The train has started moving again, rumbling uncomfortably as it slowly eases free of the embankment and open fields, efficiently sprinkled with cows, come into view. I return to my seat.
The lady is worrying out loud about her dog. ‘My nephew,’ she is saying, ‘he’s a doctor, he usually takes the dog in while I’m away, but he can’t today because he’s away at a conference. He’d said he’d be back on the Friday, but now he won’t be able to come back until the Sunday. Or until this evening, at the earliest. Not before Saturday night, that’s what he said.’ She rubs at a bump on her face. ‘I’m just hoping that nothing has happened to her. She’s all alone in the house and she won’t understand it. The girl next door is supposed to feed her, but she’s very particular about who feeds her and I’m just worried that she won’t eat. She’s a very nervous dog, the vet said so. He said she needs a lot of affection, and she gets terribly upset if I’m away.’
The man makes a noise of acknowledgement but continues to read his paper.
Dogs. When I arrived at the dogs’ home on Tuesday morning I asked the fellow at the enquiries desk – Tony, his badge said – whether a basset bitch had made an appearance. ‘She should be wearing a blue collar and a disc with her name on it – Trusty Breeze.’
Shaking his head gloomily, Tony, a thin man with a scrupulously ironed white T-shirt, tapped into his computer. ‘I don’t think so. We’ve got a basset, as it happens, but I don’t think she’s called Trusty.’ He tapped again. ‘Mabel,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a Mabel. That’s a pretty name, isn’t it?’ He stood up and clasped his hands. ‘Still, we’d better check, hadn’t we?’
I followed him into a small covered courtyard surrounded by three levels of kennels on each side. It stank. The air resounded with yelps, barks and howls of every kind. Apart from the greyhounds – and there were greyhounds everywhere, silently curled up into sad balls – I couldn’t identify the breed of any of these strays, their snouts looming from the dark cells as they pressed against the grilles. They were all mongrels, it seemed, unbred, unwanted nothing dogs.
Tony stopped. ‘This is she,’ he said.
Inside the cell, the sleeping dog lifted its head a fraction from its front paws and opened a baggy red eye. It paused for a slothful moment, regarding us. Then it slowly got up, shook itself, and came forward hopefully, tail waving.
The cage was too dark for me to be sure. I went down on my haunches to get a better look. ‘Trusty,’ I said. ‘Trusty.’ No response. ‘Mabel,’ I said, and immediately the dog reacted, barking.
I stood up, defeated.
Everywhere locked-up dogs bayed in frustration or lay slumped and dispirited. ‘What happens to them all?’ I asked.
‘Well, we keep them for a week, and then we assess them, and then the suitable ones are put forward for the sales,’ Tony said. ‘Most of them find new homes, you know.’
‘What about the ones that don’t?’
‘Well, we have to think of the dog’s welfare,’ Tony said defensively. ‘If it can’t be found a home, or if it’s sick, well, we have to put it to sleep.’
We looked at Mabel. She was gaping at us expectantly, her mouth slightly ajar. ‘They’ll be plenty of takers for her, I’ll bet,’ I said, trying to find something positive to say.
He looked pained. ‘Well, actually, no,’ he said. ‘Mabel is unsuitable for sale. She’s very aggressive, poor thing. She bites everything that moves. I was hoping that you might be her owner.’
I left the dogs’ home depressed. Trusty had been missing now for two nights and a day.
But, I thought to myself as I drove back to Pa’s, you couldn’t blame her for running away. She had been rampantly on heat, after all, and when the burglars had broken in she had quite naturally grabbed the opportunity to break out. Trusty had responded to a call of the wild which was not of her making.
Good luck to her. Let her have her shot at true freedom, at finding an alternative to the human regimen. Even dogs must long for escape, for some alternative.
The problem was, there was no alternative to living at home with Pa. Rockport was not a hospitable wilderness in which she might thrive, with grassland where a pack of fellow hunters could be found and joined; there was only the city and its streets, and that was no environment for a dog, certainly not one as domesticated as Trusty. Trusty’s normal routine was a bowl of cornflakes and a slice of strawberry jam toast in the morning, followed by a quick turn around the block with Pa before he set off for the office, followed by a day spent snoozing around the house, followed by another, longer, walk and some lamb chops or spaghetti carbonara or whatever else Pa was cooking up in the evening, and then maybe a late-night stroll in the moonlight. Trusty was not accustomed to rifling through rubbish pails at dawn or drinking from puddles. I pictured her stumpily wandering around Rockport, frightened and disoriented. All it would take would be one speeding car and, bang, that would be it, curtains. No one had ever said that dogs enjoyed an afterlife.
But what more could I do? Offer a reward? Put up HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG? posters? It was bad enough having pictures of my father plastered all over the place.
I opened the front door of the house, dropped the car keys on the entranceway table and walked through. There was no sign of my father. Don’t tell me he was still in bed.
Up I went. Yes, there he was, just as I had left him two hours ago, curled beneath his duvet as disconsolately as one of those abandoned greyhounds. The cup of tea I had placed next to his bed had not been touched.
I did not try to stir him. I simply said, ‘Trusty’s not at the kennels. If any basset hound turns up, they’ll let us know.’ He did not respond. I stood there for a moment. ‘Here,’ I said, putting that morning’s issue of the Crier next to his bed. ‘When you get up, you may want to take a look at page three. You’ll be in for a nice surprise.’
He rolled over on to his other shoulder, turning his back to me.
I took a seat on a chair cushioned with dirty clothes and began to smoke a cigarette. I became more insistent. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you can’t just lie here all day. It’s twelve-thirty. Please, Pa, get up. Please.’ More silence. I gave up. I had to go. I was meeting Angela at one. ‘I’ll be back tonight,’ I said. ‘OK?’
I went to the bathroom, rinsed my mouth with toothpaste and checked myself in the mirror: clean-shaven, wearing the black crew-neck which she had bought me as a birthday present, and jeans. Not too bad – but then not too great either, with the slightly overlong nose and colourless skin of the Breezes.
I caught the bus to the city centre.
It took me a couple of attempts to find the discreet entry to Angela’s gym, which was hidden in the basement of an office block occupied by an insurance company. I went down the stairs and stood uncertainly in the lobby, a light-filled, cream-carpeted space where tropical trees sprang vigorously from barrels of earth and green murals depicted shoals of fish. Symbols on the wall pointed towards a restaurant/bar, a swimming pool, a sauna and rooms for aerobics, weights and changing clothes. I approached the receptionist, a young woman dressed like a banker, and stated the purpose of my visit. She responded by producing a bright yellow visitor’s badge and pinning it to my chest. ‘I suggest that you wait in the bar,’ she said, turning towards another arrival.
I followed the signs, going past glass-walled exercise rooms where perspiring professionals ran, rowed and cycled while they gazed at televisions hanging from the ceiling. I had just caught sight of the restaurant entrance when to my left I noticed a young woman with red boxing gloves attacking the pads held up by a fitness instructor. It was Angela, her long neck glistening beneath the dark rope of her hair.
She was wearing dark blue Adidas cycling shorts and a white T-shirt which adhered to her damp compacted breasts, the nipples plainly visible. The instructor, his body a pure aggregate of muscle, loomed enormously over her. Give me three, I could hear him say, now give me three more, and she reacted automatically to his commands, hitting the pads with a grimace of determination. Jab, jab, jab, the instructor shouted, and again she obeyed, her slender arms shuddering as they uncoiled towards him.
On she went, oblivious of my presence on the other side of the glass, now launching a combination of uppercuts, now holding up her hands and simply moving her feet. Keep moving, shouted the trainer, keep that head down. Angela threw more punches, a series of hooks this time, and then more still. She began to grunt with the effort, grunting every time she threw a punch: uh, thud, uh, thud, uh, thud.
I felt myself physically weakening. I had no idea that she boxed.
OK, that’s three minutes, the instructor said, unlacing her gloves. Let’s warm down.
He pulled out a mat and they lay down on their backs alongside each other, their legs slowly flexing in unison. Then he got up, and while Angela stayed on her back and continued with leg exercises, he began firmly massaging her temples and her scalp, her head disappearing into his huge hands.
I couldn’t watch any longer. I went to the bar and bought myself a bottle of beer.
She came in five minutes later fully dressed, washed hair pulled tightly back from her face, cheeks flushed. She looked beautiful and strange. ‘Darling,’ she said, and she kissed me, and I smelled the smell she has.
We sat down at a table next to the windows that gave on to an interior courtyard with a pool and ferns. ‘I’m starving,’ Angela said. ‘Let’s order straight away.’
I looked at the menu: expensive. A tenner for a grilled chicken sandwich. And that was the cheapest item.
Angela said, ‘Don’t worry, have what you want. This is on me.’
‘Why? Have you had another pay rise?’ I asked ironically.
She looked coyly at her menu.
I said, ‘You haven’t really, have you?’
‘Well, yes, I have,’ she admitted, smiling shyly.
‘Well? What are you on?’
‘Johnny, that’s embarrassing.’
‘Embarrassing? This is me you’re talking to, remember.’ I waited for a reply. ‘So?’
She hesitated, then looked at me. Her eyes were still that deep, dark blue. ‘Sixty,’ she said.
That was almost twice what Pa made – had made. That was almost ten times what I could hope to scratch together in a year.
I kept cool. ‘They’ve doubled your salary,’ I said. ‘Nice one.’ I reached for my cigarettes.
‘You can’t smoke here, Johnny. It’s a health club. I’m sorry, I should have told you.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. I glanced around the room. I was the only man who didn’t have freshly combed wet hair and who wasn’t wearing a suit.
The food arrived. I ordered another bottle of beer.
We started eating. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve done this,’ I said. ‘I hardly know what to say.’
‘I know, Johnny, I’m sorry.’ Angela said, ‘I’ve missed you, you know. You’re looking very handsome.’
I said, ‘I was so worried on Sunday night, I was so worried that something had happened.’ I touched her leg with mine. ‘Things haven’t been easy,’ I said. ‘We’ve had some bad news. Pa’s been fired.’
She looked at me, clearly upset. ‘I know, it’s terrible,’ I said. I sighed. ‘He’s not taking it well, you know. It’s knocked the stuffing out of him.’
‘Johnny,’ Angela said. ‘Johnny, I …’ She reached across the table and took my hands in hers.
A bleeping noise suddenly emanated from under the table. Angela reached down and retrieved a mobile telephone from her briefcase. She spoke briefly with the caller, then said, ‘I have to go, my love.’ She rose to her feet.
I said, ‘But we haven’t finished our food.’
I stood up and followed her to the till. Once outside in the sunshine, we kissed, and it was wonderful to feel her ribcage pressed against mine and her moist, giving mouth. I held her by the waist and said, ‘We’re all right, aren’t we?’ She blinked affirmatively. ‘When are we seeing each other again? Does it have to be Monday? Can’t it be sooner?’
‘I’m supposed to be in Waterville for the rest of the week,’ she said. ‘But I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you, darling.’
I walked her back to her office and watched her disappear through the massive revolving door. I caught a bus home, feeling a little better about things. Then I thought, how come she never told me she had a mobile phone? Why don’t I have the number?
I became aware of a needling pain behind my right eyeball.
The bus reached my stop. I alighted and walked heavily home. Peace and quiet. That was what I needed now. Rest.
Rosie was back. She was sitting in the squalor, smoking a cigarette. She had kicked off her shoes but, this detail apart, she was in full uniform – hat, scarf and all. Steve was in the kitchen.
I remained standing on the threshold of the sitting-room. I toed aside some pieces of smashed crockery. ‘Well?’ I said. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ I kicked at a paperback, sending it fluttering against the wall.
‘I’ll clear it up,’ Rosie said flatly. She switched on the television and stared intently at the images of an afternoon game show.
‘Well, just do it soon,’ I said. I made sure, by the tone of my voice, that she understood that I was serious.
At this point, a choice of action presented itself. I could either go to my bedroom and slam the door behind me in my displeasure; or, having said my piece, I could be amicable and try to foster an atmosphere of goodwill, love and harmony – what is sometimes known as a family atmosphere. I had a headache. I chose concord.
‘So, what’s new?’ I said.
Rosie changed channels with a jab of her thumb.
I restrained myself by walking through to the kitchen. ‘How’s our hero?’ I said, switching on the kettle.
‘OK,’ Steve replied, mumbling. He pointed questioningly to his mouth, which was full of cheese and bread.
‘That’s OK,’ I said, ‘help yourself.’ I opened the refrigerator. A segment of beef tomato, raspberry jam, margarine. No milk. I rose tiredly. Steve yes, milk no. In the chaos of the universe, certain things remained fixed.
I abandoned any thought of making myself a coffee and a sandwich and headed for my room. Just as I was about to exit, I turned and said to Rosie, who had not moved from her seat, ‘So when are you going to start? Are you just going to sit there while the rest of us have to put up with this –’ I shouted the word – ‘this shit?’ I scooped up half of a plate with my foot and with a swing of the leg sent it flying against the wall, where it broke into still smaller pieces. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’ I shouted.
Rosie stood up. ‘How dare you? I clean this place up every time I come home. You and him just sit here all day doing nothing. I’m always clearing up after you, always.’ Her voice grew high-pitched. ‘You should be clearing this up, it’s about bloody time that you did something for me for a change.’
I was not going to take this. I picked up a hard green apple from the fruitbowl and hurled it as hard as I could two feet or so wide of her head at the far wall. With a splat, half of the apple disintegrated, leaving a wet patch and debris on the wallpaper. Steve took cover behind the opened door of the fridge. ‘Do you think you can fuck up the whole flat and expect us to say nothing about it? You fucking terrorize us with your fucking moods, you smash up these plates given to the both of us by Pa, plates which I fucking own, and you don’t give a shit! You just do it without a fucking thought for anyone else! Well, here,’ I shouted, grabbing a framed photograph belonging to her which had remained on the bookcase, ‘here, I don’t give a shit either.’ I stamped repeatedly on the photograph, pulverizing the glass and wrecking the snapshot of a suntanned Rosie on holiday in Spain.
‘Stop it,’ she said, ‘stop it, Johnny.’
I kicked the photograph aside. I was close to tears myself. I said, ‘Rosie, this is the kind of crap which you put us through the whole time. Look, just look at what you’ve done: you’ve completely wrecked the flat! I mean, are you crazy or what? Maybe you should see a doctor, I don’t know. Do you think this is normal? What’s the matter with you?’ There was a quaver in my voice. Rosie was hunched forward on the edge of the sofa, sniffing and pointing her face at her toes. Had her hair been long it would have fallen before her face, but now that hiding-place was gone. ‘You can’t go on like this,’ I continued, speaking more gently. ‘You’ve got to start giving some thought to what other people are going through. You’re not the only one with problems. Everybody’s got problems. Look at Pa: did you know that he’s been fired?’ Rosie stiffened. ‘That’s right, Pa’s been fired,’ I said. ‘At this moment he’s lying in bed with the curtains drawn, and you don’t even know about it.’ My voice was hoarse. ‘Oh, yes; and Merv Rasmussen has died.’
I went to my room and dropped face-down on the bed.
That was at four in the afternoon. When I awoke, still in my clothes, it was seven in the evening and the window was a faint pink rectangle. My headache had gone and the house was quiet. I moved slightly, turned the pillow over to its cool side and closed my eyes again.
The telephone began ringing. I tensed. I was not going to answer it because it had to be Devonshire. I could picture him at the other end of the line, the brutal contours of the blazer, the fury mounting each time a bleep of the call went unanswered by me, a pipsqueak whom he had done such a great favour.
Nobody picked up the phone. The ringing stopped as the answering machine was activated. I got out of bed and went to play the message. ‘This is Whelan,’ the voice said, ‘of Whelan Lock & Key. I’m ringing to say that I can come round this Saturday, if you like. Thank you.’
A shriek of laughter came from Rosie’s room. The door crashed open and my sister stumbled out, still laughing dementedly. A rolled-up sock flew at her from the bedroom, flung by her boyfriend in a parody of violence. Rosie was clutching a copy of the Crier and pointing convulsively at the photograph of Steve. Unbalanced in her merriment, she plunged on to the sofa and smothered her gleeful screams into the cushions. I started grinning, too, because Rosie’s laughter is air scooped from the lungs and expelled in the purest, most infectious note of hilarity, and also because the sight of her animated is always in itself a relief and a joy.
‘Look,’ she said, her eyes wet, ‘look.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I thought you knew. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
She could barely speak. ‘Man of the Month,’ she whispered, shuddering with mirth, ‘Man of the Month.’
Steve came in, tucking his shirt into his trousers and sheepishly smiling. Rosie pointed at him, uttered the words ‘Man of the Month’, and started shrieking all over again. Her haircut wasn’t bad at all, I thought, once you got used to it.
‘Get me the phone, my hero,’ she said to Steve, who complied. Still chortling, Rosie ordered a pizza supreme and six beers for delivery. ‘My warrior,’ she said, handing him back the telephone. ‘We’re going to celebrate the fame which you have brought to this house. Now get me the duvet,’ she ordered, ‘and bring me the TV guide.’ Steve obeyed, and the two of them settled down on the sofa face to face, their legs interlocked beneath the quilt.
The room, already oppressive in its disarray, shrank with their happiness. I put on my jacket. ‘I’m going to Pa’s,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds to get on with it.’
‘I’ll call him tomorrow,’ Rosie said. ‘I promise. I’m just not up to it now. I’ll call him first thing.’