Bel Ria

by Sheila Burnford

  Sunlight streamed in through an opened doorway; he rested his muzzle on the high warm sill and snuffed the wind, until approaching footsteps drove him to retreat into unknown territory. He went on, each forepaw raised and held in turn, step by wary step, tail between his legs, looking back frequently but always urged on by his nose.

  He crept past the whining terrors of an open engine room hatch, then wrenched away in panic from a pair of hands that suddenly reached out to him from the hot blast of the gleaming depths far below.

  His driving need lent him courage as he flitted up and down companionways and ladders, and along passageways, his coat merging into the gray of steel as he pressed close to the sides, hastening now to a growing certainty; and then down the final ladder, and his eyes could take over at last from his nostrils . . .

  He crouched there for a moment, unobserved, his heart beating wildly, searching through the blue haze of tobacco smoke. A terrible journey, but at the end of it he had found a part of his lost self again — there, perched on a man’s shoulder, eating a potato, was his monkey . . .

  Lessing, sitting at the far end of the mess with his back turned to the ladder, thought for a moment that Louis had gone mad when the monkey had suddenly jumped from his shoulder, squeaking and chattering as never before. He swung now from the overhead pipes then leaped from a hammock to another shoulder, from shoulder to table, where he rammed his potato into a sailor’s open mouth in passing, then somersaulted off onto the deck where he scuttled down the length of the mess.

  Now Lessing saw the cause of the excitement — Mac-Lean’s dog, balanced halfway down the ladder, swaying to the ship’s roll. Louis leaped for him, yet somehow the dog managed to retain his balance before slithering down the rest of the way. As he gained the deck, Louis now clasped tightly around his neck, the ship rolled heavily and they skidded down the slope coming to rest against the hammock rack from which Hyacinthe had been surveying the vulgar human world before her. Hyacinthe exploded off the pile. Louis reached out a lightning paw and grabbed her tail; she turned — it seemed even in midair — and raked his forearm so that he squeaked in pain, whereupon the dog went for her. The deck rose again, and the yipping, squeaking, spitting tangle of mixed fur skidded back and forth and finished up under the table where Lessing doused the uproar with a mug of water.

  It was a spectacular first entrance and received the applause it deserved. Hyacinthe stalked off to soothe her ruffled fur and dignity in the galley. Lessing dried the whimpering Louis, and Ria solicitously licked the scratch. The end of his tail quivered like a tuning fork, and every inch of him was vibrant and eager. Ria had come to full vivid life once more.

  Now this monkey haven was where he wanted to be too, and in the remaining days of freedom he would make his way to it whenever possible. Reid was well aware of what was going on, but as Ria was always punctiliously returned by Lessing or one of his messmates in due course after a visit, by unspoken agreement nothing was ever said, and MacLean remained in ignorance of his charge’s double life.

  Up to now the only brief glimpses that the lower deck had had of this new dog was of a small shrinking shadow at the end of a line on his way to the stern, or a limp shaggy bundle under MacLean’s arm. Now a bright-eyed eager little dog would appear, leaping down the ladder to be greeted with an enthusiastic welcome in general and with rapturous affection by Louis.

  He was unfailingly patient, even when Louis was at his most mischievous, and would tolerate all liberties, lying still for as long as his tormentor wanted to groom him, jump over or up and down on him, lean against him or hang around his neck; and seemingly only amused if a bowl of water was emptied over him. However, invariably there came a point when Louis became extremely frustrated over his noncooperation in an act. But, while their performance together had been a way of life to Ria, it had been conditioned by training, and his reflexes must have been too deeply rooted to overcome without commands or signals.

  Louis had no such inhibitions, for most of his part of a performance had been built around what he, Louis, liked to do naturally, and when this culminated in a few puffs of a cigarette or some other treat, then he liked to do it even more; the dog was not only his refuge and playmate, he was also the vehicle towards the attainment of that pleasure.

  He would perch on Ria’s back, leaning low and forward like a jockey tensed for the start, but the start, maddeningly, never came; with encouraging clicks he would jump up and down to urge his mount on. “Come on, Ria, they’re off!” the watchers would shout helpfully, but Ria could only sit there with head thrown back and forepaws close together, tensed and ready as he waited for the starting signal that never came. This behavior so puzzled and irritated Louis that he would jump down and even attempt to drag his partner forward by the collar, but the harder he pulled, chattering in frustration, the more firmly Ria planted his hindquarters and rolled his eyes beseechingly. To their audience this miniature tug of war was a hilarious act, and was always cheered on. “Haul away there, Louis,” roared his many supporters, and “Pull, pull —” shouted the Ria few. As Louis could only be appeased by some delicacy, he soon learned to turn his frustrations into yet another turn in his repertoire.

  Inevitably Ria was offered food and invariably it was refused — until the day he happened to arrive during a meal. Louis was guddling around in his own mess tin, picking out the choicest parts first as usual, and as Lessing watched, he picked out a morsel that did not seem to meet with his approval, for he lobbed it over to the dog. It was caught and swallowed in a flash, and Ria moved closer, wagging his tail, his ears cocked expectantly. He was not disappointed: so engrossed in his plate that he did not bother to look up, Louis held out his paw with another reject, and Ria took it gently from his fingers. When Louis had finished, he moved in and polished the mess tin clean. Lessing gave him some of his own dinner and that disappeared too.

  Unaware that this was the first solid food that the dog had eaten, his appetite seemed only natural to Lessing. Not only had the crew of the whaler seen them together in the water, but there could be no doubt from their behavior that these two animals had belonged together formerly, and what more natural than that they should have shared a feeding time. But he was astute enough to recognize afterwards that Ria would never eat unless he, Lessing, were having his own meal at the same time; also that in some uncannily perceptive way the dog seemed to have grasped the complex system of watchkeeping and after one mistiming never again appeared in his absence.

  But the day came all too soon when Tertian made her rendezvous at eighteen degrees west. There she refueled and turned back with an infinitely more vital flock, laden to its limits with fuel, machinery, tools, food and equipment, a rich prey for the U-boats on the homebound passage.

  And there Ria’s freedom ended, for, shortly after his patient was transferred, clattering down the ladder in an explosive mixture of anger and anxiety came MacLean, haunted every inch of the way in his search from the empty mess by thoughts of his charge being swept overboard, fallen down the engine room hatch, being found in — perhaps even desecrating — off limits territory, penetrating the wardroom. . . . It was an infuriating anticlimax to find this domestic idyll: Ria, a look of almost besotted pleasure on his face, being very thoroughly groomed by the monkey, the center of a watching ring as absorbed as Louis himself.

  MacLean’s relief turned sour at the sight. He called twice but, beyond laying his ears back almost apologetically, Ria did not stir. He strode over and picked up the dog, but Louis hung on determinedly. As fast as he disengaged one paw with his free hand the other curled fast on the collar. He put Ria down on the deck to free both hands: still clutching with one hand, grimacing in fury, Louis made towards this interfering human antagonist the most obscene of his considerable repertoire of obscene gestures. There was a titter of restrained laughter. MacLean, scarlet-faced, tried again to pry the fingers loose, but Louis swung himself onto the dog’s back and clung like some small determined Old Man of the Sea.


  Lessing took pity and came to help. “Leave him till the watches change,” he suggested as he disengaged paws. “Louis always lets him go then without any fuss,” and as MacLean’s mouth remained closed like a rattrap, “I’ll bring him back myself —” he added hopefully.

  “The dog has no business to be here, now or any time. Come, you —” said MacLean dismissively, and turned to go. His reluctant shadow fell in at his heels only after being dragged the first few feet.

  “Come on, Doc, be a sport —” wheedled the rest of Number Five Mess, faced with the prospect of this new diversion for their spoiled and only child disappearing out of his grasp, “Give them a treat — poor little orphans, they don’t get many —”

  For a second, MacLean hesitated. He was exhausted, and he wanted only to get his head down for a few hours’ oblivion, freed from all responsibility or worry. But in that moment of indecision, Louis struggled free and scampered across to hang on to Ria’s tail, so endearingly comical in his too-long shorts and white roll-necked jersey as he tried to drag his companion back that a roar of laughter went up, increasing as the tail wagged furiously so that the tiny body at the end of it quivered in rhythm and the shorts dropped lower and lower. Then as though to complete the burlesque they dropped down altogether, Louis trying to pull them up and out of the way with one hand as he held on grimly to the tail with the other.

  “I’ll thank you to get yon brute of a monkey off — the now,” said MacLean to Lessing.

  Lessing’s amusement was stopped cold at the venom in the tone. He shrugged and pried the furiously protesting Louis loose. He made one last attempt. “But why not let them be together when they can? He’s sort of settled down here with Louis, and he’s no trouble. Why don’t you give it a try anyway?”

  “The dog’s settled — with me,” said MacLean. “I’m responsible, and I’ll not have any daft to-ing and fro-ing all over this ship — free to make a nuisance of itself where it shouldn’t be,” he added with a meaningful scowl at Louis as he picked up Ria and left.

  “Bastard!” summed up Number Five Mess when he was safely out of earshot — a man never knew that he might not have to report sick one day — and turned to consoling their Louis. “Who the ’ell does he think he is, ’Itler?” inquired a solo indignant voice. “Fricking little tyrant, that’s wot.”

  When he reached the upper deck, MacLean put Ria down and went out into the fresh darkness, making his way aft. He leaned over the guardrail, now watching the straight white path of the wake rolled out behind as the Tertian slipped through a calm blackness, now watching the small blur that was Ria investigating the bases of the depth charge mountings for traces of Barkis.

  The destroyer steamed steadily on the starboard flank of the convoy, her whole length tuned this night to a contentment of seagoing sounds, the sibilant swish of water against the hull soothing the low constant moaning of the funnel. But the sea held no siren sounds for MacLean; he hated it at the best of times, and for the moment he was deaf to everything except the laughter still ringing in his ears. He bitterly regretted his quixotic promise, and all the subsequent complications of fulfillment, the baffling resistance of the dog. He found himself resenting now the forfeiture of precious off-duty time that could be better spent in considering chess problems or getting on with a book; above all, the disquieting intrusion into the ordered fastnesses of his mind. His thoughts churned over the humiliating episode with the monkey as steadily as the ship’s screws, the wake of his frustrations rolling out as lengthily over the bleakness of his heart.

  A dark figure detached itself from the darker mass of the after superstructure, and a soft whistle followed. It was the Leading Telegraphist, tonight one of the depth charge party, with another two hours of his watch to go and glad of any distraction. Ria went to him and cheerful sounds of greeting followed. MacLean had moved near enough to see that Ria was standing on his hind legs offering a forepaw. Before so offensive a spectacle, there was nothing that MacLean wanted to do more in the world at that moment than to heave both overboard and set off one of the depth charges over them.

  “How’s things, Doc?” inquired the voice amiably.

  “Fine, fine, chust fine . . .” snarled MacLean, his face now six inches away from the startled telegraphist, and to an explosive “Come!” that brought Ria slinking to his heels, he turned abruptly and vanished through the hatchway. (“Blimey, you could almost smell the sulfur — like the Demon King in the pantomime he was,” said the telegraphist regaling his messmates later.)

  Back in the sick bay, he filled the kidney basin that now bore the label “Dog only” with water and set it down before Ria, then shook out the daily ration of vitamin pills into his hand from a bottle. The pills were grimly dropped down Ria’s submissive throat; the empty dish carefully washed and put away. He removed his shoes and jacket and turned in on the cot. Ria lay down by the open door. Two minutes later MacLean was asleep. Two hours later, Ria still lay with his head on his paws, his dark eyes wide open and unseeing, as though they were fixed on some point far beyond the immediate boundary of the flat before him — far beyond the bows of the Ark and the endless expanse of ocean in fact.

  Chapter 7

  IT WOULD HAVE ASTONISHED NEIL MACLEAN, even deeply offended him, if he had heard himself described as tyrannical or insensitive, when he was merely discharging his exacting obligation with the utmost conscientiousness.

  He came from crofter stock in a thriving west Highland farm, from forebears as at home on the sea in a fishing boat as on the hills. He was the youngest son, the seventh, a sickly asthmatic child, prone to all the allergic ills of his kind, a cosseted, undersized misfit in a family of tall strong brothers, forever running to catch up, forever falling behind.

  His father was also a seventh son, but despite the portentous mutterings and sidelong glances of the old people of the village, the only singular manifestation that might have been said to set this child apart was the marked reluctance of any domestic or farm animal to be near him. As a strong aroma of Friar’s Balsam from the steaming asthma kettle perpetually enveloped him with pungent overtones of the eucalyptus oil with which his wheezing chest was rubbed, his family did not find this altogether surprising. The same down-to-earth explanation prevailed when, as he grew older, he seemed to be able to subdue or dominate the animals by his presence alone: small wonder that before fierce waves of Vicks Vapo Rub, the most recalcitrant cow, the wildest of dogs, the maddest of bulls seemed to be almost anaesthetized into submission. Altogether it seemed a very sensible, satisfactory explanation as the boy could no more tolerate their presence than they could his, for the closer the proximity or inadvertent contact with an animal and he was seized with the dread wheezing and fighting for breath.

  He was sent to a specialist who produced a list of positive allergy tests as long as his mother’s face as she listened with polite skepticism to the learned man expounding further on the psychological causes that might underlie the physical symptoms of asthma — maternal rejection, sibling rivalry, and guilt complexes all rolled smoothly off his tongue. Such haverings — and costly ones at that — she had never heard; far from rejecting her youngest son, she had bestowed more affection and attention on him than any of his brothers; rivalry was out of the question as there was a considerable gap in years between him and his next brothers; and as for guilt — Neil had been the most docile and obedient little boy, quite unlike his healthily mischievous brothers.

  However, the visit did have a productive effect. Shortly afterwards, Neil was sent to the drier climate of inland Morayshire to board with an aunt who owned nothing more potentially disturbing than a budgerigar, and go to school there. The improvement was dramatic; although he was always to remain undersized and thin, he grew out of all allergies. Furthermore, on the east coast, no one cared whether he or his father had six or sixteen brothers. But a residue of his strange power over animals remained, recognized by an astute local vet who took the boy on to help in the school h
olidays at first, then later as a full-time assistant when he left school.

  He became the most efficient handler of animals that the vet had ever experienced, and he selflessly helped and encouraged the young man towards the goal of veterinary college. But after two academically successful years of college, he suddenly quit. He returned to his assistant’s job, and the disappointed vet could get nothing more illuminating out of him other than that “studying and the like was not the life” for him. He returned home only once during this period, and there, having by now almost forgotten its terrors, he had such a traumatic attack of asthma that thereafter he made this the excuse never to return.

  He had married eventually. As uninformatively and mysteriously as he did most things, he returned from a holiday on the island of Mull with a soncy red-haired girl, who teased him unmercifully about his pernicketiness — the only one who had ever teased him in his life; and who with all her extrovert flaming-haired nature loved him even while she laughed at him, and told him how wonderful he was, so that he became transformed and wonderful in his love for her. Two and a half idyllic years later, on a visit home to her parents in Mull, she was drowned crossing to Iona in her father’s fishing boat. Only her father’s body was washed up later; the sea kept forever his Margaret and all that had been their life, and Neil MacLean never again saw the streaming tendrils of the dark red seaweed undulating gently below its surface without thinking of a bright drowned flame.

  After the empty mockery of a funeral service, he had given his notice with polite formality to the vet; then, stocked up with whiskey, he had returned to their cottage, locked the door and pulled the blinds, answering no neighborly knock or voices; only seen when he emerged twice a day to feed Margaret’s pullets at the bottom of the garden. Her gray cat returned once to cry distractedly outside the door, after which it took to the hills and went wild.