The Dissent of Annie Lang

by Ros Franey

  Next day, I made my plan of campaign. From the dressing-up box I pulled an old plaid rug which they would never miss. Then I found a couple of mothy velvet cushions and lifted down the spare hot-water bottle from the back of the dresser cupboard. It was kept there for visitors, who never came to stay. That night after dark I lit the gas under the kettle and turned it as high as possible, not letting it boil for fear Mother would hear it. I placed the stone bottle in the sink for safety and poured the water in, holding the heavy kettle with both hands and blowing softly to peer through the steam when it should be full. Wrapping it in my oldest jumper and the tartan rug, I stole out of the kitchen door and hid everything inside the kennel, then returned for the cushions.

  That night, after they had all gone to bed, down I went to the dog kennel, dressed this time in my thickest socks, a cardigan over my nightie, and a pair of long combinations underneath. The kennel was dank but the jumper and the rug were dry enough and the hot-water bottle lukewarm (I decided not to bother with it in future). Once more, Nana played her part without a sound. We snuggled up together with the tepid hot-water bottle digging into my shoulder blade and I thought I would sleep quickly, what with the exhaustion and everything. But somehow my head took a wrong turning and instead of falling asleep I found myself wide awake in that miserable box, its damp soaking into my bones. My jagged brain screamed at the nonsense of what I’d chosen to do. But, too tired to move or to sleep, I lay on under a spell, starting at every small noise, every spider and toad, in a night that lasted for ever.

  And sometime in the middle of it a strange event took place. I had almost persuaded myself to kneel upright and squeeze out of the opening and go back to bed, and was actually about to do it, when I fancied I heard a new sound: as if it were heavy feet climbing the ash-pit steps from St Ann’s Hill. At first, I couldn’t be absolutely sure that they were, but then Nana was suddenly awake beside me; I could sense her head alert as we held our breath in the dark. The footsteps were crossing the yard now. What if they came to the kennel and looked in? Was it a burglar who could hit us over our head? What would Nana do? I tightened my arms around her as we waited, ears on wires … but now I could hear nothing at all. Perhaps the burglar had got into the house! Nana sniffed the air, as if to make sure this was not a sound to be barked at, waited a moment more, then put her head gingerly back on her paws.

  I breathed out. My tummy hurt. The creosote fumes were like fingers reaching down into my lungs and throttling me. But any thought of making a break for the kitchen was out of the question now; for all I knew, the burglar could still be outside, waiting to pounce. In vain, I lay there telling myself that Nana had not barked, and burglars do not have keys. I might almost have believed I’d imagined the footsteps, but for Nana: she clearly knew they were real, on account of being practically a person herself. Yet if she hadn’t barked, surely it could only be Daddy walking round to the front … except why would he, when I had plainly heard him going along the landing to bed last night? After what seemed like many more hours, it was a wonderful thing to be rescued again by the song of the first bird of the morning. I needed to get back to my room, but was still too terrified to move. Dawn was breaking as, shivering and sick, I finally crawled out of the kennel, barely making it upstairs before Elsie got up to light the fires.

  At breakfast, no one said anything about a burglar. I explored Daddy’s face secretly for clues as to whether it might have been him. I thought he looked as if he needed a shave, but I couldn’t be sure. He said barely a word, but there was nothing odd about this: he rarely spoke at breakfast.

  Mother remarked, ‘I can smell creosote.’

  My head jerked up guiltily. I had wondered about this. But before I could come out with an excuse, Beatrice said, ‘I washed my hair with Coal Tar soap, Mother. It’s probably that.’

  ‘Well it’s very strong,’ Mother observed. ‘I fancy I smelt it yesterday.’ Her gaze fell on me, and I hastily scooped up a porridge lump.

  ‘Mr Holley left his brushes to soak at the top of the ash-pit steps,’ Maisie chimed in, turning from the gas stove with the oven glove on her hand. ‘It’s probably blown in on the draught.’ It was a source of wonder to me that still no one had ever spoken the words dog kennel in my hearing.

  This seemed to satisfy Mother. She said only, ‘You’re pale as a ghost, my girl. You want to get more fresh air. You’re too soft.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ I mumbled and poked at another lump of porridge, wishing Maisie could make it and not Elsie, who always seemed to get the lumps.

  After that wretched night – and spelling ‘occurred’ with one r in the spelling test, which was obviously humiliating and got me an odd look from Mrs Spencer – I knew this state of affairs could not go on. That day, it rained a needling rain, as if to say Autumn is coming and Something Must be Done. And I decided I would have to tell Beatrice about my nights in the kennel, which would also mean I could consult her about the burglar. As I pushed my nose against the cold pane and stared into the garden, thinking with dread about the coming night, the prospect of unburdening myself to Beatrice made me feel better at once.

  ‘We’ve got to do something about Nana,’ I announced, when we were in Bea’s bedroom after tea.

  ‘What about her?’ Beatrice looked up from a stocking she was darning.

  I was sitting on the floor with my hands clasped around my knees. ‘We can’t just leave her out there day and night,’ I said. ‘Got to do something.’ I gave her a sideways look.

  Beatrice frowned. ‘Did you put those things in the kennel?’

  I turned and looked at her properly. ‘What things?’

  ‘The tartan rug and the cushions? Was that you?’

  ‘So you looked in there, then?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘So you care about her, too?’

  ‘Of course I jolly well care,’ said Beatrice crossly. ‘It’s cold. She’s not an outdoor dog.’

  ‘We’ve got to do something, Bea.’ I grabbed hold of her arm. ‘She’ll die if she has to live outside in the Winter.’

  ‘Her coat will grow thicker. I suppose she’ll get used to it.’

  ‘But she won’t. She’ll die and Mother will be pleased. It’s what she wants.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Annie. Of course it’s not.’

  I ignored this. ‘Mother’s hated Nana ever since she came to live here. We can’t let her do this, Beatrice. Nana was here first! We’ve got to get Daddy to help us. You’re the oldest. You talk to him.’

  Beatrice sighed.

  ‘In the meantime …’ I rocked forwards and backwards, searching her face for clues. ‘We’ll have to do something.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  I hesitated. The moment had come. I felt breathless. ‘Well, a sort of rescue thing … Bea, I’ve got something I want to tell you …’

  But Beatrice didn’t hear this last sentence because she had put down her mending and cut across me with, ‘Annie, it’s not worth it.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I know you. You’ll do something mad and get into trouble, and it will be serious. It’s not worth it.’

  ‘Nana’s worth it!’

  ‘I know she is. But—’ Beatrice took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. ‘You know you’ve got into hot water before. She thinks you’re Trouble. You’ll make life even more difficult for yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Daddy, if you won’t. It’s not right she should have to live her whole life outside. Jesus said …’ I fished around in my head for what Jesus might have said on the matter, ‘… I dunno. Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me.’

  ‘Annie, she’s a dog.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He meant all innocent helpless creatures, Bea. I bet He did. I – I mean – I’m sure He did. Like in that picture with the birds flying around His head, and lambs and things. And Nana’s our faithful friend. We can’t betray her!’

  But ev
en as I said this, I knew I could not tell Beatrice about sleeping in the kennel, or the burglar, or any of it. Why, to protect me she might even have gone to the grown-ups. And the pain of locking it away was a physical pain; the knowing that Beatrice would not help me and I would have to deal with it by myself.

  That night, I read three extra chapters of The Secret Garden to try and keep myself awake until they had all gone to bed. When the house was quiet at last, I pulled on my dressing gown and thick socks and tiptoed downstairs, as before, to the kitchen door. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the yard was full of fog that caught the back of my throat like a mouthful of soot. I clamped my fingers to my neck to stop from coughing. Nana was hunched on the rug in the kennel. She looked really cold. This time, instead of clambering in with her, I leaned forward and gave instructions. She was to come with me. But quietly. She raised her head and cocked it slightly to one side as if considering this. I grasped her collar and gave it a tug. It took some coaxing but she came, at last, cringing backward as I led her through the kitchen door. I wanted to cry, seeing how quickly she had come to regard her home as a place of danger. Once inside, I put my hands on either side of her head and whispered, ‘Silent, Nana. Very quiet now.’ We moved noiselessly over the kitchen tiles and into the hall, but once on the stairs it was dangerous; this was where the creaks began. All was well until we reached the landing where her claws made a clip-clop like three cart horses, but finally we reached my bedroom door. I turned the latch. We entered. I closed the door as softly as I knew how. We waited, listening. Silence. I had made a bed for her on the hearthrug and, obediently, she flopped down with a deep sigh and a small beating of her tail. I crawled into my own bed and fell asleep at once.

  For the next three nights, this ritual was repeated. Somehow my inner fear woke me unfailingly before dawn and I returned Nana to the kennel each morning without arousing suspicion. But my ghostlike appearance deepened, and at the Mission on Sunday I actually fell asleep in the Second Lesson. Beatrice had to jab me in the ribs. I sat bolt upright for the rest of the service and listened closely, terrified Mother would catch me nodding off. This did me no good at all because Pastor Eames, our grandfather, chose today of all days to preach about punishment and how good it is for you. His text was from Proverbs and made me feel a whole lot worse because it took me straight back to Miss Higgs and the night of the Cod Liver Oil: Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod and deliver his soul from hell.

  As I sat there I could hear Miss Higgs’s voice going on about Jesus suffering for our sins, and I could taste the cod liver oil again and I thought I might be sick.

  ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ asked Beatrice when we were walking home ahead of the grown-ups.

  ‘Nothing. Really. I’m just a bit tired.’

  ‘You look awful. They’ll be marching you off to the Doctor’s if you’re not careful. You’ll get Dr Wampole’s Pills, or Beecham’s Powders, or Worse.’

  I didn’t want to get caught with Nana and beaten, even if the beating did deliver my soul from Hell. I decided it was all the more urgent to persuade Daddy to bring Nana indoors again, so I wouldn’t have to sin in the first place. The opportunity to speak to him came after Sunday School that afternoon, when Mother was out and had taken Beatrice with her. He had a visitor of his own, but no one I knew. He didn’t get involved with Parish business, so it must have been someone from Roebuck’s, which was peculiar on a Sunday. I waited a respectful minute after she left before going quietly into the sitting room. He was leaning back in his chair by the fire dozing, with a copy of The Masonic Record draped over his head. I crept in and sat on the footstool at his feet, noticing with relief that John was wrong: the beetroot stains had responded to the borax and Nana’s misdemeanour had been expunged (indeed I had seen Maisie working her way around the walls expunging it shortly after the fateful tea).

  ‘Daddy.’ I paused. ‘Are you asleep?’ It wouldn’t do to put him in a mood, though I knew he couldn’t be very fast asleep.

  ‘Mmm,’ he grunted.

  I raised a corner of The Masonic Record and caught the gleam of an eye. ‘Well if you’re asleep,’ I said, ‘I could talk in your sleep, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ came the response. ‘Isn’t it me that’s supposed to talk in my own sleep?’

  ‘Well if I do it, it’ll save you the trouble. All you have to do is listen.’

  ‘How can I, if I’m asleep?’

  ‘You can hear me as in a dream,’ I replied poetically.

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  I waited a moment. ‘So Daddy.’

  A snore came from under the newspaper.

  ‘Daddy, I’m serious, I want to talk about Nana.’

  The snoring stopped. Silence.

  ‘Daddy, it’s Winter. We can’t let her sleep outside. I think that now Maisie’s cleaned the beetroot off the walls and Nana’s done her punishment, she ought to be allowed to live indoors again and sleep in the kitchen like before.’

  I waited.

  ‘Because she’s our dog and she’s part of the house. And it isn’t right. Daddy.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please?’ My voice broke. ‘She’ll die.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Annie. She won’t die.’

  ‘But it’s not fair.’

  ‘Life isn’t fair.’

  ‘But why?’ I burst out. ‘Why does she have to stay outside?’

  ‘Because she’s a nuisance.’

  ‘She’s not a nuisance. She was never a nuisance before.’

  ‘Before what, Annie?’

  ‘Before—’ I waved my hand at the beetroot-free walls. I took a deep breath. ‘You know what I mean.’ Before her. You brought her into this house. We didn’t want her. We didn’t need her. She’s cruel and she doesn’t love children or Nana or anyone. So it’s your fault. It’s your responsibility. It’s up to you to sort it out. But of course I didn’t say any of this.

  ‘Annie, your mother has a very difficult job. She has come into this house with children in it who have had their own way for a while, and they are headstrong. She has to make this house her home, too. And if the presence of a large dog makes life more difficult, then she has to solve the problem her way. You must learn to see things from others’ points of view as well as your own.’

  I pulled the paper off his head. I needed to look at him as he delivered this speech. He was staring at me, not smiling, and behind the words his blue eyes were cold, saying something new that I didn’t understand.

  EIGHT

  I can hardly believe it now, looking back, but having failed to get Daddy on our side and reinstate Nana in her rightful home, I sort of settled into a pattern and during the Winter months anyway – which, as you know, was most of the time in our house – this thing with Nana became normal. I would read in bed and then, as soon as the grown-ups were asleep (and they luckily went to bed early), I would tiptoe down to the back door and Nana would hear the key in the lock and slip into the house on muffled paws. We never faltered. We were past masters of deceit, experts in the art of silence. She would stay with me till the dark morning when I got up for piano practice. At 5.45 sharp, I would go downstairs and let her out of the back door before returning to the drawing room. I did get a bit sleepy at school, but made up for it in the holidays.

  Then one morning, crossing the hall with Nana on our way back outside, to my utter horror the front door opened and Daddy came in. It was like the Night of the Burglar all over again, but this time it was worse. We froze. For long moments we all stood and stared at each other: Daddy, Nana and me.

  Then he spoke with a sort of a false jolliness. ‘Good Heavens, is that the time already?’

  ‘Daddy.’ It was the only thing I could say.

  ‘I probably made you jump,’ he said.

  I nodded. He was peering at my face in the gloom, not looking towards Nana, who stood stock-still.
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  ‘Well. I just. Went out for a morning walk. Nice morning.’

  I couldn’t reply. In the darkness I could see the stiff white shirt, the black bow tie against it. ‘I’d – I’d better …’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, yes. Better go and do those scales.’

  For a moment, I hesitated, torn between the logic of making for the drawing room and the necessity of getting Nana out of the house. I edged a step towards the kitchen and he turned to hang his hat and coat on the hall stand. At that, I fled to the scullery, Nana before me, and turned the key in the lock with fingers trembling lest he come and catch me – though I told myself it was all pointless: the game was up. He must have seen the dog. Even in the gloomy hall with dawn barely breaking, you couldn’t not see Nana; she was simply too big. When I pulled the door open, a draught of rain and mist surged in (‘nice morning’, indeed!). Nana trotted silently out and I locked the door as usual. The scales were hopeless that day. My hands trembled uncontrollably; even if Daddy were not to tell her, Mother would hear my guilty secret loud and clear from the piano. I sat there, shoulders hunched, forcing my fingers on to the keys, braced for the torrent of anger, the punishment, fearful for poor Nana, terrified for myself.

  He must have been choosing his moment to tell her, though, because nothing happened during piano practice and nothing at breakfast. I heard him leave for work as usual, his footsteps on the hall tiles and the front door click shut. Mother had not appeared, so breakfast was supervised by Maisie, but this was not unusual and I left for school with a strong sense that the reprieve was only temporary. I lingered after classes with Marjorie Bagshaw, dreading the thought of going home.

  In those days, Marjorie Bagshaw was my best friend at school. I knew her because our fathers were in the ’Masons and they must have decided between them that we should both be sent to Mundella. It was quite a journey to get there, so right from the start we went on the same bus. Most of the girls in our class, who didn’t come from our part of town, seemed to know each other already, which was another reason we were thrown together. But the fact was that deep down we weren’t best friends really. I don’t like saying it, but I didn’t always trust her – and with a real friend you’d never have to think twice about that. Sometimes I didn’t even like her very much and I don’t think she liked me. But I suppose she found me a bit of a curiosity because of the Mission and everything, and I was drawn to her because she was nothing to do with any of that. Her family weren’t even Christians from the sound of it. They never went to church anyway.