Animal Lovers

by Rob Palk

  ‘Got this book to read,’ I said.

  ‘That looks a lot like a phone you’re looking at. Rather than a book.’

  ‘The book is ready and waiting.’

  She stood up and went over to the window, drinking in the night. ‘We should get dressed,’ she said. ‘I should put on something fancy. I’m not sure you’ve ever seen me in anything fancy.’

  ‘You always look fancy,’ I said.

  ‘We should go to a bar. We should pay a lot of money for lager that we could get from downstairs for a few quid. We’ll shout over the music and I’ll try and make you dance. We should do this.’

  ‘Alternatively, there is bed. The upside of bed is that I’m already on it so it would take a bit less planning.’

  Kerry started to dance to the music from outside. I had never seen her dance. I couldn’t tell if she was good at it or if this mattered. I sat up and I watched her. There was a clumsy exhilaration to her movements. But also an embarrassed sexiness, as though the dance was a comment on sexiness. I looked, for a second, at my phone and saw a message from George appear.

  ‘You need to come to Bristol,’ the message said. ‘We’re living there now, with Irene.’ He sent me the address.

  ‘Come and dance,’ said Kerry. ‘Or shall I come over to you?’

  ‘Decisions, decisions,’ I said. I typed out a refusal: there was no way I was schlepping over to Bristol.

  ‘She misses you though,’ wrote George. ‘I can tell she really does. She goes on about you all the time. Henry’s all in a wobble. There’s something really bad about them.’ I asked him what he meant.

  ‘You should carry me to bed,’ said Kerry. ‘Or carry me outside. Either works for me. God these nights are fine.’ I looked up at her and made a sound I hoped was loving and enthusiastic.

  ‘Just wrong,’ George typed. ‘I can explain it if you come. She said the other day. She said she just hopes you stay friends. She was crying, in the kitchen. She tried to hide it but she was. She does that a lot.’

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ said Kerry. I put the phone down.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I said, patting the bed. When I next looked at my phone there was a scroll of messages from George, getting less and less coherent, more fevered. A blue papyrus of entreaties and bribes. Marie missed me, Marie needed my friendship, Marie was at a loss.

  A few days later I set off for Bristol.

  Forty-Four

  They lived in what looked like an ordinary suburb without the broth-y whiff of hard-core activism. Staid, conventional. I’d expected weed fumes, and slogan stickers in every window but the only signs I saw were for estate agents or the local neighbourhood watch. Then I remembered this was Irene’s turf. An odd person, but no bohemian. She’d only contracted politics when the badger cull began, spending decades up to that as a dinner lady or on a checkout, I guessed. I wondered what the neighbours thought of the peculiar trio she’d invited into her home, this striking feral couple and their lurking boy hanger-on. Not to mention the dog.

  I’d decided to make my visit a surprise. I didn’t want to risk a refusal. I would tell them I’d come on an impulse, just wanting to say hello.

  Mostly I was curious about Kerry and Henry. If I could get the sod alone for a couple of minutes, I could ask him what had happened between them. He surely wouldn’t resist a chance to boast. Kerry? Yeah, we had a little thing. Don’t think she ever got over it, poor bitch. It would be one more point of triumph, something to revel in.

  I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t, also, some curiosity about Marie. What had George meant, there was something bad about them? Did she really need a friend? I would be a good friend. I would help her if I could.

  I was at the right house, 95. As soon as I arrived there a lot of my confidence vanished. The house was, so clearly, the street’s concession to carnival. In the overgrown grass were several garden gnomes, leering and concupiscent. I counted at least twelve of them. There was a ‘Stop the Cull’ poster in the front room window. From the grass came a strong smell of dog shit. Nothing reasonable could come from a house like this.

  Bracing myself, I rang the bell. Musical, of course, a bar or two of ‘God Save the Queen’. Before it had played out, the dog was up at the door, barking, rattling the panes. A woman’s voice – not Marie’s – yelled at the beast to shut up. Irene was indoors. She took her time in answering, and I pictured her trudging, in carpet slippers, wheezing as she trod. For some reason I assumed she’d be in a dressing gown. But when she did get to the door she was wearing an unsuitable Mickey Mouse tee shirt and grey jogging bottoms. She looked at me with incomprehension.

  ‘Stuart,’ I said. ‘You remember. I used to be married to Marie. Still am if you want to be strict about it.’ She blinked and glowered at me.

  ‘You were rude,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like it.’ I had no idea what she meant. Then I remembered our angry exchange on Facebook, which had ended in my suggesting a dictionary. She had replied that she was dyslexic. I tried hard to make the rigid smile on my face into a charming grin of apology.

  ‘Stress,’ I said. ‘I was stressed. Can I come in?’ Before she could refuse I had my foot in the hall, edging past her and the St Bernard. Irene made protesting noises but followed me into the front room.

  So then, this front room. I had to stand for a moment and get my breath back. The place was brim-full of tat. There was a large-scale collection of monarchist paraphernalia: doilies and commemorative Royal Doulton plates, tea towels of Princess Di, union jack mugs and a Kate Middleton calendar. To match this, there was a slightly smaller display of animal mementos: stuffed toy cows and plaster otters, a hedgehog clock and, inevitably, badgers. Badger toys, badger cross stitches, a badger poster and, worst of all, a toddler-sized badger mannequin wearing shades and a leather jacket with the words ‘Setts Appeal’ studded on the side.

  It was, I should say, spotless. Irene, at least, didn’t suffer from her lodgers’ aversion to dusting.

  ‘They’re not here,’ said Irene. ‘Don’t know why you are.’

  ‘Just dropping by,’ I said, with what I hoped was bonhomie. She opened her mouth for a few seconds then grabbed a yellow cloth and started scrubbing the ornaments.

  ‘You should get off and go,’ she said. ‘You’re only causing bother.’

  ‘Cup of tea would be nice,’ I said. I sat down on a badger cushion and tried to look at home. I soon realised that this tactic would only work if Marie and Henry had, say, walked in at that moment. As they didn’t, I was left sitting there, the amiable mask I’d adopted turning quickly into something else. Irene dusted and hoovered around me, tutting and glowering and refusing to bring me tea. The St Bernard sat opposite, his mouth all folds and slaver, cords of drool hanging from his jaws. I began to wonder if I had done the right thing. My phone was out of data, thanks to an archaic package I had never got around to changing. A shame.

  A message from Kerry might have dragged me onto my feet. Onto my feet and back home.

  After what might have been an hour, but felt like several more, a car pulled up outside. Irene took a ponderous glance in my direction, shaking her head as though I were a lost cause. There was the sound of keys in the door and the dog bounced from the room. I could hear Marie cooing and fussing him. Touching him.

  I tried to sit like I was only passing through.

  Finally, Marie came through the door, laden with carrier bags and smiling ear to ear. She stopped dead and gawped at me as though I’d been buried a week. I had time to notice how much older she looked and to hate myself for doing so. ‘Stuart,’ she said. So she remembered my name at least.

  Henry came in after her and stood in the doorway. George, I thought, was onto something. This wasn’t the Henry I remembered. As though he had been cowed somehow, his swagger been constrained. A lot of the colour gone from his face, which still left him russet hewed by everyday standards, but for him was pallid and grey.

  ‘Hey Stu,’ he drawled.
He didn’t even confront me. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Yes Stu,’ said Marie in a much less amiable way. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was in the area,’ I said. I realised I had no plausible reason for this. ‘Meeting an agent about the book. They weren’t interested. Story of my life, haha. And I thought that I’d come by. I thought it was silly, us avoiding one another. We’re all adults after all. We have a lot in common.’

  ‘We’ve got one thing, at least,’ said Henry with a sneer. ‘Badgers I mean.’

  ‘Badgers,’ I said. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did George suggest this?’ said Marie. She opened the door and yelled his name. There was no reply, the boy having presumably snuck off. ‘Did he put you up to this?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, seeing no reason to lie about it. ‘He said you’d welcome a visit. I can head back if you’d prefer?’

  ‘That boy is a nightmare,’ said Marie. ‘Henry, we have to do something.’ She spoke to him, not like a lover, which I’d feared, but like one half of a couple, which was worse.

  I reminded myself about Kerry, about all the promise she offered.

  ‘He’s only a kid, Marie,’ said Henry. Irene, who had been dusting especially hard just then, dropped her cloth and let out a high keening sound.

  ‘Oh Irene, Irene,’ said Marie, rushing towards her howling landlady and stretching her arms around as much of her as she could. The whole scene was becoming morbidly emotive.

  ‘Stay for dinner Stu?’ said Henry.

  I looked him in the eye. There was none of his old challenge there. The man was exhausted, right through. That look on his face was defeat.

  I told him I’d love to stay.

  Marie did most of the cooking. Tossed spices and vegetables together, like she’d done in the days of our marriage. All four months of them. I’d missed the way she cooked. I’d missed her. Kerry was fun, of course, but she could be a little self-righteous. No, I didn’t think this. I went into the kitchen and saw Henry near Marie, standing by the stove with a bottle of wine and I had the strange sense of seeing my own life from outside, as though someone much more handsome were playing me in a film.

  I went back and sat in the dining room. There was a framed colour photograph of a Yorkshire terrier on the wall, professionally done. I asked Irene about it and she brightened, telling me at great length about the animal’s puppyhood, maturity and final struggle with illness. I could hear the wok sizzling from the other room. The St Bernard huffed at my lap.

  We were just getting to the terrier’s extended deathbed scene when Marie and Henry came through with the food and the wine.

  ‘Is she telling you about Jack? Poor little Jack. I wish I’d met him.’

  ‘Feel as though I have,’ I said. Henry caught my eye in a way that made me uncomfortable. It was the look, I thought, of a fellow-sufferer, a sufferer of women. I didn’t quite have the courage to glare at him but I tried my best to look blank.

  George chose this moment to stomp down the stairs and join us. He had his hoodie on, obscuring most of his face. Underneath the top he seemed to be wearing pyjamas. He said nothing to any of us. Marie sighed. As long as George was around there was someone at the table less welcome than myself.

  ‘You have a guest, George,’ she said, in the tone of a determinedly civilising mother. George shrugged even more than usual, went into the kitchen and came back with a bag of white sliced bread. Pulling slices from it, he tore them as if he were soon to be feeding ducks, piling the downy tearings on his plate. His commitment to unsettling those around him was getting to be impressive.

  ‘It is nice to see you all again,’ I said. I wondered how long before I could politely take my leave. Already this journey felt pointless, a failing. My phone buzzed. A text from Kerry. She hoped I was having a great day with my friend, the fictional friend I’d told her about. I wondered if she guessed, suspected that something was up.

  I must have been looking guilty because Marie chose this moment to speak.

  ‘How’s Kerry?’ she said. ‘It’s nice that we’ve both met new people. Means we can hopefully be friends.’

  ‘Exactly what I want,’ I said. ‘It’s important to stay friends.’

  ‘She asked me if I minded,’ said Marie. ‘Kerry did. Before she contacted you. I’ve not heard from her since. She’s very active for someone like you. Who likes a quiet life.’

  ‘I don’t know why everyone thinks I want a quiet life. You always made me feel like you were Liz Taylor and you’d accidentally married Philip Larkin. Anyway, me and Kerry are just cheering each other up.’

  ‘I told her I didn’t mind at all. It’s weird though. I don’t think I want to hear about it. Sorry.’

  ‘I propose a toast,’ I said. It was vital to keep the subject back on our new friendship. ‘We’ve all been through a lot. A year ago – less than a year ago – we were getting married. Making those solemn vows. But it’s the modern world and nobody takes those seriously anymore. No. What matters is that we can be friends. After all, love passes. It may seem exciting at first but sooner or later the first traces of apathy and inertia come in, don’t they? Followed, eventually, by disgust.’

  ‘This is a very long toast,’ said Henry.

  ‘I’m getting to the point,’ I said. ‘And that point is. That friendship. Amity. Knowing you can rely on one another. These things are stronger, truer than love. So my toast is to friendship. To friendship.’

  I waggled my glass. Marie sighed. I hoped that this sigh was a sign she was deeply moved.

  ‘You can’t rely on anyone,’ said George.

  ‘Love is stronger than friendship,’ said Henry.

  ‘Dogs are good friends,’ said Irene.

  Marie said nothing.

  ‘What do you think of Kerry, Henry?’ If we were going to be awkward we might as well do it properly.

  Henry put down his fork. If he was hiding something he did it well. There was nothing to read in his face. Too much nothing, I thought. You’d have to make an effort to communicate quite so little. ‘Horses for courses, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Irene started talking about badgers. I refilled my glass of wine and found I was missing Kerry a lot. I looked across at Marie. She had barely started her food. Looking up, she gave a half-smile.

  ‘It’s sweet that you want to be friends,’ she said. ‘I think it would be nice. Sometime.’ I grinned into my drink. I didn’t want to catch Henry’s eye. I didn’t want him to see I knew I’d won.

  I was waiting at the bus stop. The melancholy of parting had been bearable this time. Friendship seemed quite feasible. I would work hard at it. I would appreciate Kerry too. A healthy accommodation was possible. Love would become friendship and thus endure. Things would be okay.

  My thoughts were full of charity. George might have invited me over to cause some trouble but the result had been a pleasant meal. Even Henry, well, he was a clodhopper but Marie would see that soon enough. He wasn’t actually a bad man. You didn’t devote yourself to badgers without some level of misplaced empathy.

  Footsteps broke this reverie. It was Henry running towards me. He stopped, tossed his hair and stood next to me, a little too close. Being Henry, he was barely out of breath.

  ‘It was so good to see you,’ he said. I hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Same to you,’ I said.

  He grabbed me in a hug. ‘Feel like me and you are due one of these,’ he said. It was warm in the middle of this hug. It was stifling and moist. His stubble rubbed against me. It was taking much too long. ‘Let it all out,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to let it all out,’ I said. I tried to wriggle free.

  ‘You know, I respect you,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been so good. You basically gave me your happiness. You saw I wanted it and you gave it all to me.’ He finally let go. I stood, panting, and felt myself for injuries. ‘I always think of it. I wake up in the morning and I drink my coffee and I look at Marie lying there and I always think of
you. Back in London. How you gave this to me.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  ‘It’s an amazing thing you did.’ He hit me on the shoulder in a matey, crippling way. ‘To just bow out like that. Sometimes when I’m holding her I wonder if I could do it and you know, I don’t think I could.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t deny there’s been troubles,’ he said. ‘It’s tough, taking someone on. You might have noticed I’m quiet.’ Oh god was he . . . was he going to confide in me? ‘I can’t stand suffering, you see. Same with those badgers. When I see it I just fill up, you know. With what do you call it, empathy.’

  ‘Suffering is tough,’ I said. He moved to crush me in another hug.

  ‘It’s hard,’ he said. ‘So hard.’ I was swallowed up by his embrace, unable to move. It was like being trapped in a flesh sleeping bag. ‘You’re a good man Stuart,’ he said. I could feel the words forming inside him, rumbling against my face. His enormous body was shaking against me. Maybe I would be trapped in this hug forever. I could be a parasite, feeding on scraps of his tee shirt and flakes of dead skin. Eventually we’d be fused, inseparable. But no, I could see the sky above me, feel the air enter my lungs. He freed me.

  ‘I try my best,’ I said.

  ‘You take care of Kerry now,’ he said. ‘I know her pretty well and she’s . . . I’ll shut up.’ He opened his arms again but I jumped back off the pavement. ‘Gotta take care of those ladies,’ he said. He ambled off down the road, without the usual peculiar lightness of hefty people. His step now matched his size, carrying himself as though he were carrying heavy boxes.

  I felt less satisfied than I’d hoped for from this visit. I felt perturbed in ways I hadn’t planned for.

  Forty-Five

  I went to see Kerry the next day. I had woken thinking about her, with renewed excitement. I wanted to race and tell her how great she was. I wanted to tell her how exciting the walk from the station to her flat was, the delirium that comes as you approach your lover’s house, knowing you’ll soon be there and in their arms. I wanted to say I’d seen Marie and it hadn’t made a difference, tell her I was ready. Except this would involve admitting I’d been to Marie. Plus there were Henry’s repeated allusions – his concerned words-to-the-wise – to Kerry being unwell. I thought of these as territorial, faux-friendly attempts to do the dirty on a good thing, knock some of the shine off it. But what if they weren’t? At three in the morning they sometimes seemed genuine. My body believing it, keeping me awake, even as my mind argued otherwise. It all had to be considered. So we spent time in her room, our conversation circling topics, approaching closer and closer, before leaping back like kids playing Mr Wolf.