by Beth Morrey
Angela swallowed and sucked her greasy fingers. ‘Give up smoking,’ she said. I smiled indulgently. She’d been trying to give up ever since I’d met her, wielding various implements in place of her beloved cigarettes. The implements came and went; the cigarettes stayed. ‘What are yours?’ she asked, tossing a chip for Decca, who snatched it out of the air and moved away from Nancy to enjoy it in peace. Bobby panted patiently, waiting for her turn.
I hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I think … I’m all right at the moment.’ Angela, throwing Nancy her chip, turned towards me, eyes narrowing.
‘That’s good.’ She threw a chip to Bobby, who snapped her jaws into thin air, letting it fall to the floor, where it was immediately snatched by Decca. ‘Oh dear, poor Bobs. Here you go, girl.’ She held out another and Bobby took it gingerly.
‘She’s never been very good at that,’ I observed, getting up to put the kettle on.
Angela laughed and ruffled Bobby’s lustrous mane. ‘What will you do,’ she asked, ‘when Fix wants her back?’
I kept my back to her as I filled the kettle and turned to put it on the hot plate. The clock on the wall ticked. Bobby chomped on her chip under the table. The tea towel was hanging slightly off-centre and I moved it back into place.
‘Well?’ said Angela, gently.
I turned to face her. She looked concerned – worried, even – with Bobby’s head on her knee, hoping for more.
‘I … hadn’t really thought about it,’ I faltered. ‘Does she want her back?’ I hoped Fix might have decided to move on in her new life, without a dog, while I moved on, with one. Ships that passed in the night, with Bobby the lifeboat between us.
Angela sighed and rubbed her nose. ‘I don’t really know. I hardly ever hear from her, and then not many details. Originally she said she needed several months, a year even. But the plan was always to give her back, eventually. She’s Fix’s dog.’
But I looked at Bobby, licking her chops and thought: she’s not; she’s mine. And realized in that instant I would do anything to keep her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Angela said, registering my expression. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just … I didn’t expect it all to work out this well. You’re so good together. It’s a shame – well, you know what I mean.’
The kettle whistled and I went to pour the tea.
‘Try not to worry,’ said Angela. ‘Fix might not want her back for months, longer, even. No need to panic.’ She seemed to be reassuring herself as well as me.
We drank our tea, and Angela talked about Otis, who was looking forward to his second term at school, but I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation, thinking of my mother and Jonas the Labrador, and the day we got Leo’s diagnosis. The marble was back in my throat and I kept noticing flecks of dirt on the kitchen units, itching for disinfectant to distract myself from the looming branches crowding my vision. Bobby, my Bobby, my oikos.
Eventually Angela said she’d better go, or her mother would send out a search party, so she wished me Happy New Year, threw her vinegary bag in the bin and disappeared into the night as the first fireworks started up. The dogs began to pace restlessly, ears flattened against the bangs, so I decided to call it a night. I washed my face and brushed my teeth in the bathroom, intently watched by three pairs of eyes, Bobby in the middle with her rabbit in her jaws. Switching on the radio to drown out the noise, I climbed into bed and patted the blankets. All three of them jumped up and started arranging themselves, turning and curling their way to comfort, with little heed for mine. My legs heavy with dog, I lay listening to the distant pops and squeals, only slightly deadened by Classic FM. They were playing Elgar. Not the cello concerto, but the Enigma Variations, which I’ve always loved, particularly ‘Nimrod’. Now though, the strains of the theme sounded uncomfortably portentous, heralding the New Year and whatever it might bring. When the bongs of Big Ben chimed, I was still awake, eyes fixed on the window as the odd firework flickered across the black. 2017, my eighty-first year on Earth.
Sensing my unease, Bobby, nuzzled her head against my arm. I put it around her and caressed the soft fur, breathing in her warm scent, lulled by the gentle sighs and snores that surrounded me. Last year I’d so longed for things to be different, but now I wanted everything to stay the same. Semper eadem. That was my resolution, right there. Carry on as we were.
Chapter 34
After Sylvie had picked up her dogs, I took Bobby for a piece of toast in the park café on New Year’s Day. We sat outside on the veranda, watching the passers-by, and I fed her buttery crusts and remembered my lonely walks there a year ago, when I was mourning my lost life and planning a visit to a toxic lake to watch some fish being stunned. Now here we were, tucked up together, greeting acquaintances, both human and canine, planning the day’s activities, looking forward to the week ahead. Frolicking in our lake and inviting everyone in.
Pushing thoughts of Bobby’s departure out of my mind, I enjoyed getting into my routine again. Angela went back to work, Otis went back to school and I went back to the library, logging books, reading to the children and helping members find what they needed. I also listened to Deirdre’s woes, as she was worried about funding cuts and how they would affect services. She was quite fiery on occasion, quoting statistics, telling me that there were 280 million library visits in Britain every year, that people went to libraries more often than they went to football matches, theatres, A&E and church combined.
A library visit every nine seconds, she said. I liked to think of it, and would sometimes sit in my chair in reception counting the ticks of the clock and imagining people entering libraries up and down the country with requests like the ones I heard every day. ‘There’s a book someone recommended, I can’t remember the author or the title … How do I use the computer …? Could you help me fill in this form …? I need something to help me understand Shakespeare … Have you got that new film with the shark in it? Not Jaws, another one.’ My very own set of Enigma Variations to decode.
The weather turned colder and wetter and I was glad of my new coat and wellington boots, as Bobby’s walks became increasingly sludgy. We started to recognize the fair-weather dog walkers, or at least notice their absence when the rain came. Denzil always turned up, though he was missing Miguel, who had gone back to Spain. Maddie and Simon came out with their Border Terrier and their new baby, Timothy, though they both looked grey and exhausted. Tim wasn’t a great sleeper: ‘we’ve decided we prefer Tiggy after all.’ I saw Phillip and Dexter, though not at the same time. Dexter raced past first, ears flapping, with what looked like a dead rat in his mouth, and Phillip followed, puffing, a while later. ‘Have you seen him? Where did he go?’
Then we would head home, where there was always a treat to be found, a fire to be sat in front of, or a visitor to be greeted, whether it was Sylvie popping in for a gossip, or Hanna, who’d taken to coming round for a cup of tea and a chat, to improve her English. We didn’t see so much of Angela, but she was busy with work – or maybe didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t kept up her resolution.
I pottered about quite happily, taking down my decorations, sorting out the last few things in the attic, sending Alistair the occasional update, and retrieving Bobby’s stuffed rabbit from whichever incongruous corner she’d left him. Named Bruce Bunny by Otis, Bobby’s toy now had one ear missing and was looking rather grubby, but was a permanent fixture, carried around tenderly in her jaws and dropped in various places for me to find. After ‘burying’ him under cushions, rugs, beds, and forgetting where she’d put him, she would wander round the house whining until Bruce was unearthed, whereupon they would have a passionate reunion and he would be borne off to her corner for a thorough going-over. She was an odd dog and I loved her dearly.
One night when we’d lost and found Bruce, and I was just settling down with some pasta to watch a new period drama, we were interrupted by a phone call from Sylvie.
‘Have you seen Angela lately?’ she asked.
/> ‘No,’ I replied. ‘She’s been working a lot, I think. Why?’
‘She just called me, and sounded strange.’
‘Maybe she was drunk?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. She was tense. It was like … she’d called me about something, and then decided not to talk about it after all.’
‘Do you want me to go round?’
‘Would you? I’d just be easier in my mind.’
So I put on my new coat and boots, collected Bobby’s lead because she didn’t want to miss the outing, and we marched down the road to Angela’s flat. A light was on at the top of the house, so I pressed the doorbell. For a while nothing happened and then I heard her voice, low and rough through the intercom. She buzzed me up and we embarked on the lengthy sets of stairs, Bobby squeezing ahead and turning to wait for me every few steps. By the time we reached the top I was breathless and slightly dizzy, so when Angela opened the door I had to push past to go and sit on her sofa to recover.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, rather abruptly.
I coughed. ‘I just thought I’d drop by as I haven’t seen you in a while. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ She was still holding the door open, and after a second she closed it, a little reluctantly.
‘Where’s Otis?’ I looked around.
She frowned. ‘He’s asleep. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’
‘Oh,’ I said, coughing again and stalling for time. She looked unkempt, with a hint of grey roots, and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. ‘I just wondered … would you like to come on a walk tomorrow?’ It was a Saturday, and she and Otis often joined me at the weekend.
She started to object, then thought better of it and shrugged. ‘OK then.’ I lingered to see if she would ask me to stay for a drink, but she just stood by the door, clearly waiting for me to leave.
I struggled to my feet, still a little breathless. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten, shall I? We could go for a coffee.’ She nodded and followed me as I went back out on to the landing, leaning against the door as I clipped Bobby on her lead. I waved goodbye but she was already turning away, so we made our way slowly back downstairs and headed home.
‘Something wasn’t right,’ I murmured, as the dog trotted by my side in the darkness. Bobby paused, sniffing a lamppost, and hacked up a cough that suggested she had a chicken bone stuck. I supposed it was as good an observation as any.
The next morning I dutifully went back again to pick up her and Otis. We waited at the gate and they appeared a few minutes later, both bundled in winter coats as it was an icy day, a thick frost covering everything the sun hadn’t reached yet. Angela was so well wrapped I could barely see her face, scarf covering her mouth and hat pulled down low. Otis had the necessary gear on, but it was a precarious arrangement, scarf already trailing, coat falling off his shoulder, hat askew. Usually Angela would be stopping to re-zip, re-tie and re-position but today she didn’t seem to notice, and it fell to me to straighten him up while she stared at the ground and scuffed stones with her shoe.
We walked wordlessly, which wasn’t unusual, but today it felt different. Our silence was usually companionable, unforced, no real need to break it with platitudes. But now I felt compelled to gabble, comment on the weather, anything to provoke some sort of response from her. Otis, at least, was oblivious, dashing this way and that, fetching sticks, chasing birds, and stamping in puddles.
I opened my mouth to indulge the urge, then closed it again, remembering Jette’s silences, and my mother once telling me talking made no difference; to my grandmother, it was just empty noise, the buzz of an untuned radio. So instead I looked at the stark, bare trees, and thought of sitting on the bench with Sylvie when we first met, not really talking, just eating croissants and watching the ebb and flow of the branches above. I went into the café and bought us both a coffee, and Otis a biscuit, then we stood in the playground while he jumped on the trampoline, crumbs all over his coat.
‘I need you to look after Otis for me.’
I frowned, confused. Angela was staring straight ahead at her son, who was still bouncing.
‘Of course, whenever.’
‘I mean, I need you to have him for the night. Just one night. Could you do that?’ She turned towards me, and there was a martial light in her eye that disturbed me.
‘Yes, I could have him for the night. Which night do you mean?’
Angela turned back and watched as Otis climbed down from the trampoline and moved on to the swings, pushing himself backwards and forwards, skinny little legs like pistons, his breath making puffs of vapour in the air.
‘I don’t know. Just a night sometime soon.’ She wrapped her fingers more tightly around her coffee and blew on it. ‘Is that OK?’
I paused, thinking of various questions and rejecting them all. ‘Yes,’ I said finally. ‘Whenever you want.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. And it felt like we’d made a pact, but one that we wouldn’t discuss further, so we called Otis and said it was cold, and he moaned, and Angela said he could have a hot chocolate at home, and we all walked back. I left them at their gate, watching them disappear into the house, before making my own way home, wondering what it all meant.
‘A whole night?’ I asked Bobby. ‘What could that be about?
But Bobby had no more of an idea than I did. I texted Sylvie saying I’d seen Angela and she seemed all right, because although she obviously wasn’t, somehow it felt like a betrayal of trust to say otherwise. I worried about cold winters and gas ovens, but then reassured myself with the thought that Angela couldn’t possibly mean to do something stupid, when against all the odds she’d clearly managed to keep up her resolution. She hadn’t smoked once during the whole walk.
Chapter 35
Lancaster Villas
Kensington W8
15th February, 1955
Dear Sibyl,
I’m afraid I couldn’t bring myself to tell you on the telephone, which is wretchedly cowardly, and I can hardly bear to write it, but we always agreed to tell each other everything. Mama didn’t have a stroke, as everyone is saying. There was a letter of sorts. When Henry and I found her, she was clutching her old buttonhook in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other: ‘All this buttoning and unbuttoning.’ It’s a quote, I believe, from someone else who gave up on things. I’m terribly sorry, though I suppose it’s not too much of a surprise since Father died – or at all, really. She always was in her own winter’s tale.
Henry is hushing it up – says it would do no good at all for people to know. I’m not sure I agree with him though – Mama never talked about it, and perhaps that was the problem. But we all prefer to do things our own way, and hers was a private one, so maybe it’s for the best. Let us remember her, though, through the things she made and loved – I enclose her favourite thimble as a token, but you must come down and collect anything else you’d like.
Your loving sister,
Lena
The buttonhook and the thimble were up in the attic along with the letter. I stroked the brass metal cap with its tiny indentations; Jette’s fingertip shielded from the prick of the needle, while the rest of her had no protection from the constant stabs and skewers of life, until she couldn’t take it any more. Punch, jab, punch. There was only so much therapeutic sewing a woman could manage. But was it really any different to my mother, succumbing to an illness that might have been cured?
When Leo got ill, he considered it, and even hinted at me helping him, but I wouldn’t listen, and then it got too late and we missed the boat, as it were. After he went, I considered it myself, but something kept me from it – some shred of optimism, I suppose, which was always what Jette was lacking, making beautiful things, but never seeing the beauty in them. All this buttoning and unbuttoning. Either your own, or someone else’s. I could see how it could all become too much. Much easier to be like Fa-Fa; less introspective, getting someone else do the hard grind, only concerned with where his next
pipe was coming from. Or like Aunt Sibby, the vicar’s wife who only cared about her chickens, but was still prepared to wring their necks when it suited her. Peace of mind took a certain ruthlessness, as well as a lack of imagination. Because it wasn’t just about being content with your lot, was it? It included not worrying about anyone else’s. As soon as you started, the floodgates opened.
I didn’t hear from Angela again until nearly two weeks’ later, in early February, when she turned up on my doorstep one evening, puffy-faced and red-eyed, and asked me to look after Otis the following night. She wouldn’t come in, just shook her head and lurched off back down the path. I spent a sleepless night watching the shadows on the walls and then a frantic day cleaning the house in preparation for his arrival, re-making Arthur’s bed with its dinosaur duvet cover, baking a batch of cookies watched by a drooling Bobby, and dropping by the library to pick up a DVD that Deidre had recommended.
I picked him up him from school at three-thirty, wondering what Angela had told him about this impromptu sleepover, but he seemed happy enough to go with me, and resisted my tentative questions about his mother’s mood. Given that he was unable to remember what he’d had for lunch that day, it was unlikely he’d give me any valuable insight into her frame of mind. We walked quickly around the park with Bobby, as the light was fading, and then went back home where I settled him in front of the television with biscuits and milk, and soon heard him chortling away at the film while I prepared sausages and a baked potato. I wondered if I’d hear from Angela, but there was nothing, not even a text. Otis ate his dinner in the kitchen, waited on by Bobby, and seemed to enjoy it, though he objected to my home-made apple pie as it had apples in it. I’d seen him eat apples on a regular basis but it seemed he thought cooking them was an abomination. So he ate the pastry and custard and then we went up to the attic and played with Henry’s old train set until it was time for bed.
