His wife did not have quite the sharp, businesslike, in-control voice she normally answered the phone with. In fact, she sounded just a little shaky.
“Annabel, dear, I’m home but you’re not. Where are you?”
“Oh! Yes, George – I’ve just popped out. You did say you would phone before you got home, so why didn’t you?”
Straight onto the attack, thought George.
“Sorry, forgot. Been out walking and the time just slipped away. Lovely afternoon. How about you?” George wondered what story she would cook up.
“It’s been bedlam, since you ask. That wild dog that appeared in college has been running around everywhere here today and has wrecked Stevie’s garden. I’m here now, er, helping to clean it up. Um…is everything OK with you at home..?”
This was a guarded question angling to know if a rabid, black greyhound was still in the house. George was momentarily tempted to say it was patrolling all around hoping to catch untrustworthy miscreants, but he didn’t.
“Everything’s fine, why shouldn’t it be?”
“Nothing, no reason…did you want tea?”
“Mmm, don’t worry. I’ll get something myself…Probably go and buy a few things first…and for you too?”
“Um, no thanks, George. I’ve eaten during the day and don’t want any more just yet. I’ll be back in a little while when things are more ship-shape here.”
Of course. George nodded, told his wife he’d sort himself out and would see her later. He rang off.
Speaking to his wife now, George felt numb. His anger at her infidelity had passed and what had replaced it was a sort of sad nothingness. He felt nothing for his wife. If he was honest, there had been nothing between them for some time but at least he had done nothing to undermine their marriage. He had not actively sought a liaison with anyone else. He had just rubbed along out of habit – comfortable, he supposed, in that work/home routine all chugged along nicely as always and no great changes were called for. He had put up with his wife’s carping, complaining and criticisms – all her annoying idiosyncrasies – as he guessed she had put up with his. Of course he knew she enjoyed the company of a neighbour who shared her interest in horticulture and who was far more intent on putting on a show – a flashy, superficial face on things in order to impress society. George never had much time for such trivialities but Annabel was irresistibly attracted by it. Well, she had made her move now. There was no going back. George knew that he would have to confront her about it sometime and shake their relationship loose and let each of them go their own way. Apply the creative, anarchic option. It was just a pity that Annabel couldn’t have been more honest and open about it before. He wondered how long her affair had been going on.
There was a slight problem, he realised, about how he was going to explain how he knew about her affair with Smarmy Stephen. Maybe leave it for the time being until evidence from a more reputable, more convincing source could be gathered? Trying to explain his greyhound transformations would only complicate matters exceedingly. He either would have to catch them in incriminating circumstances himself, in his human form – not an altogether appealing thought – or maybe he could use the neighbours as the source of reliable information. According to Mr Tibbs, Annabel had been consorting with the enemy for some time so perhaps there were others, and not just four-footed ones, who had been witness to the adulterous couple’s various comings and goings.
George needed a drink. Trying to think of ways to force the co-conspirators out into the open was straining his brain. He needed to relax his grey matter and release the creative juices, the neurons, the electro-magnetic discharges inside his skull. Let his subconscious mind take-off and find the solution. Single malt whisky was called for. Unfortunately the hip flask in George’s desk was empty, so it meant going for fresh supplies. He knew precisely, of course, where his replacement bottle was hiding – it was probably still resting on the back seat of the red mini. A trip back into Durham was required.
Chapter 10
George went out for his Land Rover. He had decided to drive into Durham, recover his whisky and come back for a suitably fortified tea. It would not take him long and he reckoned he could be home again well before he saw Annabel return from Smarmy Stephen’s. On his way to unlocking the garage he noticed Mr Tibbs hovering by the back gate. He stopped to fondle his head.
“Hi, Tibbs, remember me? Same person underneath – different species on the surface!” Since he could no longer address his friend in animal-speak he hoped his physical contact communicated the same message. Mr Tibbs looked at him and twitched his tail. George reckoned he’d got through.
Under George’s hands the Land Rover roared into life and, carefully ensuring his feline compatriot was out of harm’s way, George backed the motor out, span the wheel and set off out of the lane, out of the village, heading for the city, the red mini and the whisky that was waiting for him.
Carol and Sally were curled up on a sofa and an armchair, respectively, warming their hands on coffee and discussing the day’s adventures when a ring on the doorbell disturbed them.
“Why, it’s George! He’s returned!” cried Carol, opening the door. “Back to join the human race and back to see us!”
“Thank you, Carol. Nice to be back, as you put it.” He remained standing outside the door. “If you would be so kind, I’ve come to pick up my bottle of single malt…which I believe is still in your car?”
“No – it is inside now, and you must come inside as well if you wish to retrieve it.” Carol stood aside and beckoned him in. “I think you know the way, don’t you?”
George grimaced. Yes, he had seen all round this place earlier, though from an altogether lower horizon. Somehow, back in his human form, he was more nervous entering this female reserve and even Rosie – recognising his voice and coming out to see him – did not make him feel any more comfortable.
“George! Great to see you!” Sally welcomed him into the lounge. “And now as I remember you…before…before you animalised.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” George mumbled non-committedly, looking round for his bottle. He was anxious to remove himself as quickly as possible and not be drawn into prolonging his stay. Things had a habit of getting out of control with these two sirens.
Carol had other ideas. She had instantly read his mood and had no intention of letting him get away until he had delivered up some explanation for his amazing transformations. She stood in the lounge doorway behind him, blocking his retreat.
“The whisky is not in this room, George, and I’m not sure you should have it either, until you come clean first of all about what is it with your instant dogginess. How do you do it? And how do you turn back again?”
“Do sit down, George,” prompted Sally, “and spill the beans! We are just itching to know. You are the first man-dog we’ve ever met. Are there others? And if so, where do you come from? I bet it’s from a circu…”
“No!” George almost bit her head off with the strength of his retort. “Nothing to do with circuses or zoos or whatever crazy notions you come up with. I’ve told you before!”
“Go easy, George,” smiled Carol soothingly. She didn’t want to upset him. Clearly he was extremely sensitive about the topic and probably because he was still struggling to come to terms with it himself. “But I think you should give us some sort of explanation – if you can. Please?”
George refused to sit down. He walked over and put his back to the window, facing the two girls, his face lined with discontent. Rosie followed. He grumpily accepted that his hosts were bound to be fascinated by what had happened to him whilst he had been with them so he supposed he had better say something. Hopefully something brief enough to satisfy them and let him escape with his whisky without much loss of blood.
“OK…OK…But I can’t tell you much.” He looked around, somewhat like trapped animal, Carol thought, and dropped his hand to fondle Rosie.
“It has only happened after seeing you. Don�
��t ask me why and don’t get all psychoanalytical about it. But I think that Rosie has a key effect. Why a greyhound, for example? Maybe I’ve always wanted to be a dog?? I don’t think so! All I know is that this never happened before I met you all. So I could say it’s all your fault. Nothing more I can tell you, sorry!”
“What’s it feel like, George, being a greyhound?” Carol was looking for a way to dig deeper, though she could see his resistance and the conflicting emotions in his face well enough.
George thought about that. He smiled slowly. “Fun!” he said.
“I should think so,” said Sally, “looking at what you got up to on that golf course today. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
George nodded. He didn’t want to say how he felt at home, running after his unfaithful wife, however. He wanted his whisky and he wanted to get away. He didn’t want to open up to all the feelings he had locked away inside. It showed. Carol knew. She went to fetch his bottle of Ardbeg.
George hurried to the front door and hovered there, waiting for his whisky. He turned to face Carol and say his goodbyes and thanks. He didn’t want to look too closely at her young, appealing figure as she hurried towards him so he lowered his eyes as she reached forward. He didn’t see the kiss coming, therefore, and he was for a moment completely immobilised.
He was shocked, embarrassed, flattered and he struggled to keep himself under control. He was clearly completely unused to anyone showing him any sort of love and affection. Something tugged at Carol’s heart as she watched the complex of emotions flood over him. George managed to burble out his thanks and then he turned to go. Carol held his arm.
“I’m so pleased you came with us today, George, and so pleased you enjoyed yourself, too – I’d love to do something similar with you again…if you want to. Will you be too frightened to see us again – me, Sally and Rosie – if we are having that effect on you?”
George looked at her this time. She had lovely, searching green eyes that showed genuine concern. He could drown in those eyes.
“No…not frightened…yes, want to see you again.” He was trying to hold everything in. “Got to go with this greyhound thing for as long as it happens. Got to sort it out, see. Can’t run away from a thing like that. Anyway – must shoot for now. Thanks again.”
Very quickly he gave Carol a return peck on the cheek. He waved to Rosie who was standing in the hallway behind her. Yep, he thought, it was definitely those two, most of all, who were turning his whole world upside down. As soon as he got back home he was going to open that bottle of Ardbeg. He walked quickly to the Land Rover and didn’t dare to look back.
Carol watched him drive off, watched him deliberately ignoring her as she stood on the doorstep, trying to wave to him. Again, she knew.
George’s emotions were in turmoil. He needed to get back to his village quickly but now, thinking of what had transpired just recently, even at home he would be unable to relax. He could not be happy at home any longer; those two sirens had made him increasingly unsatisfied at work, and facing Carol in particular – especially if she was kind and affectionate towards him – would make him liable to explode. George felt his world was beginning to fall apart; his head was throbbing just thinking about it as he drove along.
Thankfully it was a short drive and on this Saturday evening the traffic was light. George’s concentration was all over the place but he managed to avoid any incident, parked his motor safely in the garage and, on an afterthought, did not lock the pull-down door. Similarly he opened his back gate and left it on the latch, unbolted, such that a push from outside would be sufficient to open it again. George looked round for Mr Tibbs as he walked up the garden path to his back door. He couldn’t see him. That was a shame – he felt in need of a soul mate with whom he could commiserate.
Annabel had not returned from Smarmy Stephen’s. George didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. Pleased he would be able to collapse in his study without her interference; annoyed that she was still out, presumably shamelessly cavorting with her neighbour again. This could not go on. George went into the kitchen, raided the fridge for something to eat, found a glass and then repaired to his study where he set up the bottle and glass on his desk before arranging his lanky frame in the chair.
The next half hour passed very pleasantly. He had cut himself a chunk of Cheddar from the fridge, placed that beside the glass and, exercising great self-control, took out his hip flask from the desk draw and filled it very carefully from the bottle of Ardbeg – not allowing a drop to stain the desk nor to enter his salivating throat. The flask was returned to the draw. He then splashed a fair slug of whisky into his glass, re-corked the bottle, took a bite of the cheese and slid back in his chair. Chewing slowly and deliberately, he raised his glass.
“Here’s to dogginess!” he called out. He swallowed the Cheddar and sipped the single malt. Heaven! Relaxation spread through him from his centre outwards.
But thirty minutes of such recreation was all he was going to get. George had time to let his eyes wander around his study, looking at the various pictures he had put up – landscapes mostly; he had time to empty and refill his glass; he had time to cogitate a little on his singular transformations and what they all meant…and then the front door tentatively opened and Annabel came in, calling out for George as she did so.
“Coo-ee! I’m back. George! Where are you?” It was a nervous call, perhaps fearing a greyhound might emerge from somewhere.
George appeared in his study door, wondering how his wife was going to explain her long absence. Silly of him, he realised. Annabel went straight onto the offensive as soon as she saw him.
“George! Have you been drinking? I can smell the whisky from here! Is this your idea of making tea?”
“It was, in your absence,” he replied sniffily. “What have you been up to all this time?”
“You know where I’ve been – helping to clean up at Stevie’s after that crazy dog appeared there. It wrecked the garden and I don’t put it past it to return and do more damage around here. You should’ve seen what it did at college – just the same. Damn filthy hound, it ought to be shot, and its owner too if ever it has one.”
“Uh huh.” George nodded. He wasn’t going to get any sort of concession from her that maybe her place was in this house and not in someone else’s. The suggestion that her place could be elsewhere, permanently, he might put to her later. He wasn’t going to ignite that box of dynamite just yet. He shrugged his shoulders and returned to his study.
Annabel looked at her husband turn away and settle back in his chair with scarcely a comment. She was glad he had not questioned her more closely about where she had been and why it had allegedly taken so long to clean up a garden, but at the same time his seeming indifference to her activities and absence made her intensely annoyed. She thought of letting fly at him just to jerk him out of his closed little world but, considering she was relieved that her illicit liaison with Stephen Maxwell was as yet undiscovered she thought it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. She looked at him. What a dozy husband she had! Yes, that was a good analogy – he was about as energetic and as much fun as a sleeping, if not actually dead, dog.
That night, in their separate beds and unbeknownst to each other, Mr and Mrs Potts were having similar but opposing dreams. One dreamt of a romantic alliance being broken up by the appearance of a rabid and monstrous wolfhound; the other of luscious, untouchable women changing to a wild chase of an unfaithful partner from one house and garden to another.
Both visions were a rollicking, switch-back ride through hallucinatory experiences to finish eventually, for one dreamer, in the reassuring arms of a lothario and, for the other, in the reassuring arms of a familiar chair and a comfortable, single-malt-flavoured environment.
Annabel was the first to awake. It was Sunday morning but still she could not lie there contentedly with all sorts of disturbing images running though her mind. That bloody dog – first causing havoc in her nicely or
dered college dining room; and then again with Stevie, in his bedroom no less, and chasing her through one house and another. She was glad it had disappeared but evil thoughts of it getting any closer to her were preventing any sleep.
Annabel Potts was a formidable advocate of order and discipline in this world. Unpredictable elements – especially dogs – were not welcome to it. One of her favourite sayings which she would regularly throw at her husband was: ‘Everything in its place and a place for every thing.’ George had begun to groan inside whenever he heard it – not so much for its repeated banality, not even because it seemed to delimit all of Annabel’s tiny-minded world, but increasingly because that was what an accountant did at work – putting finances in order – and he was rapidly tiring of this and especially did not want to go home and meet the same desire to categorise, define, tie down and imprison everything there as well. Increasingly, at work and at home, he felt imprisoned.
But Annabel craved control in her life. If she could not for the time being control her dreams that Sunday morning, she would get up. The world had just better behave itself this day, that’s all! She roused herself slowly from her bed, pulled back the curtains from the bedroom window and had every intention of starting the day with an altogether positive mindset, putting behind her any trace of nightmares…until she turned and saw what was sleeping in the place of her husband.
Animals did not belong in Annabel’s universe. Any being that had a mind of its own and wanted to go places that Annabel did not approve of made her feel like screaming. Even garden worms that she dug up and which she found wriggled off in directions she did not permit, were fundamentally threatening to her view of an ordered and controlled environment. And dogs that did not stay in kennels, or on someone’s tight lead, or locked away out of sight preferably in a steel cage on the Titanic – any such stray dogs should be shot.
Greyhound George Page 11
