Excerpts
Animal Rescue
Lifting her net curtains, Monica watched the weasly man struggling all alone to unload a battered Bedford van. A tatty sofa, an IKEA chest of drawers, a few boxes. Monica had hoped that once the Wilsons left, with their tribe of dirty offspring, the new owner of number 5 Woodland Close would be an improvement. He didn’t look too hopeful. He had shocking taste in footwear and – she was horrified to discover – a dog.
The dog barked. The man looked around and caught her eye. He waved. She attempted a wave back but it came out like a half-hearted Hitler-salute. Still, she didn’t particularly want to encourage him and his smelly mutt. But she would take round a cake later. She’d been baking all morning. It would be a neighbourly gesture. Set the tone of the Close. Monica knocked on the door. There was a crash followed by a tirade of barking.
‘That’s enough, Rudy!’ It was a substantial voice for one with such a measly frame. It surprised her. She hovered on the doorstep, wondering whether to sneak back quickly across the Close and into the safety of her house. But it was too late. The door swung open and revealed her new neighbour. The shoes were even worse close to. She forced her gaze away from them and up towards his face. Unshaven and creased.
‘Sorry about that.’ She watched his lips as they moved, out of sync with his words, like the dubbing on those black and white French programmes she used to watch as a girl in the long summer holidays.
‘He’s a bit unsettled, you know, the move.’ He patted the dog with his bear-like hands, far too big for his body. The dog growled, slightly, to prove his owner’s point.
‘I brought you a cake,’ Monica announced, just as she’d rehearsed, ignoring the beast who was sniffing her shoes. ‘I live at number 4.’ ‘I know,’ said the man. ‘I saw you earlier.’ She felt herself blushing. ‘I’m Colin, by the way,’ he added. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She was on the verge of accepting – she had no idea why – when she caught sight of Rudy defecating on the Wilson’s old kitchen lino and had second thoughts. Colin was blushing now too. ‘He’s a bit traumatised. I’ll give him some valium.
’ Monica should have left then, but manners stopped her and she accepted the invitation. She drank the tea so fast it burnt the inside of her mouth. Then she made her excuses and scuttled back home. Valium. The doctor had prescribed Monica valium a year ago, when Graham went off with the tart from the dry cleaners. She’d resisted at first, till her mother came to stay. A whole fortnight. Now she couldn’t manage without it.
She stood at her kitchen door and swallowed one with her daily glass of sherry. She looked out at the back garden. It was a mess. Once, in another lifetime, it had colour-coordinated flower beds. And an alpine rockery. Now it looked like the gypsy encampment off the A38. ‘Travellers’, you were supposed to call them. Not that they travelled anywhere despite the plethora o f buses at their disposal. She wouldn’t be surprised to see one – with tie-dyed sarongs in the windows – appear in her garden. A whole family of drop-outs hunting and gathering in her wilderness. There were enough squirrels to keep them going. Rats with bushy tails.
Monica took another valium and contemplated more baking. So far she’d made a Victoria sandwich, a fruit cake and a date and walnut. She’d given that to Colin. Not one of her best. She’d run out of walnuts so she’d used peanuts instead. Graham had kept them for the birds. She didn’t want birds in her garden, waking her up in the early hours. Even the valium wouldn’t let her sleep properly.
She popped another one in. And another. She considered putting her feet up for a minute and watching television. How decadent. The evening news hadn’t even come on yet. Her mother would have something to say about that. But then Monica remembered she hadn’t paid her TV licence. She lay down on the kitchen floor instead. It used to smell of pine forests. Now it smelt like the droppings at the bottom of a birdcage. She swallowed another pill.
Graham had laid this floor. The very best slate tiles from Fired Earth. He’d been a perfectionist. She’d watched him grouting and sealing and loved him. But the tart was more perfect than she was. Younger. Slimmer. With her own house that Graham had moved into, taking only the clothes he was wearing. And his razor. Perhaps he was worried she’d do herself in, at a loss how to live without him.
The floor was all hers now. It was all she had. She popped another pill. Monica heard a snuffling noise. Who was there? Was it the gypsies? Had Graham come to his senses and crawled back home? She felt hot breath on her face … the smell of old bone …Colin’s mangy dog ... He’d better not defecate on her floor ... Her beautiful, expensive, lovingly laid and perfectly grouted floor ... If she had the energy she’d sit up and shoo it off ... She’d never liked animals ... Unhygienic and unpredictable ... She looked at Rudy, eye to eye ... He’d laid himself down next to her and was making a whimpering sound ... She felt dog breath wash over her ... Warm and yeasty ... Like the bread her grandmother used to bake ... She reached out to touch the dark red fur ... Soft and comfortable ... She remembered the teddy she had long ago, in yet another lifetime.
The dog seemed to have gone now. Perhaps she had dreamt it. Monica woke up with a ragged throat and a rattling head. She wondered if she’d been mauled by the dog. ‘No,’ said Colin. ‘Rudy saved your life. It seems you’d overdone the old valium.’ She looked at Colin, sitting by the bed – a hospital bed with crisp white sheets and a cosy blanket – and felt an inexplicable euphoria that he wasn’t her mother. Or Graham. ‘Did you like the cake?’ she croaked. ‘Delicious,’ Colin lied. ‘You must come to dinner.’ ‘Great.’ He shuffled his shoes that didn’t look so bad now. ‘Everybody needs good neighbours.’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed. Then she added something she didn’t expect to say: ‘Do you know how to lay floor tiles?’ Colin looked surprised, unsure how to respond to her in case he gave the wrong answer. In case this was a test. It didn’t matter anyway whether he could wield a grouter or not. When she got home, she’d dig out the sledgehammer from the shed and smash them up, the tiles, one by one, into broken jagged pieces and then she’d deliver them – possibly in Colin’s battered Bedford van – to the tart’s house and leave them there as an offering on her perfect front lawn.
‘How’s Rudy?’ she asked, remembering her manners. Her mother would be proud. ‘I’ve got him off the valium,’ Colin said. ‘So he’s a bit dippy. But I reckon it’s better that way.’ ‘Yes,’ Monica agreed. ‘Much better.’ She lay back against the cool pillow and thought about her kitchen floor. She’d get some of that cheap vinyl stuff and do iit herself. That way, Rudy could defecate to his heart’s content when Colin came over for dinner. Yes, she thought. That would do nicely.
