by Cathy Kelly
‘She’s never sick,’ the man had explained off-handedly when he’d brought in a spaniel who was obviously in agony with kennel cough. Her eyes were rheumy with ‘flu-like symptoms and each time she coughed, her small body was racked with what had to be painful spasms. ‘The last dog never got anything,’ the owner complained as Angie examined the dog with Leonie helping. Bloody miracle, Leonie thought venomously, if this was how well they looked after it. This poor little dog must have been sick for days and these bloody pigs wouldn’t bother their backsides bringing her in. Money couldn’t be the problem, either. The man dangled Saab keys in one hand and the sheepskin coat slung over his Lacoste shirt was hardly bargain basement. Leonie longed to let him know just what she thought of him, one swift prong with the bovine rectal thermometer and he’d know all about it. She’s never sick. What a load of old…
‘Leonie,’ said Angie, who recognized the signs of rage in her friend, ‘would you hold Flossie for a moment while I listen to her heart and lungs?’
Flossie, dear little thing that she was, wagged her feathery tail in a friendly manner as Leonie held her expertly. ‘You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you,’ she said softly. ‘All you have to do is wait here for a moment and we’ll soon have you better. Good girl.’
The owner stood back and leaned against the wall. He looked bored, as if this entire trip had been a waste of his valuable time.
He even managed to sigh once and look at his watch. Leonie and Angie’s eyes met over Flossie’s liver-and-white back. Angie’s eyes were just as narrowed as Leonie’s.
When the examination was over, Angie faced him.
‘I’m afraid your dog is very sick with kennel cough,’ she said icily. He didn’t react. ‘In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t bring her sooner. Most people come in at the first sign, your dog has been ill at least two weeks.’
The man stopped leaning against the wall. ‘Well, you know, Christmas and all that…’ he stuttered.
‘Yes. It’s easy to neglect animals because of Christmas,’ Angie said pointedly. ‘But a few more days and this would have become very serious. And she’s quite thin. Has she been wormed recently?’
The man had the grace to look shame-faced. ‘I’m afraid we never think of things like that.’
Leonie couldn’t help it. ‘Why do you have a dog, then?’ she snapped.
Angie shot her a fierce look. They weren’t supposed to say things like that. Furious owners might never bring their poor dogs back to the surgery again if they were given grief when they did come.
Flossie’s owner was looking shocked.
‘How often you worm your dog or otherwise is your business,’ Angie said formally, ignoring Leonie for a moment. ‘To clarify matters, we are only obliged to inform the authorities when we think a dog is being neglected.’
He paled at the word ‘neglected’.
‘She’s a sweet little thing and the children love her,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to neglect her or anything.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Angie interrupted smoothly, ‘but she’ll need a course of antibiotics and I’d like to see her back here in a week to see how she’s doing and to worm her. Would that be possible?’
‘Of course, of course.’ He began patting Flossie anxiously and Leonie was pleased to see that the dog liked him. At least he wasn’t beating the poor little thing.
He was the last client and when he left, Leonie tidied up as Angie wrote up the dog’s medical file, noting the antibiotics they’d used. As they’d both suspected, Flossie had been to the surgery four years before for her initial vaccination shots as a puppy and she’d never been back.
‘Too expensive, I bet,’ Leonie said with disgust. ‘Like that man with the pub.’
Angie nodded wearily. Every vet and nurse in the surgery had been horrified by the fabulously ostentatious owner of two city-centre pubs who’d refused to have his pet dog’s cataracts operated upon because it was ‘too bloody expensive’.
They’d all known that he could have easily afforded it, even though it wasn’t a cheap operation, yet he preferred to let the lovely German Shepherd go on banging clumsily into things until she’d stumbled out on to the main road and been killed. A regular in the gossip columns, he’d even had the nerve to mention he was upset about his beloved dog because he ‘adored animals and would do anything for them’.
‘Hypocrite. He’d have paid that much to get the headlights fixed on his bloody Rolls,’ Leonie had howled with fury when she’d heard. None of the staff members had felt themselves able to speak to the man again, even though he drove past the surgery on his way to work every day in his flashy ice-blue Rolls-Royce.
Angie swore she was going to throw broken glass in his way to see him get a puncture. In her angrier moments, Leonie said they ought to blindfold him and let him see what it was like trying to live in the dark.
‘Well, why the fuck don’t people like that get a goldfish?’ Leonie said now, wiping the examining table with disinfectant. She never swore, only when she was really angry or upset. ‘Then they could throw a few crumbs on top of the water every week and forget about the bloody things.’
‘Fish require lots of care,’ Angie reminded her mildly.
‘Yeah? I don’t care for fish, except on a plate with white wine sauce on it,’ Leonie replied. She couldn’t help it: she was furious with all these pigs who pretended to love animals and wouldn’t bother to care for them properly. No, they weren’t pigs. Pigs were animals and no animal would ever treat another creature in that way. When she thought of some of the lovely animals who came into the surgery, hobbling on fractured limbs, bitten out of their minds with fleas or half-starved, all because of sheer neglect, it was all she could do not to hit their owners, those feckless, useless people who thought that owning a pet was like owning a car that didn’t need petrol, water or oil.
‘Calm down, Leonie,’ Angie said gently. ‘You’re having a bad day. Go home, have a big glass of wine and forget about it. When the revolution comes, we’ll put all those crappy pet owners up against a wall and shoot them.’
Leonie managed to smile. ‘Only if I can pull the trigger,’ she agreed.
She and Angie closed up the surgery and she drove home, not particularly looking forward to that, either. Home was not the refuge it normally was, mainly because Abby and Mel were squabbling. Leonie sighed. A mere month ago, she’d have said it was hard to imagine Abby squabbling; the usual suspects in a grudge match were Danny and Mel, who fought like warring Medicis over everything from the last piece of toast to the control of the television remote. Abby was the peacemaker, pacifying all parties in the endless war that went on between her siblings. But for some reason, Abby hadn’t been getting on with her twin for the past few weeks and their rows were frightening to behold.
Yesterday, they’d had a screaming match in the bathroom because Mel had dared to wear Abby’s glittery, bought-specially-for-the-Christmas-disco T-shirt.
Leonie was used to hearing Mel squealing like a four-year-old. But she’d been shocked to hear Abby doing it: ‘You cow, I hate you, hate you!’ followed by door-slamming, loud music, more shouting and more door-slamming.
Tonight, not feeling ready for a repeat performance, Leonie parked the car outside the cottage and walked slowly to her front door. The paintwork was peeling again, she reminded herself as she did every evening. It was two years since she’d last had the cottage exterior painted and the lovely rich dark green of the door was getting shabby. You didn’t notice it as much in the summer because the climbing roses hung so prettily over everything, hiding flaking paint and chipped stonework with a cluster of pale pink, glorious-smelling buds. But in the bleak winter, the place was starting to look shabby, Leonie decided. Dear little Flossie wasn’t the only thing to be neglected, she thought ruefully.
Inside, it was blissfully warm and blissfully quiet. Nobody was screaming ‘spannerhead!’ at anyone else and Penny didn’t race frantically to greet her mistress, meaning som
ebody had kindly taken her for a walk. One more chore ticked off the list, Leonie smiled to herself.
‘Hi! Mel, Abby and Danny, I’m home.’
Silence. A note in the kitchen explained that the girls had brought Penny out.
Danny rang, he’s home late. Save dinner for him, Mel had added in her nicely rounded handwriting.
As if she’d cook dinner and not save any for Danny. When did she not save dinner for him, Leonie asked wryly. She had a waste-disposal unit for a son and all he did was eat. In the peace and quiet, she decided to do exactly what Angie had suggested: she opened a bottle of wine (£5.99 special from Superquinn) and poured herself a glass.
Dinner was going to be the chilli she’d taken out of the freezer that morning, baked potatoes and salad. Switching the oven and the radio on, Leonie sipped her wine, and scrubbed the potatoes under the cold tap. She half-listened to news updates and traffic reports, enjoying the rare solitude. When Penny erupted into the kitchen via the back door twenty minutes later, barking delightedly at finding her beloved mistress there, a green salad was crisping in the fridge, the potatoes were beginning to sizzle and Leonie had laid the kitchen table for the three of them.
‘Hiya, Mum,’ said the twins in unison.
Mel hurried in without taking off her anorak or runners and threw herself on to the chair nearest the radiator. Her heart-shaped face was flushed with the combination of exercise and cold air, her big dark eyes were shiny and the biting wind had coloured her lips ruby red. Even windblown, she was so pretty.
Abby hung up both her anorak and Penny’s lead before hunching down beside the radiator with her sister. You’d never have believed they were twins, Leonie reflected, looking at Abby’s round, open face with its solid chin so unlike Mel’s pointed little one. Although Abby was looking a little thinner, she suddenly realized. Nothing major, just a faint thinning of her cheeks. It suited her, Leonie decided with a jolt of pleasure. Perhaps Abby wasn’t destined to look like her, with the peasant’s face that no amount of make-up could really hide. Nothing would give Leonie greater pleasure than to see Abby turn into a swan. Being an ugly duckling was such a difficult burden to bear. Well, perhaps not an ugly duckling, she told herself. But large, solid and sensible-looking as distinct from petite, dainty and Bambi-eyed.
‘You’re both in good form tonight,’ she said, smiling at them.
‘Yeah, sorry about last night,’ Abby said apologetically. ‘Dunno what got into me.’
‘Steven Connelly!’ smirked Mel evilly. ‘Or you wish he’d got on to you.’
Abby pulled her sister’s hair in retaliation. ‘Cow.’
‘Ouch,’ yelped Mel. But it was a good-humoured yelp.
They were friends again, thankfully.
Leonie sat down on a kitchen chair and sipped more of her wine. God only knew what year it was, but it certainly tasted like a good one.
‘Who’s Steven Connelly?’ she asked, knowing she wasn’t supposed to ask but unable to resist.
‘Who cares about him,’ Abby said primly. ‘He’s someone Mel thinks I fancy. We’ve much better news.’
‘You do fancy him,’ Mel said simply.
‘I don’t. Now shut up. Dad phoned,’ Abby went on.
‘About the wedding,’ Mel finished for her, sloe-black eyes glittering excitedly. ‘He wants you to come.’
‘Fliss and he want you to come,’ Abby said, emphasizing Fliss.
It was their mother’s turn to mutter ‘ouch’ to herself.
‘That’s kind of him,’ she said as nonchalantly as she could, ‘but I don’t think so, girls.’
‘What did I tell you?’ Mel said to her twin. ‘I knew you’d say that, Mum.’
‘Did you now?’ Leonie got up and bustled around at the cooker to hide her distress. ‘You’re great at knowing what I’m going to say, aren’t you? What if I said you’ve got to run the Hoover over the sitting room before dinner – were you expecting that?’ She spoke lightly, hoping to deflect them from the conversation at hand.
Mel groaned. ‘I hate hoovering, Mum. It’s Abby’s turn, anyway.’
‘He wants you to go and so do we,’ Abby spoke up.
Leonie got a packet of green beans she hadn’t intended cooking out of the freezer and slowly put them in a microwaveable bowl.
‘It’s bumper to bumper on the Stillorgan dual carriageway,’ trilled the traffic reporter on the radio, ‘and in Cork, the Douglas area is a no-go zone because an articulated truck has jack-knifed…’
‘Mum? You’d love it, you know you would. Dad wants you to phone him. You will, won’t you?’ Abby pleaded.
‘Of course I’ll phone him, girls, but I really don’t think it’s such a good idea. I mean, it’ll cost a fortune and your dad doesn’t really want me there, does he?’
‘He said he does,’ Mel pointed out. ‘It’ll be fun, Mum. Dad says he’ll pay your airfare. He’s paying for ours too.’
He must be making a bloody mint, Leonie thought. ‘I’ll phone your father, but that’s all. I’m not making any promises.’
‘Please,’ begged Ray. ‘I’d love you to. You always said we had to stick together for the children’s sake and show them people can divorce in a civilized fashion.’
Three thousand miles away, Leonie grimaced. Hoist by her own petard. She had said that, and not just for the children’s sake. She hadn’t wanted the kids to be used as pawns in the sort of vicious break-up most people had; used as blackmail in a fight that was all about power and blame, where parental responsibility counted for nothing.
Leonie had seen too many marital break-ups disintegrate into a litany of whose fault it was and why the kids couldn’t possibly see ‘that bitch’ or ‘that bastard’. It was all so unhelpful and childish, she felt.
She’d wanted to be able to talk calmly with Ray about the welfare of Abby, Mel and Danny, to do what was right for their family even though they were splitting up as a couple. And they had, always had. This very adult and mature state of affairs suited Leonie too because she’d instigated the break-up and she couldn’t face years of Ray’s venom bouncing off the kids and back at her simply because he resented what she’d done. It would have been devastating for them, and acutely painful for her. But there had been no venom. Ray had been as good as his word and their divorce had been civilized, just as she’d hoped.
Now, ten years later, her own words came back to haunt her.
‘If it was you getting remarried, I’d be there for you, Leonie,’ Ray pointed out. And he wasn’t lying, she knew.
Leonie wondered if she’d have wanted her ex-husband there if she got married again. She would, she decided. It would be nice to have him there, smiling, encouraging, giving his blessing. Proof that she hadn’t ruined his life. Which was a joke, she thought wryly. The only life she’d ruined in her attempts to find true love had been her own. Ray was happy, the kids were happy, and she was the one who longed for the passionate encounter she’d dreamed about since she was old enough to watch black-and-white movies on the telly on Saturday afternoons. Unfortunately, she was turning into a facsimile of Stella Dallas instead of an episode of Dallas.
‘What does Fliss think about this, about me coming to the wedding?’ she asked.
‘She’s as eager as I am,’ Ray said happily. ‘She had a wonderful view of the whole thing. Her parents are divorced and see each other all the time. They both own this skiing lodge in Colorado and share holidays with their new partners. It’s very civilized here. Fliss wants you to be there because she’s going to be the kids’ stepmom and she wants you to meet her. It’ll be great, Leonie. A holiday. We’ve got two extra cabins booked, so you and the kids could share one. I’ll pay your fare.’
‘Nonsense,’ Leonie said automatically. ‘I’ll pay my own fare.’ She had said it before she realized what it meant: capitulation by mistake.
‘So you’re coming! Great! It’ll be wonderful to see you, Leonie. Thanks, I really appreciate it,’ Ray said enthusiastically.
They discussed arrangements briefly but, because Ray was at work, he couldn’t talk for long. ‘I’ll call during the week, when I’ve got everything planned,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait to see the kids. And you.’
How different America was from Ireland, she reflected as she hung up. Americans had it all sorted out in their heads. Enlightened, that was the word. People broke up and went on with their lives, ex-spouses met current spouses and nobody threatened to beat anyone senseless because they all hated each other’s guts and resented the hell out of each other. Leonie tried to think of one wedding she’d heard of where the ex-spouse turned up to watch the proceedings – well, other than weddings where the ex turned up uninvited to try and wreck the proceedings. She couldn’t think of any. It was all too civilized. She’d heard of people who refused to go to their children’s weddings because their ex-partner would be there. How pathetic.
Now she was getting in on the enlightened act by going to Colorado to the January wedding of her ex-husband. How very modern. What a pity she would be going on her own. She’d have loved to have a partner to bring along: someone to act as a personal talisman, to remind her that she was a lovable person. Her talisman would also be proof to the rest of the world that she wasn’t some lonely hasbeen who had scoured the personal ads looking for love and come up with nothing.
Mel was on a high during dinner, volubly discussing what she’d bring to the wedding.
‘Liz thinks I should go dramatic in black,’ she said, nibbling salad and chilli daintily. ‘I don’t know. Black makes me washed out; white would be good because it’ll be snowy, but it’s bad manners to wear white to weddings, isn’t it?’ she chattered away. ‘I’ll have to phone Fliss to check what she’s wearing. Or maybe a clingy shift dress would be nice. Susie’s older sister has this chiffon minidress. It sounds deadly.’
‘You’re not wearing anything clingy, white or chiffon,’ Leonie said firmly. ‘You’re fourteen, Melanie, not eighteen. If I’d wanted you to turn into Lolita, I’d have named you Lolita.’