean?'
'That horrible toffee . . .'
'It wasn't as horrible as all that.'
'Well, it won't do her any good. Let me try and stop her.'
. no ... leave it!'
I6I
' I
So I bent down and shouted. But it had no effect. I could now
hear from inside the flat a clanking sound on the floor. I knew
immediately what that was. Emma must have finished every last
scrap of toffee, and was now pushing the tin round the kitchen.
What an end to our firework celebrations! Well, perhaps not
quite the end. The couple who lived upstairs eventually came
home and let us in, and by that time Emma was fast asleep,
snoring, and stretched out on the kitchen floor like a Roman
after an eating orgy for one. Beside her was the tin. Empty. Not
only that, but in order to get at some toffee stuck to the outside
she had thoroughly chewed the edge thereby rendering the tin
fit only for the dustbin, where its contents should have gone
anyway.
She was not sick, but paid in another way for her folly. She
had terrible indigestion, or at least I think that is what it must
have been. Called to her dinner the following day (an event
which usually brought her bounding to the bowl) she took only
a mouthful or two before retiring for further sleep. Anita
reported that she had looked very guilty and had been munching
grass rather thoughtfully in the garden.
I suppose that even the cleverest of dogs have their faults, and
Greed had always been Emma's one and only Deadly Sin. This
time, however, she seemed to have hit the jackpot. But one
good thing came out of it all. She was cured for life of any
further interest whatsoever in toffee.
So much so that when I told Betty the story and we eventually
began making our toffee, Emma, who had been lying quite
happily with us in the kitchen, suddenly twitched her nose
tentatively, got to her feet looking strangely shifty and reminiscent,
and made quietly for the door. As she went, I thought
(although it could have been imagination) that it was the first
time I had eve
r seen a chocolate Labrador start to go green at
the gills.
And that evening, Harold, who had not heard the story,
innocently offered her a lump of our product, which had
turned out this time to be excellent. Emma sniffed it once, and
with a 'No! Not again!' expression backed away and again
left the room.
The party went marvellously. Harold and Don had a
I62
splendid time letting the fireworks off in the garden, while
Betty and I 'ooh'd' and 'aah'd' with Kerensa dancing about
behind the safety of the dining-room window. At the same time,
with the ascent of the first rocket, Bracken, Buttons and Zelda,
led by Emma, took themselves off with much dignity and disdain
to another room until it was all over.
After Guy Fawkes Night, and Harold and Betty gone back to
Yorkshire, life settled back into its normal pattern. Well,
almost. Don was now able to concentrate more of his attention
on Captain Flint. Yet the more he persisted with trying to teach
him 'Pieces of Eight', the more the wretched bird remained
stolidly non-cooperative, and silent except for raucous screeches
which he never emitted, for some reason, when Don was in the
room.
It became increasingly evident that Emma had not taken at
all to this strange green thing which bounced unnervingly up
and down in its cage. More than that, I soon realized that
Emma positively disliked Captain Flint. I suppose the reason
that it took me some time was that I have never known Emma
to dislike anything (except of course bonfire toffee and, when
she was very young, passing cats). So I was not familiar with
the symptoms.
It was not that Captain Flint screeched a lot, but when he did
the din was ear-splitting. And I came to realize that he screeched
at precisely five-past two every weekday afternoon. Now this
was the time that Don had just gone back to the surgery (after
spending his lunch-time saying 'Pieces of Eight' in between
mouthfuls), Kerensa had been put in her cot upstairs, and I
always had what had been until then a pleasant quiet ten
minutes sitting on the settee with Emma before getting on with
my work.
It was our special daily ten minutes together. But now, no
sooner had I sat down than the Captain turned on his perch,
gave a preliminary jog or two, gazed balefully out over the
room, and started screeching. Immediately, Emma got down
from the settee and, tail between her legs, left the room en route
for her bed upstairs. I thought it odd, but decided that she
just didn't like the unusual noise (and who could blame her?)
and that in time she would get used to it.
I63
Then I noticed that in the evening, instead of taking her usual
place on the settee, she would sleep on the floor near the door.
The parakeet never uttered even the quietest squawk in the
evening. Nevertheless, Emma invariably kept one eye open, and
that was a wary one directed at the cage. I think it took me
nearly a fortnight to realize that it was not simply Captain
Flint's noise that Emma disliked. She hated him altogether.
And her reactions got worse before I realized that. Instead of
simply climbing resignedly off the settee in the afternoon and
going quietly upstairs, she would now make a bolt for the door
at the first screech and gallop upstairs, sometimes not coming
down again until nearly four o'clock when her face would
appear rather nervously round the door with a look that said'
Is it safe? Has that terrible thing shut up?'
'Don,' I said one evening, aware that he might be upset, 'I
don't think Emma likes the bird.'
'Doesn't like the bird? Why, Emma doesn't dislike anything.
What makes you think that?'
'Well, she doesn't like it when he screeches. In fact, she's
terrified. She flies upstairs to her bed when he does it and I can't
get her down.'
'She doesn't look frightened to me.'
'I know, but she's not in her usual place on the settee, is she ?
That's near the bird-cage. She's near the door. See ifyou can
get her on the settee.'
'Come on Emma, old girl,' said Don, 'up on the settee.'
Emma looked up at Don, then at the bird, and stayed firmly
where she was.
'It must be some sort of phase she's going through,' said Don
obstinately, and turned to the bird-cage. 'Come on, Cap'n,
Pieces of Eight . . .' The bird stared back at him without the
slightest flicker of interest in his beady little eyes.
It took me some days to convince Don that it was not a
'phase' that Emma was going through, because he was never
there to see poor Emma do her Great Escape Act. It was as if
that evil parakeet was really a terrible bully (and therefore a
coward as well) and waited till Don was out of the way before
terrifying Emma and deriving from it all a sadistic pleasure.
At last things came to a head. Emma would no longer even
I64
come into the room where the bird was, and stayed out in the
hall most of the time.
'He's got to go,' I said to Don.
He looked quite startled. 'Who?'
'Captain Flint. I'm sorry, but that's it.'
'Why*~' said Don. 'He's a lovely bird. Come on Captain,
Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight . . .'
'I'm sorry, petal,' I said. 'I know he's your parakeet, but
Emma really is frightened to death of him. He's making her life
a misery, and I think she's beginning to wonder whether this is
really her home.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive. I just wish you could see it. And hear it for that
matter.'
'Hear what?' asked Don.
'Well that's just it. He screeches like a banshee. But he never
does it when you're here. Emma hates it. I tell you what.
Tomorrow, you can go out after lunch as if you're going back to
the surgery as usual. But instead stay in the hall. The bird will
think you've gone. Then you can see what happens-that is if I
can get Emma to cooperate and even come into the room and
on to her settee.'
Don looked concerned. 'Well, all right,' he said. 'It seems a
bit of a charade but I don't want Emma upset at any price. I'm
sure that the Captain doesn't mean it.'
'No, maybe he doesn't,' I said soothingly. But I was sure I
knew Captain Flint better than that.
The next afternoon Don pretended to go out as usual, even
to the point of giving me a kiss and saying 'See you at tea-time,
petal.' But he stayed just outside the door. Kerensa had been put
to bed and I had managed to coax Emma, against her better
judgement, to come and sit with me on the settee. The moment
Don had disappeared, the Captain opened up with the most
appalling squawking. Emma leapt off the settee and almost
left smoke-trails as she rounded the door and gajloped upstairs.
Then Don re-appeared, rather like a demon king in a pantomime,
at which point the Captain shut up as quickly as he had
started and squirmed
about on his perch obviously thinking
that since he had wings he might be mistaken for an angel.
I65
But it was no good. Don was astounded. 'Well,' he kept
saying, 'well ... I would never have believed it. What a
terrible noise. Poor Emma! You're quite right petal. He'll have
to go.'
And go he did, and that was the end of Captain Flint.
Fortunately, I had a friend who had made the mistake of saying
that if we ever parted with him, she would love to have a
parakeet. Little did she know. But she had no dog that he
could torment, and I thought this the best way out.
After the Captain had gone, cage and all, Emma quickly got
back to her old, civilized routine. It took her a little time to
adjust to the fact that there was no malevolent little eye trained
on her as soon as she came into the room. At first, she looked
rather cautiously round the door before venturing further, and
you could almost see a look of relief when she saw there was no
cage and evil green occupant. Then she came in as briskly as
she always had before, got up on the settee and, once again, we
were able to enjoy our daily special ten minutes together.
In the evenings there was peace again, and I myself found I
had to get used to the silence being broken only by Emma
snoring beside me, and no jingling sounds from the cage in the
window. In fact I had to say to Don: 'I think you'll have to go
back to saying "Pieces of Eight."'
'Why's that?' he asked.
'Well, now you're not saying it all the time, I think you've
fallen asleep.'
We both laughed, and Emma woke up and joined in the fun,
sneezing and wagging her tail because she knew we were all a
united family once again. Not for the first time I realized what a
special relationship I had with Emma. I loved the two younger
dogs, but it did not occur with them. I was still very close to
Emma. Now that I could see, some of the communication
between us which used to transmit itself through the harness
had gone, perhaps because it was no longer needed. But I still
knew exactly what she wanted, and she knew exactly what I
wanted without my having to speak a word.
I didn't have this sort of relationship with Buttons and
Bracken, and, somehow, was rather surprised, and certainly
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