First published by Roundfire Books, 2014
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Text copyright: Tony Cleaver 2013
ISBN: 978 1 78279 721 0
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Inspired by the Retired Greyhound Trust
Chapter 1
As was his custom in the mornings, George Potts staggered blearily out of bed and into the bathroom. Under automatic pilot, he would not really wake up until thoroughly immersed in the shower. On the weekends he allowed himself the luxury of wrapping himself in a towel and, returning to the bedroom, blundering about slowly cogitating over what he was going to do and thus what to wear for the coming day.
This Saturday he observed his wife Annabel, still motionless, covered up in her bed. Although he guessed she was already awake, he surmised she was feigning sleep and waiting for him to leave the bedroom before she stirred. That being the case, George slowed everything down and shuffled around even more absent-mindedly before trying to find the appropriate garments to greet the day. He got as far as a pair of briefs before pausing in front of the full-length mirror and there deciding to take stock of what sort of man this was peering back out at him.
Receding hairline – so far receded in fact that the main passageway was clear right over to the back. It was as if someone had passed the lawnmower through the hallway, leaving only a sliver of carpet on either side, and that was greying.
Eyes – a sunken, lifeless, muddy blue. No sparkle evident.
Teeth? George pulled back his lips to reveal a reasonable set in front but there were several gaps at the back, he knew.
Looking down he saw several gangling, spidery, somewhat uncoordinated limbs, devoid of anything resembling muscle.
There was a developing paunch. Not too noticeable until he turned sideways. Evidence of an overly sedentary existence.
Let’s face it – not the most attractive physique. Perhaps his wife was right to resist the urge to turn round and concede she was in fact sharing this room, this house, this marriage with such a decidedly unattractive male.
OK, George, he said to himself. Maybe you are a pretty repulsive specimen of the human race. So, he asked, is there anything I’ve got going for me?
He couldn’t think of anything. He wasn’t wealthy. He had a dead-end job. He was hopeless around the house – if anything broke he couldn’t fix it. The workings of both cars and computers were a mystery to him. Wasn’t there anything he was good for?
He was kind to animals. He supposed that was something. He liked all dumb creatures. He even liked insects and point blank refused to kill spiders, even though they scared the wits out of Annabel. Come to think of it, that was perhaps the reason why he wouldn’t kill them.
Annabel! What a name she’d chosen for herself. He’d got to know her when she was just ordinary Ann. That might have been the reason he married her. Yes it was. Nothing flamboyant. Nothing complicated or pretentious. But as the years passed, she started calling herself Annabel. Very fancy. He supposed it was to compensate for his inability to provide the upward social mobility she craved.
He looked back in the mirror. He wasn’t too bothered at what he saw. He knew that there were lots of fitness freaks that went regularly to work out, lift weights, run and row or cycle for miles on stupid machines that were fixed to the floor. He could never see the sense of that. If he wanted to run or ride a bike or row a boat then he’d go do that and see where that took him; see what sort of scenery would pass him by, not flog himself to death in some sweaty room full of sadistic machines, smug narcissistic athletes going nowhere and closed in by grey, monotonous walls. No, he was happier being unfit, even if his tee-shirt had never clung to his torso like Arnold Schwarzenegger and his trousers flapped like flags around two flagpoles.
Saturday morning. Perhaps he’d go for a walk at the back of the village before breakfast? That implied a jeans and jumper day. Yep, he’d do that. It was a bright, clear, early morning, the birds were still singing and he might see one or two dogs he liked.
George fancied getting a dog, though Annabel wouldn’t consider it: a biggish dog, a real animal – not some stupid yapping thing that was overly domesticated and totally unlike its original wolf-like forebears. If he ever did get a dog it would be a big, silent, uncomplicated beast – a loyal, unfussy companion he could share walks with and certainly nothing pedigree, highly strung and paraded around like a fashion accessory.
He’d said something like that once to Annabel but she’d poured scorn on the idea.
“That’s just about the limit! Talk about going to the dogs…your whole life has been one long sustained decline and if you get some big, dirty, flea-bitten canine then that will set the seal upon it. If you get a dog that sniffs all around the streets and lifts its leg at every tree and lamppost, I won’t know which of the two of you will be worse. I’ll not let a dog in this house…and I’m not sure about you either!”
So: no dog then.
But it was a beautiful day in early May with all of the countryside abuzz with activity, so he’d go out and commune with nature while it was still early. He pulled on the appropriate clothes, whistling to himself and wondered how much noise he could make, bumbling about, without making it obvious that he was trying to annoy his partner in life. He banged the door on the way out.
The first few yards of the footpath that led out across the fields was a bit of an obstacle course – lazy dog owners just drove up to the lay-by, parked and pushed their pets over the wooden stile that marked the entrance to the path and let them do their toilet there before returning home again. However, once George had negotiated this minefield he was away across an open field, up to a distant hedgerow that led an undulating route, eventually criss-crossing with other paths that would take him either further away or round and back home.
Twenty minutes of ambling in the sunshine with his mind wandering more than the footpath and suddenly a great, leaping, elastic creature bounded up to say hello. George was shaken out of his reverie but quite pleased to find a doggy friend. It was a greyhound.
“Rosie! Rosie!” A distraught owner was calling the greyhound from some distance away.
George looked down at the animal that was the cause of the disturbance. It was a long-legged bitch that cavorted around him, sandy-coloured, extremely fit and if dogs could grin, this one was doing it.
“Hello, old girl,” George called, “you’re a happy soul, aren’t you!” He held out one arm towards her.
The dog came up to lick his hand, wagging her tail furiously.
“Rosie! Come back here! Bad girl!” The owner came jogging up: a tracksuited young woman, clearly embarrassed that her dog had run away from her.
George turned to look at the tracksuit running towards him. He felt his temperature rising. Tracksuits that fit
ted like that were a threat to civilisation. They shouldn’t be allowed out. It was dark blue with a slim yellow line running around the owner’s bust and down her arms and legs just accentuating curves that would make even a statue break out in a hot sweat, and poor George was not made of stone. That tracksuit was definitely illegal; a provocation; a likely challenge to public order.
“I’m very sorry; I’ve told her not to run up to strangers. You never know how they might react…mind, she does seem to quite like you.” The tracksuit stopped swaying and mesmerising George’s vision and a smile swam up into his consciousness.
“Er, yes. A lovely girl. Beautiful creature…very friendly.” George wasn’t quite sure which creature he was referring to but the tracksuit continued smiling.
“Well I’m pleased you say so. I guess Rosie is lucky this time to find a welcome. Thank you so much.” The smiling tracksuit extended a confident hand. George shook it. “My name is Carol and I must say that Rosie really does like you. You have a winning way with animals!”
The greyhound was looking up at George, making affectionate sounds and still grinning at him. George, meanwhile, was trying to control his temperature: he felt as if his face had gone several shades of purple. He was wearing a loose-fitting jumper but somehow it still seemed a bit tight around his neck. Inserting a couple of fingers at the top he pulled it down, blowing out through pursed lips like a demented steam train. Realising this must seem an odd response to his highly attractive visitor, George tried to cover it up by making a succession of fizzing and clucking noises that he directed at his canine companion, hoping that it looked as if he was fluent in animal-speak. He guessed not. He reckoned it only succeeded in making him look a complete weirdo.
“Chkk, pssst, hmm, er…I don’t know about winning ways. But I do like most animals…I think I do.” George blundered shyly and hoped he didn’t come across as too moronic and uncoordinated in front of this self-assured, sensual and very fit-looking young filly. He hoped she would soon go galloping off and leave him to his confusion.
Not so lucky. Carol just beamed at him, recognising someone who wanted to withdraw into his shell and determined not to let him.
“Well, Rosie doesn’t often run up to people like that. Never to people she doesn’t know. Do you work with animals? Are you a vet or something?” She paused and a wicked look came into her eyes. “No…Don’t tell me, let me guess – you work in a travelling circus!”
George was shocked. What an outrageous suggestion. Who was this woman?
“No, no,” he flustered. “I’m an accountant…for the council…nothing to do with animals, circuses, or vets…”
“You could have fooled me,” Carol retorted. “I could have sworn there’s some repressed wildness about you somehow. It’s in the way you walk. But an accountant? Never would have guessed that. But I’m impressed – I can’t get the hang of figures myself. C’mon, Rosie. Bye!”
She turned, grinned back at him and then set off jogging along the footpath the way that George had come. George just stood there, nonplussed, staring after her: the tracksuit swaying away from him into the distance; Rosie the greyhound bouncing alongside her.
What an extraordinary encounter. Now there, disappearing as he watched, was a figure that George couldn’t get the hang of – what sort of female was that? And the comments she made – so blunt and forthright. George was still blushing at the thought of them. Where did all that stuff about repressed wildness come from? The way he walked? George always thought of himself as an ungainly, clumsy fellow who was about as wild and untamed as tap water. And if he hadn’t started out that way, he certainly was now after twenty odd years of marriage to a carping matriarch. But the tracksuit thought he worked in a travelling circus! George shivered. He resumed his walk, watching himself as he did so, being extremely careful that he gave no indication of lack of control on his part. Wildness? No, that would never do.
Back at the house, breakfast with Annabel was the usual one-sided conversation.
“George, you will have to stay in and wait for the deliveries that are coming this morning. I’m going to be at the hairdressers and I don’t know when I’ll be back. And keep the neighbour’s cat out of the back garden, will you – I don’t want it using the rose bed for its toilet. Are you paying attention? Keep it out, do you hear! And do clean up your study for a change – I’m sure it’s the most disgusting room in the whole house. Your desk is worse than the council rubbish tip, it really is. Why you can’t see that I’ll never know. Just try and make it presentable so that when people come round I am not mortified if they catch a glimpse inside…”
George nodded and tried to look attentive. His mind was already some distance away, however, thinking of tracksuits and travelling circuses. He smiled encouragingly to his wife, hoping it looked like he knew what she was talking about. Perhaps she would stop rabbiting on in a moment or two and he would get some peace. Yes! Yes! he nodded. I understand completely. Don’t worry, he seemed to say…but in truth whatever she was now saying was totally lost on him. Not that it mattered – she would undoubtedly repeat it all three or four times before she went out the door. When she paused to draw breath, George got up from the breakfast table and shambled off to the study. He started tidying papers into different stacks, lifting up books and putting them down, switching the computer on to standby, trying to give the impression that he was keen to follow his wife’s orders. The more convincing he looked, the quicker she would go out and leave him in peace. He opened a desk draw to surreptitiously check if his whisky flask was there, hiding beneath a number of business cards and a forest of pens and pencils. Yep – and it was still half full. Bliss! He shovelled a couple of papers into the draw and then shut it, glancing round as if to say: Look! I’ve started the clean-up…
Annabel’s monologue was still continuing but drawing to a close. Cats and rose beds were being reprised. The delivery of provisions from Tesco’s was now past its fourth chapter. George followed his wife into the hallway, his face bright and compliant, his eyes looking expectantly at the front door. Only a few minutes more of this to survive. He could almost feel his study chair beneath him and taste the whisky as he shuffled forward to open the door for his departing spouse.
“And lastly, George, don’t try and fool me into thinking you’re working on that computer of yours. Last time you fell asleep there at your desk and I swear there was alcohol on your breath. I don’t know where you get it from, you drunken reprobate, but if you fall asleep and miss the deliveries this morning I’m sure I’ll turn you out of the house and throw your laptop after you…”
George tried to smile obligingly but only managed a strangled grimace; he held back the front door and escorted his partner in life out of the house, doing his best to ensure she had left nothing behind. He nodded and waved goodbye and then at last he could shut his wife and the rest of the world out and retire immediately, making hot-foot for the study like a greyhound out of the traps.
Yes, a greyhound, he liked that image. He reached his chair and leant back in it, whisky flask in hand, and thought about that dog and her precocious, immoderate owner. As the liquid burned its way south, he dreamt about that woman for the umpteenth time. She was altogether too dangerous to be let loose. No doubt about it. Her dog was perfectly acceptable: friendly without being too forward; beautiful to look at; athletic, and with not an ounce of fat on her frame to slow her down. George noticed the bitch floated effortlessly over the ground when she cantered away. But her owner was the one who should have been on a lead – very forthright, unrestrained in her opinions and possessed of an altogether far too provocative geometry. Extremely dangerous! She could start a fight in monastery, that one.
George took another swig from his flask and relaxation spread all through his body from his stomach outward. He put his feet up on the desk and idly gazed outside the study window into the garden. If he had his way that garden would be altogether wilder, greener, less manicured, and with no bloody standa
rd roses. There was something offensive about having roses trained to grow up and suddenly burst into flower, waist height, at the top of a vertical stem. Too domesticated. Artificial. Like lollipops, and their colours just as artificial.
Another gulp of whisky. George lingered there for five minutes savouring the moment before deciding to swing his legs down and get up, a little wobbly, to take a tour of the garden. He went through the kitchen to the back door with half a mind to take the bread knife with him and commit murder: to saw through every damn standard rose stem on his tour. But then, standing on the back doorstep, looking out, he thought better of it. Annabel would never forgive him. Several headless stems could never be explained away as some sort of accident or natural disaster and he had no justifiable excuse for such a slaughterous plan of action other than he didn’t like expurgated nature: trained, controlled, defanged and thoroughly tamed.
He stepped out into the middle of the weedless lawn; a sculpted patch of green that – under instructions – he had mowed in straight, well-behaved lines. He suddenly had an insane urge to cut loose and go on the rampage, trampling the flower beds, chopping down the roses and flinging the debris to all quarters. He realised with a dreadful, sinking feeling that it wasn’t so much the garden that had been tamed; it was him.
A voice broke through into his consciousness. “Hello, George! Lovely blooms, aren’t they? Is Annabel there?”
It was Stephen Maxwell, the next-door neighbour but one. Smarmy Stephen – the world’s best horticulturist and sycophant who was always enticing Annabel into his immaculate, distastefully ordered property and enthusing about ever more extravagant decorations and alterations for the garden. His latest acquisition was a three-tier fountain with little fat cherubs at the top spouting water. Grotesque! George was sure that his wife would want one of those soon.
“No, no, she’s at the hairdressers,” George replied through gritted teeth.
Greyhound George Page 1
