“Thought you weren’t coming back,” said Crackle, when Christopher wheeled Stof me up to the table where he and a white-faced girl were sitting crouched over an ashtray. He unfastened the dog’s lead from the handle of the pushchair.
“What’s she wearing?” said the girl, accusingly, looking at the snowsuit.
“It’s only second-hand,” said Christopher. Storme drummed her feet in their new boots against the footrest of the pushchair. She looked up at her mother.
“The boots are new,” Christopher said.
“She’s got shoes, and a coat at home,” said Tamara defensively.
She’s done everything she can to make herself unattractive, repulsive even, thought Christopher, looking at Tamara’s spiky black crew cut. There was a ring in her left nostril, another pierced her thin upper lip. Her eyes were lined, Cleopatra-like, in black paint. She wore an outsize black baggy sweater that came down to her knees, black jeans and brown boots that looked ridiculously big for her. Like Crackle she wore a ring on each finger. Christopher noticed with distaste that Crackle and Tamara’s rings were identical.
“I’d give owt for a dog like that,” said Crackle. “What do you think, Tam?”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” said Tamara.
“I might buy you one for Christmas,” said Crackle, “play your cards right.”
“No,” said Tamara. “I want a rottie—the devil’s dog.”
Her little girl’s voice was at odds with the things she was saying.
“No, you can’t keep a rottie in a flat,” said Crackle.
She whined, “I know lots of people who’ve got them in flats.”
“Rottweilers need a lot of exercise,” said Christopher. He didn’t want them to get a Rottweiler, or any kind of dog.
Christopher crouched down in front of Storme.
“Goodbye then, Storme,” he said.
Storme pulled on the toes of her red boots.
“Boots, yes,” said Christopher. He called the dog and left the café without looking back at her. He wanted to care for Storme always. To feed her, and keep her close, and teach her things.
As he walked away from the city he pointed out to the dog that the snow was melting and that the gutters were full of water. People passed him on the pavement, but nobody seemed to think him peculiar for talking to his dog. Before he turned into the Close where he lived he told the dog that he would find a way of caring for Storme; ‘putting colour in her cheeks’, he said.
He had grown up with cinema advertisements featuring children with plump red cheeks and fitted coats with velvet Peter Pan collars. He imagined Storme aged three, running towards him wearing such a coat. The picture was so vivid that he could see the rows of stitching on the collar and the white socks and patent leather Start-Rite shoes with a silver buckle she wore. The ribbon in her hair was red, made of taffeta. He would make sure that she always wore proper-fitting shoes, and that she went to the dentist every six months. She would have ballet lessons and a library ticket, and she would live in the country where it was safe. Her toenails would be cut straight across with scissors bought especially for the task. He would read her bedtime stories, Winnie the Pooh and The Little Prince, and protect her from the violence and anxieties of the television news. She would sleep in clean sheets, in a warm room with sufficient ventilation. There would be an alphabet frieze running around her room, so that she could lie in her little bed and learn her letters in dreamy comfort. There would be a brown egg at breakfast, and yellow butter and bread cut with a knife. There would be a tablecloth and a wooden chair with a cushion so that she could reach the table. There would be hollyhocks in the garden. He would give her a small watering can. In the winter he would roast chestnuts for her on the log fire and teach her the old nursery rhymes. He would cherish her and keep her in this fictitious childhood world until she was grown, and only then would he let her go.