by Nina Stibbe
Occasionally he’d worry his phantom leg that was gone from the shoulder, looking confusedly at where it should be, and I’d imagine he had paw-ache, like humans had with missing limbs. I’d give him a sliver of his favourite cheese (Edam) to take his mind off it, and sing to him about the old lady who went up in a basket, seventeen times as high as the moon. I have to admit that Angelo’s bulging eye put me off my food slightly, and if I was eating, say, spaghetti hoops on toast, I’d sit facing in the other direction. I could manage an apple, sitting right next to him, no problem, but not an egg. In fact, I’d never even think of having an egg if I had him with me. But that was about eyes and eggs, definitely not about Angelo.
I worried a lot about who had owned Angelo before, and so did my mother. We used to discuss it at length.
‘Imagine how Angelo’s real owner must feel,’ she’d say, ‘wondering about him, and worrying.’
‘I know, it’s unbearable.’
‘It’s too, too unbearable.’
‘It really is.’
‘Unbearable.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘If only they knew how happy he was.’
To give my mother her due, she did sometimes deliberately walk Angelo around Victoria Park before collecting Danny from nursery–just in case the real owner might be out there looking for him. But she was always relieved when they came away without having been approached, and however much we worried about it, and how unbearable the thought of his grieving owner, the last thing we wanted was for Angelo to be found.
It was some weeks later that Miss Gwendolyne Smith of Victoria Park came in for her six-monthly check-up.
‘Just a scale and polish, nurse,’ said JP and I handed him a manual scaler, pasted up a rubber cup, and put a bib around Miss Smith’s neck. I’d been admiring her perfect conduct. Open mouth. Tissue ready in hand, efficient rinsing on command, spitting into the centre of the spittoon, no drips or spray or strings of saliva, and resuming the open-mouthed treatment pose afterwards. No trying to talk.
As I took her card from the marble table, the note jumped out at me: Relation of Oscar Wilde, it said, and, Lost dog.
JP had also seen the note and was asking her about it as he jammed the scaler between her lower incisors.
‘Did you ever find your dog?’
She turned away so she could answer properly. ‘No, never.’ Bloody saliva was now coating her lower teeth.
‘Oh, I am sorry.’ JP pushed her by the chin back into the treatment position. ‘I lost a dog once,’ he said, ‘very sad.’
Miss Smith blinked and looked wretched, her mouth beginning to droop slightly now.
‘Open wide,’ said JP. ‘Or was it a cat? Yes, I believe mine was a cat–no, tell a lie, it was a dog.’
‘It was a cat,’ said Tammy from the desk, not even looking up from her paperwork.
In the waiting room afterwards, filling out the forms, I brought the subject up again and knew it was Angelo before she had even described him. I’d known that Miss Gwendolyne Smith–the perfect patient–was bound to be Angelo’s real owner, the moment I’d seen the note on the card. He was so well-trained.
I checked that her contact details were up to date, charged her the £2.70 and made her an appointment for six months’ time.
At coffee break I asked Tammy and JP about Miss Smith and her missing dog.
‘When did she lose him?’ I asked.
JP had no memory of the patient even mentioning a lost dog, of course, but Tammy thought it was ‘about two check-ups ago, I guess’. She measured time like that. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just wondering if I might know the whereabouts of the dog.’
‘Oh, my gosh,’ said Tammy. ‘You mean that three-legged dog of your mother’s–wow, hang on, when did she find that dog?’
‘About two check-ups ago.’
‘Don’t go getting Miss Smith’s hopes up, nurse,’ said JP. ‘What are the chances it’ll really be her dog your mother found? And even if it is, I can’t see Miss Smith wanting it back now–not with three legs.’
JP was wrong. Miss Smith would always want her dog back, however many legs he had, or none, but it was true that coping with a three-legged dog wasn’t plain sailing. People stared and commented, laughed, cringed. You needed to be the type. And his eye was worse (as previously mentioned) but less noticeable. Miss Smith, I felt, would find it difficult. I needed to think it through.
If I were to approach Miss Smith, she would have the upset of finding out that Angelo (or whatever his real name might be) had suffered a life-changing accident. And have the agonizing decision of whether or not to take him back. My mother, whose life had been improved one hundred per cent by Angelo, might lose him for ever and have the misery of knowing he’d returned to a less exciting life. She might go back to drinking too much and ruin her chances with Faber & Faber.
And Angelo himself, who was happy and settled with my mother, might suffer in another upheaval–but equally, might he be even happier with Miss Smith, his original owner? I had myself to think about too. I liked having him about. I loved him.
In the end I had to face up to it. If Miss Smith had got herself a new pet or even had a busy, sociable job, I might have let sleeping dogs lie, but she lived alone and was an editor of poetry and drama who worked from home. Angelo had been her constant companion before his disappearance.
‘Oh, God!’ said my mother, head in hands. ‘What makes you think Angelo belongs to this woman? People lose dogs all the time.’
‘He might, he might not. I just think we should rule it out, that’s all,’ I said, ‘just in case.’
‘OK then, ring her up and rule her out. If you must.’
I played it down on the phone. I didn’t want to get Miss Gwendolyne Smith’s hopes up.
‘Oh, no, that doesn’t sound like Oscar,’ she said. ‘Oscar has four legs.’
‘Yes, but so did this dog once, before he was run over near the Mayflower roundabout.’
‘How do I know this isn’t a hoax call?’ Miss Smith barked.
‘Because I’m the dental nurse at the Wintergreen practice and I’d never do anything like that.’
She wouldn’t let me bring Angelo to her house but said she’d meet us at Victoria Park, in front of the arch of remembrance.
My mother and I set off. We walked slowly, partly so Angelo could keep up and partly to delay. My mother was quiet, playing with a scene in her head, or planning a new sticker for her car. As soon as we turned on to the path I saw Miss Smith ahead.
‘Is that her?’ my mother asked.
‘Yes.’
She scooped Angelo up in her arms and went nose to nose with him. They blinked at each other.
‘You’re such a silly dog,’ she said, ‘nothing but trouble anyway.’ And she snuffled into his neck for a moment before setting him down, handing me the loop of his lead, and walking away.
I approached Miss Smith. Angelo ambled along the path, sniffed at a discarded daisy chain, then stopped and looked ahead. He wagged his tail frantically, then stopped, then went again. I unclipped the lead.
‘Oscar?’ called Miss Smith. And Angelo hobbled hurriedly towards her and sprang up in a most excited way–a way I’d never seen before–as if he were on a pogo stick. Then he spun around in a frenzy.
Miss Smith shielded herself and laughed.
‘Yes, yes, it’s me, it’s all right,’ she said, and joined in the dance.
I stood silently and watched. Miss Smith looked at me, red-faced.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘this is Oscar. This is my dog.’
I patted Angelo and hugged him and said what a lovely outcome and that kind of thing. Then I glanced back at the retreating figure in the distance and said, ‘That’s my mother, she’s a bit upset.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Smith.
‘Do you want to take him?’ I asked.
She looked at me, confused. ‘Of course I want to take him,’ she said. ‘He’s my dog.’
> Back at the flat my mother was deeply engrossed in looking busy.
‘So,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s that, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘Yes, he seemed very pleased to see her. Thank you for handling that. Now shush, I’m working.’
I made us some hot chocolate and my mother told me she’d known upon waking that morning that something bad was going to happen, something she’d been preparing for her whole life.
‘Angelo going back to his rightful owner is the bad thing you’ve been preparing for your whole life?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Without him my shame is back.’
‘Perhaps you’ll find another thing to rescue?’
Priti called round then and was probably the best possible visitor under the circumstances because, not being a dog-lover, she didn’t encourage us to ramble on about Angelo. She asked if my mother had another dog, and I had to say yes, she had Sue, but Sue didn’t travel well (was how I put it), and then she changed the subject and asked if I’d mind if she did her homework in the flat–only she’d had an argument with the meat chef at the Raj, and had stormed out.
‘Do you work there as well as on the housewares stall?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes, when they’re busy.’
My mother was impressed.
It was all very Woman’s Own–a female friend, all het up after a domestic or work tiff, needing some moral support and a cuppa. I was thrilled.
After my mother had gone Priti arranged herself at the dining table and hardly looked up from her biology textbook for what seemed like hours. It was like having an industrious, clever, grateful husband and I went the whole hog and did some baking and called a tea break. Priti was almost overwhelmed by the tray of hot biscuits and I trotted out the recipe (basically, sugary pastry with an ounce of cocoa powder added) so she could throw some together at home, but Priti feared she’d never rise to them because of a fear of ovens. In return I revealed how little I knew about the internal workings of the human body. I should have been worrying about my mother and the loss of Angelo, but the day went by in a stream of sweet drinks and snacks, smoke rings, impressions of Barbra Streisand and Prince Charles, and oven-glove demonstrations.
Andy settled into a routine of coming round twice a week, once with laundry and once without. I liked the visit without laundry more than the one with it–being proof that he liked me just as much as he liked the Hoover Aristocrat–but then it occurred to me that he might be making the second visit out of old-fashioned decency. We’d play cassettes–his Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison and Kate Bush, which, though lovely, never suggested sex, and my Rickie Lee Jones and Blondie (who did)–and we’d roll around on the sofa, but nothing much happened after a certain point. We were couplesque, that’s the only way I can describe it. Andy was like an alien–gently curious and adorable–and I was eager but demure, but neither of us was rampant, which was the word I had in my head–I’d read plenty of Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins–to describe the force required.
I realized we’d got into what Claire Rayner might describe as a ‘tedious rut’ and I phoned Melody for advice. She referred to it as a classic case of ‘top half only’ which was when the girl wasn’t slaggy (rampant) enough to move things on, and the boy was either too nice, or being ‘fed by two owners’.
‘“Fed by two owners”?’
‘You know,’ said Melody, ‘getting it from someone else.’
‘Oh.’
‘What does Andy look like?’ she asked, as if there might be a clue there.
I thought for a moment and then said, ‘Like Kevin Keegan, but with straight hair, taller, with a bigger nose and olive skin.’
‘Yeah, you see, boys that look like Kevin Keegan can get trapped into sex affairs with the boss’s wife.’
I thought of Mr Burridge, imagined his wife, and dismissed it.
‘So, what should I do?’ I asked, her being the expert.
‘Ask him his favourite sex position–that might set him off–or put a Donna Summer tape on, or “Je t’aime”, and do a striptease. But honestly, I wouldn’t rush things. I’d just enjoy it. God, once you’ve gone all the way, it’s over pretty much, unless you get engaged.’
Though Melody was usually more Spare Rib than Woman’s Own, her advice on this occasion seemed to reinforce the sense of womanliness I was developing – enjoy life but be sensible and practical, wear a crazy jumper but be a grown-up, open a savings account, take up a sport, rinse and reuse yoghurt pots to freeze tiny leftovers, lose weight without dieting, join a book-of-the-month club, relax in a Radox bath, and take vitamins, because as a woman it’s likely you’ll cook five hundred meals, make a thousand beds and carry three thousand pounds of shopping over the following year. Woman’s Own wouldn’t want me doing a striptease to Donna Summer. Keenness on sex was as unattractive as too much make-up, and as unappealing as mentioning periods. And since I’d lured Andy in with the Hoover Aristocrat in the first place, and then thrown myself at him, I was probably already keen enough. I needed to act cool, look good, and not be too clingy or enthusiastic. It was his turn to make the running.
‘Be sure to make the best of yourself,’ said Melody, meaning clothes-wise.
There was a certain look that I liked, which fitted with the attractive but not-too-keen; this was ‘busy city woman’, dashing around in coloured trousers and chunky but short sweaters (mustard, burgundy and dark green) and leather boots, carrying things, lots of things, bags and picture frames, and almost dropping them but laughing as if slightly shocked and so forth, and wearing hats, floppy hats, caps, trilbies etc.
‘Yes,’ I told Melody. ‘I’ll go shopping, I’ll buy a hat.’
‘Hats are good but not a trilby or other women will hate you,’ she said, and we said goodbye.
With this in mind, I bought a beret. I didn’t go all the way and get a black one in case it seemed as though I was trying to look French, but instead I went for a shade of browny-green, which I later regretted because Andy asked if I’d joined the Green Berets and, not knowing what the Green Berets were, I said in all seriousness that no, I hadn’t.
I felt I should be enjoying living in the city more–or at least looking as if I did–and having a little gaggle of pals popping in all the time, different types of people who all knew me really well and shared my jokes. And a boyfriend who couldn’t keep his hands off my bottom half as well as my top half. I began to wonder if I wouldn’t feel better at home–more relaxed, more ‘me’ in the family setting, where I wouldn’t be responsible for every tiny thing. Where sex could occur naturally and I wouldn’t have to run around pretending to be busy in a beret so as not to appear too keen.
10. Going Home
The building refurbishments that had been initiated by Bill Turner were lingering. The staircarpet had had to come up because of suspected dry rot and though it was a pain in the neck it presented me with the perfect excuse to go home. No one could call me a sissy or accuse me of being lonely–I’d simply be escaping the nuisance of the building work. So when my mother next called round to collect baby Danny, I casually brought the subject up.
‘Ugh! This building work is throwing up a lot of dust,’ I said, running my finger along a shelf.
‘If it gets too bad let me know,’ said my mother. ‘I’ll get you a dust mat from the laundry, they’re most effective.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but it’s probably best if I just come home for a bit.’
My mother was dead against it. ‘You can’t,’ she said, ‘we’re taking a lodger.’
My mother had had a series of lodgers over the years. A woman who used to cry if the Beatles came on the radio, and couldn’t use tampons. A doctor who let a mature spider plant die of thirst and had a problem swallowing, and a student who invaded the treehouse.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘We need the money.’
I questioned t
his. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Mr Holt was working seven till seven through the week, she said, and doing paperwork all weekend, and she was having to cheat on her call sheets just to save a couple of hours a day for her novel. They were living on Heinz soup now that she’d been cured of shoplifting and had to pay for alcohol and cheese. She had cancelled the newspapers and the window cleaner and, if they didn’t find some money somehow, she might have to take Danny out of Curious Minds.
Having Danny at nursery up the road was important to me. Not because of the preschool number-knowledge and self-esteem apparently promoted by the Montessori method, but because I liked knowing he was close by every week day and that, in the event of a nuclear attack, I’d be able to rush and get him, and barge my way into Jacobs the accountant’s shelter; and though we’d be amongst only a few humans left alive in the county, we’d have each other and one of Mr Jacobs’s rifles to defend ourselves. I couldn’t see a nuclear attack happening on a weekend somehow.
‘Are you saying I can never come back?’ I said.
‘Well, you’ve left home,’ said my mother. ‘I suppose you could–in an emergency–but I can’t keep rooms for all my offspring, like shrines.’
‘So I’m stuck living here for ever, working for a man I really dislike?’
‘We all have to work for horrible men. Leaving doesn’t make them any less monstrous. In fact, staying can sometimes make all the difference, especially in your job.’
Later that week, Abe appeared in the waiting room. He’d broken a filling at the back, and wondered if he could see the dentist. I went to ask JP if he could fit him in.
‘It’s Mr Abraham. He’s a client of the Snowdrop Laundry,’ I said, ‘and a friend of my mother’s.’
‘And I’m expected to see him, am I?’ said JP.
‘Well, yes. He’s broken a filling and he does have a dentist, but he’s based at the Government Dental College of Bangalore.’