The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  But of course Mum would have none of it. After the difficult time The Dog had had, it was only fair to ‘let him die peacefully at home’, as she put it.

  ‘But Mum, he will die peacefully at home,’ I told her, when she relayed this piece of information over the telephone. ‘I’m sure the vet will come to the house to do it. He won’t have to go anywhere. You could give him his favourite meal first,’ I added, trying to soften the blow.

  ‘You’ve become very hard, Cass,’ Mum said, after a pause pregnant with disapproval. ‘It must be this nursing business.’

  Given that Mum was still enormously proud of me and my ‘nursing business’, this seemed hardly fair, but I let it pass.

  ‘Not hard, Mum. Kind. I’m trying to be kind.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Well, what’s the point of telling me about him if you don’t want to hear what I think?’ I asked, exasperated.

  ‘I thought you’d be sympathetic.’

  ‘I am sympathetic. But he’s a dog, Mum. He’s had a good innings. We’ve given him a fantastic life, and now I think it’s time to let him go.’

  But Mum refused to listen, and when a month later The Dog, on one of his increasingly rare forays into the outside world, wandered blindly into the road and was knocked down and killed, she was understandably upset.

  ‘You’ll have to come home to deal with him, Cass,’ she told me, when she phoned to break the news. ‘After all, you’re a nurse.’

  ‘Being a nurse doesn’t qualify me to bury dogs any more than anyone else. Can’t Lucas do it?’

  ‘Lucas is away on a course. Call Me Bill says dead bodies make him sick and Greta won’t stop crying. The Lodger doesn’t like dogs,’ she added, as though an affection for dogs were a prerequisite for anyone thinking of burying one.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At his German class I think.’

  ‘Not the Lodger. The Dog.’

  ‘He’s in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Ah.’ The cupboard under the stairs was warm and stuffy. Time was not on my side.

  ‘Can you put him outside, or at least somewhere a bit cooler?’

  ‘No one wants to pick him up. He’s a horrible mess, Cass. The man wrapped him in a blanket so we wouldn’t have to look.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The man who ran him over. He was awfully nice. It wasn’t his fault. He was just going down to the village to buy some paint stripper, and his wife —’

  ‘Mum, I don’t need to know the domestic arrangements of this person.’

  ‘All right. But you will come, won’t you? I think you owe it to The Dog. Even if you won’t do it for me,’ she added.

  After the hours of walks and grooming and bathing which I had lavished on this very spoilt and fortunate animal, I didn’t feel I owed him anything, but I had loved him as much as anyone, and perhaps I ought to put in an appearance.

  Fortunately the death of The Dog coincided with a week’s legitimate annual leave. It would also get me out of a date with Neil, a charming young junior doctor with melting brown eyes and large capable hands, and the kind of bedside manner which would make being ill a positive treat. However, he also had something of a reputation, and, I suspected, another kind of bedside manner which I was all too eager to avoid.

  ‘Ah, little Cassandra,’ he sighed, when I told him I had to go home. ‘Excuses, excuses.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse. It’s an emergency.’

  ‘Emergency, excuse, whatever you say. But this is the third time you’ve stood me up. A man can only hang around for so long.’

  For a moment I hesitated. I imagined those eyes gazing into someone else’s, those hands holding a hand that wasn’t mine, and the thought was not pleasing. Then I thought of the distinct possibility of being invited back to his place for coffee (and I was sure that Neil had made a great deal of coffee in his time), and my mind was made up.

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to go home. My — my mother needs me.’ When I arrived home the following morning, the house seemed very quiet without the hoarse barking which usually greeted my arrival, and I was overcome with sadness.

  ‘Oh, Cass. There you are,’ Mum said as though I’d just popped in from next door. She kissed my cheek, and I couldn’t help noticing that, considering the circumstances, she appeared remarkably cheerful. Occasions such as this tended to generate either deep gloom or wild celebration where Mum was concerned, and it was with sinking spirits that I sensed a party coming on.

  ‘I thought we’d have a party,’ she continued, as though reading my thoughts. ‘The Dog never had a party while he was alive. I think we should give him one now.’

  ‘A party.’ I dropped my case on the kitchen floor and sat down. ‘What does everyone else think?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t told them yet. You’re the first to know.’ She beamed, as though this were a truly splendid piece of news. ‘I’ve got it all planned. I thought we’d have the burial first, and then we can all come back to the house for food and drink. We can ask the neighbours, of course, and Lucas will want to bring Gracie, and Greta’s got a friend over from Switzerland, and —’

  ‘I thought Lucas was on a course.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? It was cancelled.’

  ‘No. You didn’t tell me.’ So I needn’t have come home after all. I swallowed my irritation. ‘Who’s digging the hole?’

  ‘The hole?’

  ‘Yes, the hole. For The Dog.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to be me,’ I said. ‘If I’ve got to — to deal with the body, the least you can do is organize someone else to do the digging. I’m tired, Mum,’ I added. ‘I’ve just had a gruelling spell of night duty. Grave-digging duties are not part of the deal.’

  Late that afternoon, the noisome and very unpleasant remains of The Dog (had he really only been in the cupboard for twenty-four hours?) were interred in a deep hole under the cherry tree (the hole courtesy of a very disgruntled Lucas, who felt that he was being shown up in front of the lovely Gracie). Tears were shed, Richard gave an interesting rendition of the last post on his ukulele (yes, it is possible, just, but I doubt whether anyone else would have recognized it), a bright wreath of marigolds was laid, and we all repaired to the house for the party. There seemed to be a lot of guests; people I’d never met in my life before, and quite a few old friends. How on earth had Mum managed to assemble them in such a short time?

  She had certainly done The Dog proud. His framed photograph formed the centrepiece on the dining-room table, and around it there was enough food to feed a small army. As ever, the drink flowed, and Lucas, having recovered from his post-burial sulk, made his vodka mixture, so everyone got riotously drunk.

  ‘What we need,’ mumbled Mum, as she lay on the floor with her head in my lap some time after midnight, ‘what we need is — is — is —’

  ‘What do we need, Mum?’ I stroked her hair, reflecting through a haze of alcohol that whatever might be said about Mum, she certainly knew how to throw a good party.

  ‘What we need is —’ she waved a hand vaguely in the air — ‘is one of those things — you know — woof woof.’ She giggled.

  ‘You mean a dog?’

  ‘That’s the one. We need a dog. Clever Cass. A dog. A new dog. That’s what we need.’

  It seemed a bit soon to be replacing The Dog when we had only just come to terms with his loss, but even after she’d had time to sleep on the idea and recovered from her hangover, Mum was adamant. After all, as she explained to us, there was an open tin of dog food in the fridge. It would be a shame to waste it. Besides, a new dog would cheer us up, and would take our minds off the old one. She said that it would be best if she went to choose the new dog on her own; that way, she would have no one to blame but herself if Things Went Wrong.

  Thus two days later, she set off to the rescue centre, and returned in triumph, a small bouncy black and white hearthrug frolicking at her feet. Its eyes wer
e entirely obscured, and it seemed to be lacking something. It took me a few minutes to realize exactly what.

  ‘Mum, do we really need a dog with three legs?’ I asked.

  ‘He doesn’t mind,’ Mum said gaily. ‘He’s used to it. Apparently he lost it ages ago. And look at it this way, Cass. He’ll have only three legs whether we have him or not, so he might as well live on three legs here. And he won’t need so much exercise, will he?’

  ‘Won’t he?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s got one less leg to exercise, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Where are his eyes?’ I couldn’t even tell which end of the hearthrug was which.

  ‘Under here somewhere.’ Mum poked about in the matted fur. ‘There we are! Lovely brown eyes! We’ll give him a nice bath, and he’ll come up as good as new.’

  Her new friend did not enjoy his nice bath, and Mum emerged some time later soaked to the skin and sporting several nasty scratches, but with her enthusiasm still intact.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he look lovely?’

  Lovely was hardly the word, but we all agreed. When Mum was in this kind of mood, we would do anything to keep her there. Besides, she now had something to look after, and Mum was never happier than when she felt needed.

  We looked at each other and gave a collective sigh. New Dog had joined the family.

  Thirty-two

  I returned to London reassured. New Dog had settled in happily (although personally I had yet to understand what Mum saw in him), Mum was in her element (‘There might be someone who could make him a new leg, Cass. Or perhaps even a little wheel?’), and things were more or less back to normal.

  At the hospital, things were not back to normal. The bad news was that Matron summoned me and kindly but firmly informed me that since I had had far more than the permitted amount of leave, I would be taking my final exams four months after everyone else.

  These tidings were not entirely unexpected, but I was nonetheless disappointed. I had hoped that I might scrape by — just — but what with my numerous visits home on compassionate leave, and a nasty bout of glandular fever in my first year, my luck had run out. In a few months’ time I would have to bear the humiliation of seeing my colleagues promoted to the role of staff nurse, while I remained a humble student.

  The good news (if you could call it that) was that the dashing Neil seemed intent on waiting for me to change my mind about going out with him, and to that end had endured a whole week without the pleasures of female company (or so he informed me).

  ‘Come out with me, Cass.’ He cornered me on the ward, where I was writing up some notes. ‘Just one little date. And then if you really don’t like me, I promise I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘I never said I didn’t like you.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Of course it’s simple.’ He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down beside me. ‘Look at me, Cass. Look me in the eye, and tell me you really don’t want to go out with me.’

  ‘Well ...’

  ‘Great. That’s settled, then. Tonight? Shall we go out together tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got to —’

  ‘Wash your hair?’

  ‘Well, yes. Among other things.’

  ‘I like your hair just the way it is.’

  As most of my hair was invisible under my cap, I couldn’t help laughing, and Neil seemed pleased.

  ‘You’ve got a sense of humour,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I like a girl with a sense of humour. So that’s fixed, then? You’ll come out with me?’

  Still I hesitated. Rationally, I could think of lots of reasons to go out with Neil. He was attractive, caring and kind, and if he had something of a reputation, well, I was a big girl. Surely I could look after myself, couldn’t I? By now I had dealt with cardiac arrests and haemorrhages and all manner of emergencies; I had run the gauntlet of the great Professor Armstrong-Phillips, whose tantrums in the operating theatre would put any self-respecting toddler to shame; I had on occasion even been briefly in charge of a busy ward. What was a night out with a young doctor in comparison with any of these? So I agreed, feeling that since I had neither a valid excuse nor the ability to tell a convincing lie, I didn’t have a lot of choice.

  But that first date proved my misgivings to be quite unfounded. We had dinner in a little bistro in South Kensington, all checked tablecloths and candles in wine bottles and real French waiters, and we found plenty to talk about. Neil was the perfect gentleman, there was no mention of going back to his place for coffee, and he saw me home with a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was the first time I had felt completely relaxed on a date, and I was both happy and relieved. I felt as though I had finally broken through some invisible barrier. Maybe from now on things would start to improve.

  After two more similar dates, I decided that I was in love. I found myself singing as I walked down the street, lying awake at night just basking in the warm feeling of being loved (or so I thought), and daydreaming as I went about my duties. I felt wildly happy and more alive than I could ever remember feeling before.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Cass?’ Mum asked suspiciously, when I phoned to ask how things were at home. ‘Something’s up. I can tell.’

  ‘Nothing’s up. I’m fine.’

  ‘I know — you’re in love! That’s what it is.’ Mum had a nose for this kind of thing. ‘Oh, Cass! How wonderful! Is he a doctor?’

  ‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact he is.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘His name’s Neil.’

  ‘Have you been to bed with him yet?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to say,’ I replied primly.

  ‘Oh, come on, Cass. You and I don’t have any secrets from each other.’

  It was true that Mum certainly didn’t seem to have any secrets from me (or, come to that, from anyone else) but that was her choice. I decided that my love life was going to be just that. Mine. I wasn’t going to allow it to become public property the way hers was. I could just see news spreading round the household and among Mum’s friends like celebratory wildfire. For some time now, Mum had been making it clear that she thought it high time that I divested myself of my virginity (she had lost her own so long ago, she told me, that she couldn’t remember the occasion or even the man in question). A doctor, as she explained now, would be just the person to do it with, since ‘doctors know all about that sort of thing’.

  ‘Mum, I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said now.

  ‘Oh, Cass.’ She sighed. ‘Who would have thought you’d grow into such a prude?’

  I thought of my friends, most of whom also went to considerable lengths to conceal their sexual exploits from their parents, but for reasons quite different from my own, and wondered for the hundredth time what it would be like to have a normal mother; one who would wait up at night for me, to demand ‘What time do you call this?’, or warn me against the perils I might incur from involvement with the opposite sex. But of course, I would never know.

  ‘If there’s anything important to tell you, then I will,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to get married,’ Mum continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve never had a lot of time for marriage, myself,’ she added (what a surprise). ‘Living together is just fine.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve only known him three weeks. Give me a break.’

  ‘You could bring him home for the weekend. We’d all love to meet him. Or I could come up to London.’

  ‘No, Mum. No.’

  ‘Why? Are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘Of course I’m not ashamed of you. It’s just that it’s too soon. It’s not such a big deal. Not yet, anyway. Now can we let the subject drop, please?’

  But in the event, Mum never did get to meet Neil.

  By the time we reached our fourth date, Neil was obviously ready to raise the stakes and invited me back to his rooms for a meal.r />
  ‘It’ll be more cosy there. We’ve never really had time on our own, Cass,’ he said.

  ‘Yes we have!’

  ‘No. I mean really on our own. I don’t call eating in a crowded restaurant being on our own.’

  Why did I feel this frisson of fear? Why wasn’t I jumping at the chance of spending an evening in the company of a man with whom I imagined myself to be in love?

  ‘Come on, Cass. I’m not such a bad cook, although I’ll admit the facilities aren’t up to much.’

  ‘It’s not the cooking.’

  ‘Well what, then? What is it? Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I trust you.’ I smiled at him. ‘And OK, I’d love to come. Thank you.’

  Neil’s room in the doctors’ quarters was cramped, and the kitchen in which he was operating to produce our meal even smaller. I made myself at home, as instructed, while he beavered away amid clouds of steam and the odd muttered curse. I was plied with wine and peanuts but my offers of help were refused, and since there didn’t seem to be room for more than one cook to turn round, never mind do anything useful, I occupied myself by examining Neil’s collection of books (mainly medical) and browsing through a copy of the British Medical Journal (full of dense earnest print and long words, illustrated with graphic photos of tumours and suppurating skin lesions).

  We ate our meal off trays on our laps, and Neil opened a second bottle of wine. I was by now feeling pleasantly euphoric and relaxed (notwithstanding Mum’s parties, I wasn’t normally much of a drinker), and I was beginning to wonder what on earth I had been worrying about. The food was certainly edible, Neil was in excellent form, and I knew I was looking good in my new miniskirt and blouse.

  ‘Come and sit beside me on the bed,’ Neil said, when he had cleared away our trays. ‘It’s much more comfortable.’

  Obediently, I did as I was told, and then, as he put an arm round my shoulders, I lay back against the pillows beside him. The Beatles thrummed from the record player (‘she loves you, yea, yea, yea’. Oh yes, I thought. I do. I do), Neil’s aftershave smelled deliciously masculine and the feel of his cheek against mine was strong and protective. I gave a little sigh.