on earth are you talking about? I don’t want a dog.’ I looked at Bob, still sitting by the fireplace. She was a mongrel, coloured like an Alsatian but smaller, like a Collie. Not unattractive, as dogs go, but I’ve never been keen on them. Too dim and needy.
‘I tried to talk to you about it the other day. My friend Fix – Felicity – is having a bit of trouble at the moment and has to go away, but she needs someone to look after her dog.’
‘Can’t it go to a kennel?’
Angela sighed. ‘No. Bob needs looking after for a few months, maybe a bit longer, I’m not sure—’
‘A few months?’ I gripped the back of Leo’s armchair.
‘Like I said, she’s got some problems right now.’
‘Then she should find Bob a new permanent home.’
‘You don’t understand!’ Angela shot out, sitting down on the sofa uninvited. ‘She loves Bob, she doesn’t want to give her away, but she has to. She’s leaving her husband.’
‘Well, can’t the husband take her?’
‘No. He’s … not good news. That’s why she’s leaving. She’s got children. They need to get away. She needs to get herself sorted out. But she can’t take the dog. For now. So I thought …’ She tailed off and looked at me expectantly.
‘I’m very sorry for your friend, but I couldn’t possibly look after her dog.’
‘Why not?’
‘What?’
‘Why couldn’t you look after a dog?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve got a big house, a garden, you’re always walking in the park. What’s more, you’re lonely. Sylvie saw it straight away. We think a dog could be just what you need.’
‘How dare you?’ I couldn’t bear that they had discussed me, the sad lonely old lady; a charity case for them to take on. Was my need so obvious? How pathetic they must think me, wandering round the park hoping to bump into someone. The gush of embarrassment and shame hit, flooding my face, and I looked down at the floor to hide my scarlet cheeks.
But Angela pressed on, oblivious. ‘I could help you walk her. Otis loves dogs, he could come round and visit. And it’s only ’til Fix is on her feet again. Please. Please.’
I’d so hoped someone would visit me today and bring me something, but this was not what I’d imagined. Today of all days, barging into my house to insult me and suggest that the answer to my troubles was some homeless mutt? I kept my eyes down, unsure if it was anger or humiliation causing them to brim.
‘Why can’t you take her, if you’re so desperate? You love dogs, Otis loves dogs.’
Angela sighed. ‘Because my landlord won’t let me. I already asked him. I ask him every time I renew my contract. He won’t budge. But I’ll help, I promise. I could buy the dog food, I could pay the vet’s bills, whatever you want.’
I bit my lip, and with an effort met her gaze. ‘I’m sorry but the answer’s no. I don’t want a dog.’
Bob gave a huge yawn, trotted over to Angela, bounded onto the sofa and curled up alongside her, whereupon she serenely proceeded to lick her own genitals.
Angela gave a tearful laugh. ‘There’s dogs for you, always inappropriate, just like me. I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea.’ She clipped Bob back onto the lead and heaved her off the sofa.
‘What will you do?’ I asked, as I led her back to the front door. I’d absolved myself of responsibility, but not of guilt, which was now beginning to chafe.
‘I don’t know. Ask around the park, I suppose, maybe someone can take her. If not then it’ll have to be the dog’s home.’ She leant forward and kissed Bob on the snout. ‘She can stay with me for a few more days at least. My wanker of a landlord won’t know.’
Angela went out into the darkness, Bob at her clinking heels, and I closed the door and turned back to my empty, echoing house to finish my special day.
I spent what was left of the evening polishing off the rest of a bottle of wine. What would I want with a dog, for goodness’ sake? I didn’t like them, was far too old, there was no sense in getting involved in a domestic drama like that. No sense at all. Dogs were smelly, stupid creatures, always bounding off to sniff disgusting things. There was literally nothing to recommend them. I remembered Angela and Sylvie’s brutal analysis: lonely. A sad, pathetic, old woman, who should be grateful for a mangy old mutt’s company. How utterly mortifying. I drained my glass and smacked it down on the kitchen table, then moved it to wipe away the sticky rings. Lonely. I swabbed feverishly until it was clear.
Later, I went around the house turning off lights and checking doors, still thinking about this Fix, and her children. I wondered where they were, what exactly the husband had done, whether they were missing Bob. Arthur wanted a dog. He often talked about it, and Alistair always said, ‘next year.’ Quite right, a dog was a huge responsibility, not to be taken lightly.
We had a dog once, when I was very tiny. A black Labrador called Jonas. My mother adored him and would hoot when Henry dressed him up. One of my earliest memories was of us putting her wedding veil on him and her laughing. He just sat there and let it happen. When the war began he had to be put down. I didn’t know that until much later, but vaguely recall my mother sobbing as he was taken away. He wouldn’t have known a thing, of course – just let it happen like he did with the veil. I was too young to be upset, but I remember my mother’s stricken face for months afterwards. She once told me that she never got over it, that the death of her own father wasn’t as bad as that day.
‘It’s for the best,’ I said to myself firmly as I looked in the cupboards and under the bed. And then, once I was in it, hunched against the cold, into the darkness and silence: ‘Happy birthday, Missy.’
That night I dreamt about Jonas, this time an unwilling lamb to slaughter. He was bundled into a van, scrabbling and howling for my mother, her screams mingling with his barks, then an incessant scratching as his claws scraped against the door. I had to get him out. Pounding against it, my hands a bloody mess as I slapped and thumped. And then giving up, sliding down it, my back to the cold metal as I listened to Jonas on the inside, still scrabbling. Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Then a click and a thud. And then I was awake and my house was being burgled.
The noises took a while to process, in the haze of sleep and residue from the dream. It was hard to work out what was real, and even harder to acknowledge it. The quiet scraping, the dull thumps and fumbles; every sound made my whole body throb with horror. What could I do but let it happen? A defenceless seventy-eight – no, seventy-nine-year-old woman, alone in a huge house at two o’clock in the morning? I lay there, bound to the bed in my terror, listening to them moving quietly through the rooms downstairs, then started praying to a God I didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t come up. What would I do if they did? I had to let them get on with it, because the alternative was unthinkable.
I heard them creeping up the stairs – there were at least two of them – and closed my eyes tightly, grateful that the curtains were closed so it
