We Think the World of You

by J. R. Ackerley

  “Where can one take her round here?” I asked, addressing myself exclusively to Millie.

  “Tom takes her down the alley into Condy Road. It’s quiet there. If you turn right when you go out it’s a short way on.”

  “Aren’t there any parks or greens?”

  “There’s the Rec.”

  I knew the Rec. It was a small gritty playground with some seesaws and swings in it. Evie was now hauling me to the door.

  “Give ’im my stick,” Tom suddenly put in. “You’ll need it to clip ’er with when she pulls.”

  “No!” I said. I had meant to be abrupt, but it sounded rather ruder than I intended, so I added: “I shall have my hands full without.”

  “You’ll want to keep a tight ’old on ’er,” said he. “She’ll get away if she can.”

  This seemed hardly to accord with his other forecast, but I could not have replied to it if I would, for I was being torn down the passage by the excited animal. I heard Millie’s cackle of laughter follow me; I heard Tom’s shout: “Shorten the lead! You wanter shorten the lead!”; somehow or other I managed to fumble open the front door and bang it behind me: then we were flying down the street. “Will she go with you?” I thought sardonically. Two other things were also evident: Millie had not exaggerated when she said the dog pulled, and I should not have to inquire further for the whereabouts of the alley, for Evie led me at once to the mouth of it. It was clearly her customary walk. “Led,” however, is a euphemism; sprawling and panting along the pavement, her legs splayed like a frog’s, she dragged me there. The notion of fat Millie taking her out was ludicrous. I tried shortening the lead. I spoke to her both soothingly and reprovingly. Nothing had the least effect. Throttling herself in her collar and wrenching my arm out of its socket, she lugged me after her. The alley, when we reached it, stretched far ahead, long and empty. Pulling the wild creature towards me I unclipped her lead.

  It was, no doubt, I afterwards thought, the first time in her life that she had been given her freedom outside the house. And for a moment she did not know what to do with it. Standing stock still in front of me, she stared intently up into my face. Then, with a flirt of her long tail, she was off. But not far. Just as I was thinking that, after all, it would not do to lose Johnny’s dog, she came bounding back and, planting her forepaws on my chest so as almost to knock me over, licked my nose. Then she was off again. Would she answer to her name? “Evie!” I called. She instantly returned and stood looking at me expectantly. “Good girl!” I said and gave her a pat. We proceeded on our way.

  She was no trouble at all. Indeed, she seemed as anxious not to lose me as I was not to lose her. When the end of the alley came in view I summoned her and she submitted to the re-attachment of her lead; but no sooner was it fixed than she resumed her wild pulling and straining. That she deeply disliked it was evident; also that she was far too excitable and impetuous to be allowed in any but the safest roads without it. Condy Road looked perfectly safe; excepting for a somnolent dog sitting outside its gate it was as empty as the alley. Presumably dogs enjoyed talking to one another, so I freed her again and took her along to effect an introduction. It was a great success. He was a male dog, very playful and delighted to meet a young bitch as silly as himself; after a little preliminary polite investigation of each other’s persons and some genial tail-wagging they instituted fun and games and whirled about together like dervishes.

  It was a fine afternoon and I kept her out longer than I had intended, but besides the gratitude I felt to her for having enabled me to score off Tom, I was rather touched. I was touched by her beauty, the grace with which she moved and the feeling she gave of boundless energy and vitality. I was touched, too, by the attentive, almost personal, gaze she turned continually upon me. And I was touched by her own gratitude, which sent her flying back to me from time to time as though to say “Thank you.” What a wretched fate, I thought, for so large and active a beast to be condemned to that poky house and this dismal district. At the end of an hour I brought her up the alley, fastened her lead when we reached the Winders’ street and was lugged back to their door.

  “There you are!” said Millie cheerfully, opening it. “We wondered if you was lost. You must be ready for your tea. That’s enough, Evie, your dinner’s ready too.”

  “Come along, Evie,” said Tom sharply, and the dog disappeared with him into the scullery.

  “ Johnny’ll be pleased you took her,” Millie said. “I’ll tell him when I see him. You don’t like sugar, do you? Now sit down, you must be hungry. I’m sorry there’s not more butter, but what do you think Dickie done just after you’d gone? He picked up the butter out of the dish and started to wash his face with it, like it was a cake of soap! You should have seen him, Frank! He had butter in his eyes and all up his little nose! He looked like a Chinaman!” She was convulsed. But I too had information to impart, and a determination to impart it and put Tom in his place.

  “Well, she enjoyed her walk,” I said when he returned. “As for her pulling——”

  “She’s a bugger, isn’t she?” Millie said. “Did she pull you over? She’s too much for me.”

  “I should think so! But let me tell you something: she’s perfectly all right when she’s off the lead. I let her go in the alley and in Condy Road. She was as good as gold.”

  “Well, there,” said Millie vaguely. “Fill up the kettle for me, Tom, will you. The water seems to have boiled all away. I wouldn’t care to chance that,” she continued. “She might skip off, and I don’t see myself chasing after her. I’m too fat for such capers.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She never goes far and comes at once when she’s called. But of course she has to be got to a safe road first. I’m surprised you haven’t discovered it for yourself,” I said smoothly to Tom, knowing how much he hated the role of the informed. “Try it next time. It’s a good tip. It takes the strain off one’s arm and gives her more fun.”

  For some moments he gave no sign of having heard me; then he observed suddenly, in his munching way: “What she oughter ’ave is one of them chain leads. I’ve been looking about for a second-’and one. They nips into the neck, see, when the dog starts pulling.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nice,” I said, frowning.

  “They’re good, they are!” said he severely. “That’s what they ’as for training dogs in the Army and the Police. It teaches ’em to be’ave. The chain nips into the neck when they pulls, see, and they don’t like that, so they give over pulling.”

  With the memory of the eager creature enjoying her liberty fresh in my mind I said sarcastically:

  “Yes, I did just manage to grasp what you meant. But she’s young and lively. It’s freedom she needs, not restraints.”

  Tom Winder stared into the fire. Then he said:

  “You ’aven’t ’ad to do with them dogs like I ’ave. I knows about them dogs. They ’as to be trained. They’re tricky. ’Ighly intelligent, but tricky. You look about you in the streets. You won’t see them dogs running around loose like mongrels. They’re always on them chain leads what teaches ’em respect. But as soon as they’ve learned oo’s their master, they’re yours till closing time. One man dogs they are, and they foller be’ind you like a shadder. You wait till Johnny comes out and then you’ll see. ’E’ll soon ’ave ’er where ’e wants ’er, and that is follering be’ind ’im like a shadder. ’Ere, I’ll tell you something——“

  “Come along, Tom,” said Millie. “Your tea’s getting cold.”

  “It’s Megan, Frank.”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw Johnny yesterday.”

  “Again! You’d only just been.”

  “I applied for an extra visit on compassionate grounds.”

  “Is he ill?” I asked spitefully.

  “No, it’s my condition,” said the voice faintly.

  “Ah yes, of course. I forgot.”

  “He says to give you his best and could you send him some more books like the last lo
t? They were smashing, he says.”

  “Why doesn’t he write to me when he wants something?” I asked curtly. “I might add why doesn’t he write to me in any case.”

  “He says he’ll be writing you soon,” said Megan.

  “I seem to have heard that one before.” She did not speak. “There must be a prison library, anyway. Did you ask him?”

  “I asked him. He says you’re only allowed one book a week and he gets through it in a day.”

  “Well, if he wants anything more from me he’ll have to ask me personally for it. I’m fed up with these indirect appeals. Tell him that.”

  “Yes, Frank. But he said he’d be writing, and he said to tell you to write to him.”

  “Write to him? How can I write to him when I never hear?”

  “He says it doesn’t matter.”

  “But I thought he was only allowed one letter a month and that it had to be a reply to a letter he sent?”

  “Yes, but he says other letters often get through without the screws rumbling.”

  “Without what?”

  “Without the warders noticing,” said Megan with a titter.

  “I see. You mean it’s not certain he’ll get the letters?”

  “He thinks he stands a good chance.”

  “But it’s not certain?”

  “I don’t know,” said Megan dimly. “It’s what he said to say.”

  “Thanks!” Writing letters that might or might not reach their destination was not my favorite way of passing the time. “Anything else?”

  The voice hesitated. “He misses his smokes,” it then said.

  “I expect he does.”

  “It’s the worst part, he says. I always take him a packet when I go. I can’t afford to buy them myself, but his mother helps me out. I get open visits now, so I can slip them to him. But of course I can’t pass many and they don’t last long.”

  “It sounds very dangerous.”

  “Some of the screws—warders—are easy, but you have to be quick.”

  “I should have thought it a stupid risk. He’ll get caught and lose his remission.”

  “Oh, he does his nut for a smoke. He goes mad, he says.”

  “Well, I don’t see what all this has to do with me,” I said impatiently. “Anything else?”

  The voice faltered again. “He says he’ll be writing,” it concluded feebly.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come last weekend,” I said to Millie.

  “It was a good thing you didn’t, Frank. Oh, I was queer. I couldn’t have spoke to you. I lost me voice. It wouldn’t come out of me, it wouldn’t, not for love nor money.” She began to laugh. “‘Speak up, mate!’ Tom kept saying. ‘What are you whispering for?’ ‘I’m not whispering,’ I says, ‘don’t be so daft!’ ‘What’s that?’ he says, ‘I can’t hear a word you say.’ But I couldn’t make him understand, I couldn’t, no matter how I forced meself. It was like a mouse talking in me. Oh, it was a proper caper! It’s the damp does it.”

  She was engaged in pinning a clean nappie on to Dickie. It was a Wednesday, her half-day off, and although I had not specified the actual day of my appearance when I found that the weekend did not suit me, I remembered her Wednesdays and thought it would be nice to see her by herself. So I had dashed up. She was alone in her kitchen except for the child who, possibly because he was upside down, had not accorded me his customary welcome.

  “Have you heard from Johnny?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” I said shortly.

  “I’m sorry about that. Megan told us he was going to write you. I’m surprised he hasn’t wrote.”

  “I’m not. I’m quite used to his empty promises.” She didn’t say anything. “Have you heard?”

  “No, he hasn’t wrote me yet. I don’t mind for meself, so long as I know he’s keeping well, but I’m sorry he hasn’t wrote to you.”

  “I’m more than sorry, I’m very annoyed. The best he seems able to do for me is to cadge things from me indirectly and try to set me writing letters to him which he’ll probably never get.”

  “Yes, she told us that too,” said Millie calmly. “I’ve just wrote him one so as not to disappoint him.”

  “But, Millie, it’s not fair! Why should she get everything? She’s not the only one who’s fond of him and does things for him.”

  “That she’s not!” said Millie. “I expect——”

  “——it’s her condition!” I said viciously. “To hell with her bloody condition!”

  “You’re a bit put out, Frank, aren’t you?” said she gently, looking at me over the baby’s bottom.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I could see it when you come in.”

  “It’s not just that I want to hear from him and see him, though of course I do. It’s a matter of principle. He oughtn’t to be granting her all those privileges after the way she’s behaved to me.”

  “I don’t understand you when you use them long words,” said Millie placidly, turning the baby over.

  “What I mean is,” I began, and stopped. What did I mean? I felt confused, lost, like someone struggling in a maze. I tried to collect my thoughts. “Well, I mean that if things are going to be happier for me in the future, if it’s to be like the old times as he’s promised it will be, I want proof of it now. Can’t you understand that? She got everything her own way before, and she seems to be getting everything her own way still. Johnny’s so blasted weak, Millie, that’s the trouble; she does what she likes with him; and though he says she thinks the world of me now, the little rat, and won’t interfere between us again, I don’t believe a word of it. People’s characters don’t change, and she’ll be just as bad when he comes out, unless he starts putting her in her place at once. You see that, don’t you? And the way for him to do it is to give me a share of the letters and visits at her expense. Now do you understand what I mean?” Millie was regarding me with a detached and rather disconcerting curiosity. “It’s not that I’m jealous,” I added, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not at all a jealous person. I’m perfectly ready to accept Megan so long as she accepts me. I only want——“

  “Mum, mum, mum,” said Dickie.

  Millie beamed all over her fat red face.

  “Did you hear that, Frank? He called me ‘Mum’! He thinks I’m his mum now!”

  “Can I let Evie in?” I asked vexedly. I could hear her out in the yard scratching and whining at the door.

  “I’ll let her in in a minute,” said Millie in breathless excitement. “I must tell you, Frank! You should have been here the other day, Sunday week it was, when Megan come over! The way Dickie carried on! It was a caution! He wouldn’t have nothing to do with her, he wouldn’t, not even so much as look at her, and when she go to pick him up you should ’ave ’eard ’im! ‘Mum, mum, mum,’ he kep’ crying, ’olding out ’is little ’ands to me! He thought I was his mum, see, and nothing would content him till I took him from her, which I had to do in the end, for it seemed he was going to have aplopsy. Oh, he did ’owl!”

  I gazed at her in astonishment. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkled, she looked like a young girl as she narrated this episode. It was quite embarrassing.

  “Did she mind?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t say what she thought, but she passed it off quite cool, I will say. ‘Why, whatever are you thinking of, Dickie?’ I says. ‘I’m not your mum.’ But ‘Mum, mum, mum,’ he kep’ crying, just like he done now, but at the tops of his voice. ‘Oh, so you don’t want me no more?’ she says, ‘you’ve got another mum now, is that it?’ But she had to give him back in the end, scarlet in the face he was. You should have seen him! Oh, you was a bad boy, Dickie-bird, wasn’t you?” She hugged him and settled him in his chair. “What do you think of him, Frank? You like him, don’t you?” Her large blue eyes were fixed greedily upon me.

  “Oh, he’s smashing!” I said pettishly, thinking what a bore she was getting.

  “See, he’s looking at you! And he hasn�
�t pulled no faces today!”

  I glanced at the child, He was staring at me with a heavy, dull stare. I gave a timid smile. There was no response. I winked and pulled a funny face. The small blank eyes mooned stolidly at me. Really! I thought, it was like being gaped at by the village idiot. It was positively unnerving.

  “Do you see the likeness to Johnny?” asked Millie proudly.

  “Johnny!” I cried aghast. Fortunately the horror in my voice passed unnoticed.

  “Oh, he is! The way he look and move his little hands. He’s the spit of what Johnny was as a baby.”

  “Is he?” A feeling of sudden exhaustion overcame me and I sank my head in my hands. Silence fell between us.

  “You miss Johnny, don’t you, Frank?” said Millie, in such a kind, understanding voice that, for a moment, I could neither speak nor look at her. Then I said huskily:

  “Yes, I do. I wish I could believe he missed me.”

  “Of course he do. I know what he thinks from the things he’s said to me about you.”

  “What things?”

  “That’d be telling!” said Millie with a laugh.

  “Millie! What things?”

  “Well, he said you was the grandest fellow he’d ever met. He said he’d never had nor never could have a better friend. ‘There isn’t nothing he wouldn’t do for me, Mum,’ he said. Oh yes, he thinks the world of you, Frank.” I stared at my shoes. “You worry too much, my dear. That’s why you’re so thin. I’m sorry he hasn’t wrote you yet and I expect you’ll be hearing from him soon, but because he don’t write it don’t mean he don’t think. He thinks of me, I know, but he hasn’t wrote me yet neither.”

  I said: “I know he’s all right, Millie. He’s a darling. I’m sure—“ What was I sure of? My head was aching and I couldn’t remember. “It’s she who makes all the trouble.”

  “Well, I’ll be speaking about you to him when I see him. I’ll have a lot of things to tell him then. Your ears will burn that day, I bet. Did I tell you we was taking Dickie along to him next visit?”