by Sue Nicholls
‘Prats.’
After a few sessions with Max, Paul feels more comfortable than he did about opening up. With care he ventures, ‘I’ve been totally pissed off.’
At the nods and grumbles round the table, he asks, ‘You guys OK?’
Opposite Paul, imposing in his leather bomber jacket, Mick seems almost at home with his new single state. ‘Work keeps me going, catering’s long hours, and I’ve got other interests. I’m not so good with the kids though.’ He looks at the others for corroboration.
‘Yeah, it’s hard.’ Paul nods.
He tries to imagine Mick in his kitchen at the hotel. He must make an imposing figure in his Chef’s whites, a tall hat standing firm on his well boned head.
‘My mum’s fuming.’ Mick grins and raises his voice an octave, swaggering his torso and wiggling his head. ‘That girl should take her responsibilities more seriously, she’s had things easy her whole life. Where would we be now if I had rushed off to follow my dreams when your father was killed?’
Paul gives a clipped laugh.
In contrast to Mick, awkward Maurice with his flabby body and pale complexion, reminds Paul of a hamster. Conversation with him is stilted. Moan-y Mo with baggy trousers, his waist band supporting the beginnings of a pot belly.
‘I’m totally cheesed off,’ Maurice states and takes a gulp of coke, belching into his curled fist.
Paul thinks of Max and wonders how he can drive the conversation on, then Maurice, who has been glowering at Mick’s pint, bursts out, ‘I can’t do anything.’
Paul is quick to question, ‘What do you mean?’
‘My mum looks after me, like I was still a bloody kid.’
‘You want cookery lessons?’ asks Mick.
‘No thanks mate.’
‘You don’t want to be running to mummy all the time do you?’ Mick persists. ‘Come on man.’
Maurice looks like a cross child. ‘I suppose you’ve got everything worked out,’ he throws at Mick
‘Well I haven’t.’ interrupts Paul. ‘Want to know what I feel? Fucking furious.’ His voice is loud, and one or two drinkers turn worried faces towards the table.
‘Calm down man.’
‘I have calmed down, Mick. You should have seen me last week.’ Paul lowers his voice. ‘That’s why I rang, I wondered if we could, you know…’
There’s an awkward silence.
‘What we need is another beer.’ Mick tilts his wrist to and fro to indicate an empty glass.
‘I’ll get these.’ Paul jumps to his feet. ‘Mick?’
‘Pint of the same, thanks.’
‘Maurice?’
‘Oh, go on then, one pint won’t hurt, I suppose.’
Several rounds later while indulging in Vindaloo, they agree to make this a regular event.
Maurice leaves his car at the pub, and a passing taxi gets a long and complicated fare, delivering Paul locally, Maurice to his tiny semi, down the road from his parents, and a bleary, beery Mick to his flat. A generous tip from Mick despatches the obliging driver happily about his further business.
At home Paul downs a long glass of water. Tomorrow he has an ‘appointment’ with his daughter so he must not have a hangover.
Chapter 28
‘Hi Paul?’ Fee’s voice is metallic through the earpiece. The phone box smells of piss.
‘Hi, I’m about to turn up. Could you send Kitty out to me?’
Her tone is baffled. ‘OK, but why don’t you ring the doorbell?’
‘Do I need a reason?’ He touches the notebook.
‘Okay.’ She does not sound impressed, but as he drives up and climbs from the car, the front door swings open and Kitty runs down the path and into his arms.
‘What are we doing today?’
‘We-e-ll,’ Paul pauses for dramatic effect, ‘I thought we could go and…’
‘What? What?’ Kitty’s eyes are dancing.
‘and buy… a puppy!’ The last words rush out.
Kitty squeals and claps and dances a jig on the pavement.
‘Where are we going? Have you found one? Where will it live? What shall we call it?’
Ha. One to Paul, nil to Fee.
‘Woah. Slow down. We’re going to a dogs’ home. That’s a place where dogs with no owners live, waiting to find someone to love them.’ He takes her hand.
‘I’ll love them, I really will. Have you already been there?’
‘Yep, I’ve got my eye on one special puppy, but I wanted to get the OK from you before I bought it.’
This is why Paul is using the car today. There is no way for a puppy to travel on a motorbike - yet. Paul pictures the adult dog in a natty pair of goggles. Why not?
As they leave suburbia for the countryside, Kitty is silent for a change, her small hands gripping the seatbelt in excitement.
They turn onto a piece of scrubland and are greeted by barks and yaps as step out and cross the pot-holed car park to a ramshackle hut. They are confronted by a beaming elderly woman behind a wooden counter. She sports a plaid shirt bursting at the bust exposing her grey bra and wrinkly cleavage.
‘Hello,’ she greets Paul, ‘Back again are yer?’ Then her eyes drop to Kitty. ‘Brought a friend I see,’ and her puffy visage splits into a grin as she winks at Kitty.
The child once again screws up her face in a failed attempt to wink back.
‘Carol.’ She thumbs her chest and lifts a flap in the desk to reveal stocky legs which, to Kitty’s utter delight, are clad in a pair of yellow Hawaiian-print shorts with below them, long, thick, woollen socks and workman’s boots. ‘Come on then, Shall we go and get the little blighter?’ She grabs a set of keys from a hook by the door and strides ahead of them.
They wait while Carol unlocks a wire covered gate that admits them to an enclosure. On either side, caged canines leap hopefully at the bars or lie defeated in boxes.
Kitty pulls a face. ‘It smells.’
‘Well lovey, there’s too many dogs and not enough help so they get smelly. Still, they’re better off ‘ere with me than roaming the streets. That’s what I always say.’ Her large back side blocks their view into a cage as she stoops to insert a key in the padlock. ‘’Ere she is.’ She darts her hands out to catch a scrap of wriggling fur. ‘I’ve ’ad a few folk after ‘er but I kept to me word. She’s yours if you want ‘er.’
The tiny brindled pup has silken, drooping ears, and enormous feet. Paul asks about the ‘provenance’ of the pot-bellied creature but Carol can’t say. ‘Couple of kids brought ‘er up ‘ere. Found ‘er in a plastic bag by the canal.’ She shrugs.
Kitty is enchanted. ‘Oh. So sweet.’ It is love at first sight.
‘You’re sure? We could look for another one if you want to,’ Paul offers.
‘No, I want her. She’s called Topsy, OK?’
‘Whatever you think, Pops.’
He has already purchased a crate for the return journey, and a collar and lead, and at home in his compact kitchen, two bowls and a plastic bed take up half the floor.
Topsy howls all the way home, and Kitty croons through the metal bars of the carrier. By the time they arrive the puppy is sliding in a pool of urine and has puked through the grill onto one of the seats.
‘Oh, poor baby. Poor Topsy.’
Poor bloody car.
Paul propels Topsy into the flat at arms-length demanding a towel, and Kitty rushes to the bathroom. They dab off the worst of the muck, with Topsy attempting to murder the towel in her needle-sharp teeth. Once clean, the little dog takes a few sloppy laps of water and collapses into the bed. Kitty strokes her as she whimpers and twitches in her sleep, and Paul fumigates his car.
***
‘Mummy, guess what we did?’
‘Er, you went to the park?’
‘No.’
‘To Alton Towers?’
‘Course not. There wasn’t time.’
‘I give in.’
‘We bought a puppy. She’s at Daddy’s flat and she’s so
-o-o sweet.’
Fee turns towards the kettle and with her back to her small daughter, manages to sound enthusiastic.
‘How lovely! What has he called her?’ She spoons coffee grounds into the Cafetière and pours on water.
‘She’s mine too Mummy. Mine and Daddy’s, and she’s called Topsy. I named her. She’s sort of browny coloured.’
‘Daddy’s going to have a sleepless night tonight.’ Fee feels outdone. Still the boring parent. She puts a smile on her face as she comes back with the coffee. ‘Puppies are hard work Kitty-mitten. They need walks every day, and training, and they often chew things. Has Daddy made plans for that?’
‘Of course, Mummy, we’ve got everything worked out, and I’m going to help. I’ll take her to the park and throw balls for her, and we’re going to dog disobedience classes starting next Saturday morning.’
Fee hides a smile, ‘Dog Obedience, Kitty, obedience means doing as your told.’
‘Oh, right. Well that’s what we’re doing.
‘Mummy, why didn’t Daddy bring me to the door?’
‘I’m not sure Poppet.’
Kitty rushes upstairs to tell the others and Fee perches on a chair wondering if they could get a pet. She rejects the idea. It is not a competition. If Paul wants a dog for Kitty, then good. She tells herself that she is glad they can have fun together.
***
By 2am the pitiful sound of howling and yelping has stopped. The duvet is mangled from Paul’s twisting and fretting. He is tempted to have a peek into the closed kitchen to check on the damage but decides against it. It should be OK. He bought a couple of newspapers to put on the floor (best place for them).
He flops the pillow over, and his thoughts zig zag about. Kitty, the light in his darkness, was so excited today. He relives the events and smiles at himself. One minute he wants to hit someone and the next he is waxing poetic about his kid.
Sunday tomorrow – no, today. They have an appointment at the vet’s for Topsy's second set of injections. In a fortnight he will be able to walk her along the canal.
A yelp comes from the kitchen and he pulls the pillow over his head.
Chapter 29
The hedgerows beside the towpath are beginning to come alive. Insects hover over daisies and dandelions, and Blackthorn, heavy with flowers gives off its sickly aroma. Paul’s spirits lift, the scent evokes memories of long-ago spring evenings on the bike, heading off to a party, with a girl on the pillion.
At the beginning of their walk Topsy didn’t understand the lead and kept biting and pulling it until Paul was compelled to dispense a sharp tap on her nose and a stern ‘No.’ She got the message but then entertained herself by running between his feet and tripping him. Now they have reached an understanding, but the unfamiliar exertion has taken its toll on the puppy.
They are, as planned, approaching The Barge so Paul picks Topsy up and strokes her head. ‘Come on girl, it’s time you went to your first pub.’
The beer garden runs alongside the towpath, and as he enters the garden, the wicket gate snags on tall grass at the base of the hedge. With the puppy under his arm he crosses a patch of lawn and a paved rectangle dotted with wooden picnic benches. From the back door, they make their way along a well-used passage to the public bar.
At 11.30, an aperitif seems in order, and he leans one forearm on the smooth black wood and circles Topsy with the other one. Her small nose quivers at the unfamiliar smells of beer and kippery smoke.
A barmaid approaches and stretches across to pat Topsy. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘She. Topsy.’
‘Hello Topsykins.’ The girl leans across the bar exposing a generous eyeful of cleavage and fondles the dog’s silky ears.
A babe magnet, nice one Topsy. Paul smirks at the girl and orders a pint.
He finds a seat on the patio. Nearby, a young couple sit on the grass drinking lager and watching their small son and daughter showing off their skills on the apparatus. Kitty would enjoy it here; it could be a regular jaunt. He puts Topsy between his feet as a stooped man with an enormously fat Golden Labrador, shuffles past. The dog shambles loose, and as it passes, lowers its huge head to sniff Topsy. Her small bottom quivers and her ears lay backwards, then she rolls onto her back, exposing her round little tummy.
‘Come Major,’ the man commands, and Major, after administering a slobbery lick, lumbers inside.
Paul sits for a while sipping his beer, then tips his head to drain the last quarter pint.
‘Right pup. Let’s go and see Maurice.’
***
Mick is already here, his car parked against the kerb.
Maurice’s front gate like the one at the pub, is rickety. A narrow concrete path leads to a double-glazed front door, then along the front of the house to a side gate. Topsy sniffs at a straggly rose bush and squats to pee. Good. One less accident on the carpet. They take the side way to the back garden.
Through the kitchen window, Mick is pointing at kitchen tools and knives on the worktop, and Maurice is nodding in concentration. Both men look up when Paul taps the glass.
‘You’ve arrived just in time. I’m cooking lunch.’ Maurice stoops to pat Topsy. ‘Hello dog. Nice to meet you.’
‘I’m not sure I should let her in.’
‘Well she won’t be safe out there; the garden isn’t dog proof. Bring her through and I’ll find an old blanket or something. She’ll be fine.’
In all honesty there is not much to spoil in Mo’s house. Curtains droop from rails like loose washing, and sag onto a swirly, umber carpet. A smell of stale towels and unwashed bedding pervades the air, and despite the clearness of the day, the air is clammy.
Mick opens cupboards, spotted with mildew, and peeps into an ancient fridge.
‘Hey man, don’t you even have milk? I could murder a cup of tea.’
‘Sorry. Mum hasn’t been this week. Dad’s been in hospital, so she hasn’t been able to do my shopping.’
Mick looks at Paul and shakes his head.
‘We’ll go into town, then.’ He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and grabs an old envelope from a heap of opened post. ‘OK: milk, tea, coffee…’ Mick’s face shows that this is an important business.
A slight sound attracts Paul’s attention, and he turns his head in time to see Topsy squatting in the middle of the kitchen floor.
***
It is Easter holiday time, and tourists have flocked to the little town of Chelterton. Families walk along the canal to The Barge, visit the gift shop, and search for bargains on market stalls. Women gaze at displays of exclusive clothes, and a rotating stand in front of the Post Office spins with picture postcards of the High Street with its bow-windows, walls of Wisteria and sagging roofs.
They have left Topsy in Maurice’s kitchen, and Paul is already worrying.
Mick’s car crawls through pelican crossings and traffic-lights. The supermarket car park is full, and hopeful drivers loiter for spaces. They drive on up the High Street towards the church. People bulge into the road from the narrow pavement as Mick manoeuvres into an awkward spot behind the graveyard, hoping the vicar’s driving skills are equal to squeezing through the slender gap they leave between the car and lichgate. On their way back down the hill they pass an empty shop with an estate agent’s board declaring the premises sold.
The delicatessen stands at a crossroads in the centre of town. Through its lovely old curved glass front, they spy exotic tins and packages nestled in a straw. Beyond the window display, salamis hang from hooks in the ceiling, and golden and grey-crusted drums of cheese are heaped behind glass in a chilled counter. The pungent smell of Parmigiano and spices is overbearing.
‘Ah Mick.’ A bulky man in a green and white, striped apron greets them with a grin, while forcing the neck of a plastic bag into a slot to seal it. He hands the package to a waiting lady. ‘There you are Mrs Shaw. Make sure you eat it at room temperature.’
Mrs Shaw squeezes past Mick, Paul and Maurice to esc
ape into the fresh air.
The shop’s interior is deceptively roomy. Past the refrigerated counters is a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of rooms, where fruit and vegetables and labelled stretches of shelving can be glimpsed.
Mick approaches the counter and shakes the proprietor’s hand. ‘How’s things Malcolm?’
‘Can’t grumble Mick. If we can’t make a living at this time of year, then we may as well give up.’
Mick and Malcolm exchange pleasantries, and the other two men hover, then Mick commences the important task of choosing cheese; tasting carefully and offering pieces, and advice, to his companions. ‘This Stilton is absolutely as it should be. Look at the creamy colour going right up to the crust, and the blue, not too much, not too little.’
Paul and Maurice nod and observe. Next the apprentices follow their teacher deeper into the shop, to the vegetables. Mick cups tomatoes in his pink palms to sniff for freshness and pinches the ends of avocados.
Paul senses someone’s eyes on him and raises his own to find Max smiling back from a short distance away.
Mick glances up. ‘Mate of yours?’
‘Naah, just a neighbour.’ Paul looks towards the exit. ‘I’ll see you in a bit, I need to go to the chemist.’ Just what he needs, to bump into his bloody therapist while he’s with his mates!
By the time Mick and Maurice struggle back through the narrow door of the shop, their hands dangling lumpy bags, Max has vanished. Paul is waiting on the pavement trying not to look agitated.
Many of their needs have been satisfied in the deli, but they pick up a joint of beef from the butcher (look at the marbled fat in that meat) on the way to the small supermarket, for basics.
Back at the church Mick is relieved to find the car unharmed, and their spirits lift as they squeeze out of the churchyard and Mick announces his intention to cook them all a meal on this rare Saturday off. ‘Just to get over Maurice’s lunch.’
‘Haw haw.’ Maurice responds and thumps Mick’s arm.
Back at the house Maurice goes ahead to open the door, leaving Paul and Mick to gather the shopping. The two men stride up the narrow pathway with Mick in front, and as they near the door Maurice, emits a disgusted expletive from the kitchen: ‘Bloody Hell.’ At the same time, Topsy belts towards them and swerves past Mick, making a bid for the gate.