by Isabel Wolff
I e-mailed him back. ‘I’ll try!’
At half past one I put Herman on the lead, my head still reeling from the news about my father, then we left for Little Gateley. The journey was easier this time as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying Summer Fete! There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.
‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger! Don’t do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’
‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.
‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’
‘Is he?’ I said.
‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least the weather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’
By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.
‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.
‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.
‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—the dog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers, adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’
‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.
‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. Now, we’ll both have cordless mikes so that everyone can hear us.’
There were about ten dogs taking part in this category, their owners all holding up numbered cards. The audience sat on folding chairs or perched on hay bales as the competing dogs were walked round. In the background we could hear the band playing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. Caroline tapped on both mikes, and then spoke.
‘Now, it’s the quality of the wag that matters, isn’t it, Miranda?’ she said with mock-seriousness, as a butterfly fluttered past her.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. That English setter has a lovely sweeping wag, for example—you could polish the floor with it. The retriever’s got a nice strong wag too.’
‘It has—I can feel the breeze from here!’
‘Interestingly, we have two dogs that don’t actually have tails—the boxer and the corgi—both waggling their behinds there; but it would be unfair to discriminate against the docked breeds.’
‘It would. The St Bernard has quite a slow, deliberate wag, doesn’t he?’ Caroline added. ‘I must say that the pug doesn’t look as though he’s doing much wagging at all.’
‘Well, their tails don’t actually wag very well, because of the way they curl over their backs. But he certainly looks as though he’s trying his best.’
‘He does. There’s some very enthusiastic wagging there from the Norfolk terrier and a slightly twitchy wag there from the collie cross. Maybe he’s a little nervous,’ she suggested with a smile. I saw the owner laugh.
‘Okay, everyone,’ I announced. ‘Please would you walk round the ring just once more?’
‘Have you made your decision?’ Caroline asked a minute later.
I scribbled in my notebook, then held up my mike. ‘I have. In reverse order, the winners of this category are: in third place—number five, the boxer; in second place—the English setter, who’s number six. And in first place is number nine, the Norfolk terrier, whose tail really does wag the dog.’
Everyone clapped as I handed the owners their respective rosettes. And now, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, his arms folded, just standing there, watching.
‘Now for the next category,’ Caroline announced. ‘This is always a popular one—the dog most like its owner. So would all the contestants for this class please enter the ring.’
Some of them resembled their canine partners to an astonishing degree. There was a jowly looking man with a bloodhound, a tall, aristocratic-looking woman with a borzoi, and a poodle accompanied by a white-haired woman with a very tight curly perm. Others had resorted to artifice—like the young boy who’d had his face painted white with a black patch over one eye to make him look like his Jack Russell, and the little girl and her yorkie with matching coiffures. Some had clearly entered with a fine sense of irony. There was a bald man with an Afghan, an overweight woman with a whippet, a thin little man with a massive bulldog, and a woman my size with a Great Dane. As they paraded round the arena I found myself thinking that if the competition were about finding a similarity between the human and canine temperaments then Jimmy and Trigger would win hands down. By now, Jimmy was standing on the opposite side of the ring. I could sense that he was looking at me. Suddenly I caught his eye, and he looked away and immediately began chatting to the man on his left. He was determined to ignore me. I wouldn’t let him. I announced the winners—the first prize went to the aristocratic-looking woman with the borzoi—then it was the Fancy Dress.
‘This is always a very popular category,’ said Caroline, ‘so we have a big field. Would all the competitors please walk their dogs round.’ There was a bichon frise dressed as a French onion-seller and the boxer I’d just seen, now in stars and stripes boxer shorts. There was a Rottweiler dressed as an angel, complete with gold halo, and a puli in a Rastafarian hat. There were two Pekes in tutus, a corgi in a headscarf, and a She
ltie in a pink feather boa, which was making it sneeze. There was a wolfhound dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and a Newfoundland wearing fairy wings. Finally, there was a dachshund dressed as a shiny Christmas cracker, its nose just visible through the crimped end. I looked over to where Jimmy had been standing, but he’d gone.
‘Are you ready to announce the winners?’ Caroline asked me.
‘I am. In joint third place are—number seventeen, the regal looking corgi, and the Christmas cracker dachshund, number twelve. In second place is—number eight, the very Gallic-looking bichon frise. But the first prize for the Fancy Dress category goes to—the Angel Rottweiler!’ Everyone applauded. This seemed to be a popular choice.
‘And finally,’ said Caroline, ‘we come to “Pup Idol”, the canine karaoke competition, the result of which will be decided by you all, in a popular vote. So thanks to Miranda Sweet for being such a great judge.’ My duties done, I stepped down. This was my chance to find Jimmy, while the dog show was still going on. ‘Now, we’ve got a selection of songs here,’ Caroline went on, ‘so may we please have the first of our three talented contestants—Desmond the Dalmatian?’ Desmond and his owner stepped up onto the podium and Caroline passed them the mike. Then she pressed the button on the sound system. A familiar song started up.
‘Ebony and ivory…’
The dog threw back its head.
‘Woooow-ow-owwww-oooo…’
‘Live together in perfect harmony…’
‘Ooooo-woowwww-ow-ow-ow…’
‘Side by side on my piano keyboard…oh Lord…’
‘Ow-ow-oooooowwww…’
‘Why don’t we-ee?’
‘Oowwoowwwwwwwwwwww…’
‘—That’s rather good,’ I heard someone say as I moved through the crowd.
‘—Yes, very nice tone.’
‘—Bit of an obvious choice though.’
‘—But the diction’s clear.’
‘—Hmm—you can almost make out the words.’
The song went on for another minute or so, then Caroline faded down the music. Desmond stepped down to a burst of applause and the Christmas cracker dachshund stepped up.
‘Now,’ said Caroline, as I stood by the rope and scanned the crowd, ‘we have Pretzel, who, you may remember, won the event last year. And this year Pretzel has chosen a very challenging classical number, the Queen of the Night’s solo from The Magic Flute!’
‘—That is a brave choice,’ I heard someone say. ‘Notoriously difficult.’
‘—Hmm,’ acknowledged his friend. ‘Let’s hope she’s got the range for it.’
‘—And the breathing of course!’
‘—Gosh, yes.’
The orchestra swelled to a crescendo, and the dog started to vocalize.
‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!
‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!
‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap…’
‘—Not bad,’ said the connoisseur appreciatively.
‘—She’s hitting those top notes pretty well.’
‘—She’s not really a coloratura though, let’s face it.’ ‘—Oooh, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!’
‘—Sounds a bit like Maria Callas, if you ask me.’
‘—More like Lesley Garrett.’
‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!’
Pretzel’s performance was enthusiastically received, then the last contestant, a sheepdog, began to croon along to the strains of ‘Danny Boy’.
‘Ow wow wow wooooow…’
‘—God, isn’t that beautiful?’
‘Ow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooowww…’
‘—Brings tears to your eyes doesn’t it?’
‘Ow wow wow wooooow, wow wow wow wow wow woooooowwwwwwww…’
‘—Got a tissue anyone?’
‘Wow wow ow WOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW…’
‘—Nice rubato.’
‘Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooow…’
‘—He could get a recording contract with a voice like that.’
‘Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow woow woow woooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww!’
There was a moment’s silence, then thunderous applause.
‘Now’ said Caroline, ‘may we please have your votes?’ Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at my watch—it was a quarter to five and the fete would soon finish. I felt my heart race. Where was he? ‘Can we have the votes for Desmond and his cover version of the Paul McCartney?’ I heard Caroline ask. There was a few seconds’ silence while she counted them. Maybe he’d gone into the house. ‘And now a show of hands please for Pretzel and her thrilling rendition of the Mozart…one, two…five…eight, okay…’ I looked towards the garden. ‘And lastly, your votes for Shep the sheep-dog, and “Danny Boy”… Oh, that’s a very decisive result! So I’m delighted to announce that this year’s Little Gateley Pup Idol is Shep the sheepdog. Shall we ask him to sing it again?’
‘YEAAHHHH!!!!’
As Shep did his reprise I spotted Jimmy, chatting amiably to the woman running the tombola. ‘Thank you so much,’ I heard him say as I approached. ‘We really appreciate it.’ I hovered for a moment, knowing that he must have seen me on the periphery of his vision, but he pointedly kept his back turned. Then he moved on to a group of people by the refreshment tent. I could hardly interrupt.
‘Yes,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s been a wonderful afternoon, hasn’t it? No, we love having it here.’ I pretended to be engrossed in the bric-a-brac stall. ‘So lucky with the weather, yes. And how old are your lovely kids? Four and two? Lovely ages. How sweet.’ Now, as he strolled confidently towards the house, stopping every few yards to speak to someone, I discreetly pursued him, my heart racing. It was all very well confronting him, but what would I say? What words could evoke my feelings about the dreadful thing he’d once done? As he headed for the French windows I followed twenty feet behind, feeling like a stalker, the blood drumming in my ears. I’d go into the house and I’d speak to him. For the first time in sixteen years I’d call out his name.
‘Miss Sweet? Excuse me? Miss Sweet?’ I turned. An elderly man with a Jack Russell was standing there, smiling at me. I glanced towards the house. Jimmy had gone.
‘I just wanted to say how much I like your TV programme.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘I watched them all—and I can’t wait for the new series.’
‘Well, that’s great.’ I smiled, then turned to go.
‘I just wanted to ask your advice actually.’ My heart sank. ‘About Skip here.’
‘Er, yes. Of course. How can I help?’
‘He keeps digging up the garden. It’s driving me and my wife up the wall.’
‘Tell you what,’ I said, fumbling in my bag, and retrieving one of my business cards, ‘why don’t you e-mail me, and I’ll reply.’
‘Well it really won’t take long for me to explain now, and I just wanted to catch you before the end of the fete. You see we got Skip six months ago, from Battersea actually, and we just fell for him the moment we saw him…’ I stood there, an expression of polite interest superglued to my face while the man went into grinding detail about Skip’s excavations of the vegetable patch, the rose-bed, and the herbaceous border. ‘We do love him, but ooh, the damage he’s caused.’
‘You need a digging pit,’ I said, slightly irritably. ‘Terriers are natural diggers. That’s what they’re bred for, so he’ll never stop. But you can make sure that he’s fulfilling those natural instincts in a way that doesn’t wreck your garden. I suggest you build him a pit, like a sandpit, and fill it with wood chippings, and let him dig to his heart’s content in that. You could hide a few of his favourite toys in there to encourage him to use it,’ I added, trying to be helpful now.
‘Well, thanks very much. That’s good advice. A pit,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘I’d never have thought of that.’
> ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding. ‘A pit.’
I glanced to my left. Everyone was leaving the arena; the fete was almost over. People were packing up. I’d have to be quick.
‘Right, well thanks very much,’ said the man again.
‘My pleasure,’ I said. And I was about to walk away when I saw Caroline coming towards me with Trigger, smiling and waving. Blast. I couldn’t look for him now.
‘It’s gone brilliantly,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve raised over four thousand pounds. Thanks for being such a great judge. Here’s a small token of our appreciation,’ she handed me a bottle of champagne. ‘It’s a rather nice one, actually. Vintage—1987. That was a very good year, apparently.’
‘Really?’ I said faintly. Not for me.
‘James likes to keep a good cellar.’
‘I see. Well, thank you,’ I said. I had no intention of drinking it.
‘And I do hope you get some new clients out of this.’
‘Who knows? I was just glad to help out. It all seems to be winding down now,’ I added.
‘It does look like it.’ People were strolling across the lawn towards the gates. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you again some time,’ she added pleasantly. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on with this young man’s “education”,’ she grinned, nodding at Trigger. She was so natural and nice. I found myself wishing that she wasn’t. It made the situation somehow worse.
‘Yes. Do let me know. I’d love that.’
I walked towards my car, feeling demoralized. I’d failed in what I set out to do. And I knew I’d never get another chance to confront Jimmy, calmly and quietly, in the way I might have done today. If I wrote to him at the House of Commons, he’d claim he was too busy to see me, or he’d simply ignore me. I knew Jimmy. I knew how his mind worked.