by Anita Notaro
‘Nothing. He seems delighted. He wags his tail at her as if to say, “Aren’t I a good boy?” and instead of scolding him she gives him treats. I can’t figure it out.’
Neither could I, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we make another appointment and you can bring him with you? I won’t charge you for this one,’ I said, feeling a bit useless.
‘I’m happy to pay you,’ he smiled. ‘Besides, didn’t you say at the class this was a new venture for you?’ He paused.
‘Did I?’ Christ, I must have let it slip. ‘Well, yes, it is, but I have trained, I assure you, my qualifications are up on the wall in recep—’
‘I wasn’t implying anything, other than that you shouldn’t turn down money at this early stage.’ He held his hand up. ‘I’d really appreciate any help you can give me. I feel I’m just too close, wood from the trees and all that. It’s starting to take over my life, to be honest.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I love my gran, don’t get me wrong. We’re great friends, but I seem to be spending all my time with her. It’s ruining my social life.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Actually, that’s not true. It’s non-existent anyway. I meet more people through visits to Myrtle than I would if I went speed-dating.’
‘Maybe she’s lonely?’ I was only half listening to him, wondering if I’d hit the nail on the head. Perhaps she was sending the dog around to his house so that he’d have to visit her.
‘No, as I said, most times there’s someone visiting when I return the mutt.’ He sighed again. ‘She’s got a social network to rival most women half her age.’
That ruled that out so.
‘In fact, I know loads of younger people who stay in night after night because they’re exhausted and stressed,’ he said, unknowingly describing my past existence, ‘but not Myrtle, she’s always on the go. It’s the internet, actually. It’s the new ballroom of romance apparently, especially outside Dublin.’ He sounded like an old codger. ‘Most of the women I know meet men in chatrooms.’ He shrugged. ‘Is that sad, or is it just me?’
‘Are there still any lights left on in the Irish countryside?’ I was only half joking. ‘I thought the drink-driving laws combined with the smoking ban finished that off for young people, along with no outlet for pensioners, with all the sub-post offices closing.’ I was trying to humour him, he seemed a bit intense. I suspected he needed to let it out.
‘Oh listen, don’t mind me, I’m ranting,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m just a bit pissed off today. The internet’s been great for my gran; she was in a poker room the other night when I rang. She texted me to call her later,’ he said wryly. ‘I’m just annoyed because I can barely turn on the computer.’
The alarm on my phone buzzed. It sounded like a message coming in but in fact it was my way of reminding myself of the time.
‘Well, let’s see the two of you together then and see if we can’t figure this out between us,’ I suggested.
‘Great, as soon as you can would suit me.’ He stood up. ‘I won’t mention anything to my gran for the time being, though. I’ll just offer to take him for a run in the park.’
‘Fine.’ He arranged to call me to make the next appointment, because his gran was going on holiday and he’d have the dog for a couple of days. Then he left, shoulders hunched. I wondered what the full story was there.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to figure it out in my head. There was a major piece of the jigsaw missing and I really wanted to help him. I looked up all my reference books, but nothing fitted. Maybe it would fall into place once I saw them together. I sighed and decided to go to bed early.
I’d have loved a long soak. Problem was, I didn’t have a bath any more. You see, as soon as I committed to changing my job, I decided to go the whole hog. So I sold my soft-top yuppie car and bought a gorgeous Kawasaki motorbike, shiny black with a pink streak. It made me smile each time I saw it waiting for me. It was a huge change for me, and I have to confess I missed my coffees en route to work, but I got everywhere so much quicker that I actually had lots of time to get ready in the morning and have breakfast and make any urgent calls.
The only problem with moving house was that I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t similar to my swanky apartment until Maddy heard of someone who was renting a mobile home in Bray, which was on the Dublin border, officially in County Wicklow but really like a suburb of the capital city. I loved it the minute I laid eyes on it, and so far no bath was the only downside to living in a caravan. I could still see the oversized, roll-top one I used to own but was always too tired to go to the trouble of filling.
Now, I wriggled my feet in my new pink (have to be careful not to overdo the girly colour) suede kitten heels and laughed. Moving here was the best thing I’d done. It made me feel that I’d left it all behind – the traffic, the stress, the aggression, the people who had no time for anyone and didn’t even bother to greet their neighbours in the lift of the apartment block they shared.
Not for the new me, so now I lived in a trailer, worked in the latest ‘hot’ profession, and was learning to rollerskate. How cool is that?
Once I’d changed into jeans and a hoodie and scrunched my hair into a ponytail, I turned on all the lamps, as well as the lights on the deck, marvelling again at how easy my home was. It had a large kitchen/living/dining room, a main bedroom, a guest room and a tiny study (third bedroom), and a bathroom that had everything I needed except space. There was a lot of elbow-crunching as I moved around trying to dry myself in the morning. The other big downside was that there was virtually no storage but I had just acquired a garden shed, which was fab. No more stubbing my toe on the suitcase under the bed or keeping the Hoover and ironing board in the shower. That was my job for the weekend actually, sorting out my new shed. Anal, but fun, and Maddy had promised to help in return for a good feed.
Now I tidied up as I pottered about, getting everything ready for the morning. All I had to do was plump the cushions and arrange the tea towels on the handle of the oven door and, bingo, the place was tidy.
In bed, I could see the stars, thanks to a skylight and the fact that Bray was virtually in the country, so much less pollution.
Next day I had only one client, but I wasn’t panicking. This was going to be a building exercise. It was Emily – the nice one with the cat called Rover whom her mother thought was her dog reincarnated. She told me the story again and we tried to thrash it out, but no matter what we came up with, there was one big obstacle. Rover was, in fact, a cat and we’d all be pushing up the daisies before he chased a ball, I reckoned, even if he had nine lives. And there was no way of knowing if he had ever been a dog, I told Emily, but for some reason, she felt she had to sort it out for her mother.
‘It’s just, they were the most devoted couple, and since Dad died Mum’s been heartbroken and I can’t bear it.’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘I simply have to figure it out.’
‘So what exactly is your mother hoping for? She sees clearly that he’s a cat, right?’
‘Yes. I guess she’s looking for a sign, anything, that he might have been a dog in a previous life.’
I wondered why Emily felt compelled to solve this problem when it was clearly her mother’s delusion, but I suspected she was a solver generally, just like I used to be. It was a way of looking for love, I’d learned.
But I said nothing and so, for now, we went round and round in circles. At one point I even found myself down on all fours on the floor, playing with what was definitely a cat called Rover, wondering if I could, with a lot of hard work, teach him to show any doggy signs. The fact that he constantly meowed was a bit of a problem, but I wasn’t giving up yet. I put down a number of toys. First, a nice, smelly, edible intestine – dogs adore them, according to Tim in The Gourmet Dog – next, a squeaky ball with a range of brilliant noises built in, then a plastic hamburger filled with mince which even had a use-by date (where do they think up these things?) and, finally, a small, grey, nondescript ru
bber mouse. Rover nearly knocked me over when he saw it. Within seconds he was circling the bit of plastic with the curly tail, and in no time it was being lashed around the place as he tried to annihilate it. No crisis of identity there then.
After almost an hour I gave up, but decided against telling Emily outright. I knew she’d be traumatized.
‘OK, perhaps we’ll leave it for today then. I need to rethink this one,’ I told her, wondering if there was a website I could go on.
‘Thank you so much for not giving up on us.’ Emily was pathetically grateful. It hurt me to see it.
‘Emily, I’ll do my best, but if I can’t help, then I won’t be charging you, OK? It wouldn’t be ethical, because I’m really not sure I can do anything at all. Rover is a cat, you see,’ I said, which was totally unnecessary given that, by now, he had climbed up the curtains and was teetering along the wooden pole quite happily, something I’d never seen even the most agile puppy attempt.
‘Oh no, please, I won’t be able to come again in that case.’ Emily looked close to breaking down. ‘Honestly, I know it’s a difficult case, but I have to be sure I’ve done everything I can, just in case he is Rover – the dog, that is – come back to us. You’re my last hope, you see.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best, obviously. I do have a contact in the States who specializes in’ – I was going to say ‘nutcases’ but changed my mind – ‘eh, more unusual canine problems. I’ll give him a call over the weekend and see what he makes of your case.’
‘Thank you, I really appreciate it. I can’t tell you how much. My mother means everything in the world to me, you see, she—’
My phone beeped and Emily stopped abruptly, and I was half glad, to be honest. There was only so much I could take in one session.
I spent the rest of the day Googling for cats who might be dogs but, for some sane reason, there weren’t many sites. There was one guy in Oregon who’d managed to teach his pet snake to bark, but that was about it.
At six o’clock I rang Clodagh and suggested a drink.
‘Love to, darling, but I’m off to do some circuit training. I’m running in the next New York marathon.’
‘Of course you are.’ She hadn’t told me, it was just that Clodagh was always doing something.
‘Fancy calling around to see the new pad later?’
‘OK, sure, but I’m on the water – still, not sparkling. And today I’m only eating green food, so if you have anything in the fridge . . . don’t go to any trouble . . .’
‘I’ve a few nice, crunchy nettles in the garden. Soup, maybe?’ I asked cheerfully, but it was lost on her.
‘No worries, I’ve a bag of spinach in the cooler bag in the boot.’
‘Fabulous. Maybe we could share it?’ My sarcasm too was wasted. Clodagh was one of the most focussed people I knew. I’d bet she was making a mental list – and using word association to memorize it – while on the treadmill watching Sky News and chatting to me on her hands-free phone.
‘Sure. See you around eight. Ciao.’ She was gone. I wondered whether I should tell her about Rover, but decided against it. It might all be too much for her organized brain to take in. Clodagh was my dose of sanity. I adored her energy and get up and go. Nothing was ever a problem for her and I loved her for it. I’d pick her brains another time; meanwhile, in an effort to get through the rest of the afternoon, I headed out to buy a hot chocolate and macaroon bar to stave off the hunger pangs. It was all the talk of spinach that did it.
5
EVEN SHARING A SLIMY VEGETABLE WITH CLODAGH WAS INVIGORATing. Mind you, that feeling was helped considerably by a very brisk walk in biting wind along Bray seafront. We ended up practically in Greystones, a village I hadn’t been to in years. I hardly recognized it; I’d never seen so many new houses.
‘My God, I feel claustrophobic,’ I told my friend. ‘How do people live like this?’ I eyed up the rows of brown boxes that all looked identical (except for the different colours on the front doors), without a patch of green space between the crazy paving of the driveways. It was fairly typical of the entire commuter belt in Ireland, from what I’d seen.
Clodagh, of course, knew all about the houses and their occupants. Within two minutes, so did I. Within five, I wanted to own one – she had a way of telling a story.
‘Super-cool arty types, media moguls, television producers. Lots of wife-swapping and dope-smoking, allegedly. Great parties, according to Una, a girl in the gym. She shares one of the terraced ones over there with a drummer and a Riverdancer.’
Back at the van, I could see she was having difficulty coming to terms with my trendy new life, despite her liberalism.
‘But how? Where? – What I mean is, what do you do if you need to, you know . . .?’ she half hissed, half whispered and pointed to her bum.
‘You don’t have to whisper, there’s no one around,’ I told her. ‘And if you want to pee just use the toilet,’ I said with a smile.
‘But do those portable toilet bowls really get rid of the poo or does it just float around for ages and then you have to fish it out and bury it?’
‘What planet are you living on? Chemical toilets went the same way as Chemical Ali. Mine has a dual-control flush. I have central heating, for God’s sake. And a power shower.’
‘Oh,’ was all she managed, but I still think she was glad her spinach was bagged and pre-washed.
Once inside, her jaw dropped. I couldn’t resist giving her the grand tour.
She said ‘oh’ about thirty times.
‘Oh, you have a proper bed.’ (Clodagh)
‘What did you expect, a pull-out campbed that doubles as a kitchen table?’ (Me, delighted)
‘Oh, it’s a real fridge.’ (Her)
‘As opposed to a cooler box, yes.’ (Me, sarcastically)
‘Oh my God, is that a waste extractor in the sink?’ (Her again)
‘No, it’s where you mash up the poo if it doesn’t go down the loo.’ (Me, giving up) ‘Let’s have a drink.’
An hour later we were giggling about it all. One thing I’ll say for Clodagh, she could definitely take a slagging.
‘You’re such a middle-class, spoilt brat,’ I prodded her. ‘Didn’t you ever go caravanning as a child?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She was all hands and drama. ‘Where do you think I saw those chemical whatsits? I went to Courtown with my friend Angie. But most of the loos were basically a hole in the ground with the lid of a pot on top and a box of scratchy, greaseproof squares of loo paper tied to the hedge. When I told my mother, she was so appalled she refused to let me go even to Angie’s family home again for a play date, and she lived in Foxrock, they were loaded.’
‘Your lot are so . . .’
‘Snobby, I know.’ Clodagh was never afraid to tell it like it was.
‘I was going to say proper.’
‘Thank God you and I met at college and by that time my folks had lost their power. I have to say, your mother gave me more of an education than TV ever could.’
‘Yeah, that’d be Martha all right. Pity she screwed me up by being so strict when I was growing up.’
‘I think she worried you’d go off the rails.’ Clodagh smiled. ‘She said something one time about not wanting you to turn out like your father.’
‘Yeah, so while I spent years trying to be the perfect child Becky was running wild. And she still got more love and attention.’ I sounded bitter, even to myself.
‘So is that what all this is about then?’ My friend waved her arms about.
‘Maybe. I’ve wanted to break free for years, but I guess my mother started it. It was OK for her to be bonkers, but I had to be perfect.’ I indicated the bottle. ‘Top-up?’
‘No ta, I shouldn’t have even had one. Have to be up at six. Go on, I’m listening.’ I corked the wine and put on the kettle instead.
‘God, Clodagh, I’d become so dull, I never realized. Why didn’t one of you tell me?’
‘Not dull. Just . . . I dunno .
. . sensible, I guess.’
That word again. If anyone applied it to me one more time, I’d clock them. ‘Yeah, well, I’m through with dull, boring, predictable, whatever. I no longer have to worry about what my mother says—’
‘So what’s all this about really?’ All my friends were now adopting my counsellor clichés, it seemed.
I thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s about wanting to have a more exciting time of it. A bit more Amy Winehouse than Mary Whitehouse.’
‘I blame Bridget Jones,’ Clodagh decided. ‘Although, you’re more like Keira Knightley, I think. Serene,’ she sounded pleased. ‘That’s you.’
‘All the hot girls in the movies these days are quirky and kooky, not serene,’ I told Clodagh. For some strange reason I felt like crying for all I hadn’t done with my life.
‘They aren’t real, remember? The movies isn’t real life.’
‘You know what I mean.’ I wasn’t about to be patronized.
‘Lou, listen to me,’ Clodagh said gently. ‘We love you as you are. You’re strong and loyal and dependable . . .’
That did it. I jumped up and practically knocked over her glass. ‘But that’s it. Can’t you see? I don’t want “dependable” written on my tombstone. Loyal people don’t get laid. I’ve been sensible since I was five. I had to be; otherwise my mother might not have loved me. All my life I’ve done the right thing. I got top marks at school, went to college, got a proper job, bought quality, durable (I hated that word) clothes, kept myself neat and tidy and never had a pair of Spanx rolled off me even by a doctor. And there’s my baby sister, she’s been having a ball, getting away with murder all her life. And my mother’s never off the phone to her, whereas she doesn’t even know I’ve moved house.’
‘I think you’ve turned out fine,’ Clodagh said softly. ‘And Becky is nice, but she’s, I dunno, vacuous, I suppose. And completely self-absorbed.’
‘I don’t want their lives necessarily,’ I said. ‘But Christ, Clodagh, at least they’ve lived, unlike me. If I was told tomorrow that I’d a terminal illness, I’d be gutted.’
