New World in the Morning (8 page)

What was ironic was that it was immediately followed by another that could easily have provoked a few nods in my direction…although, obviously, not with the smiles.

Don't Fence Me In
.

9

We returned home at roughly ten. At roughly eleven I took Susie on her evening walk. “Is it necessary?” asked Junie. “She's been charging around so much I would have thought she was exhausted.”

“But, darling, she was shut up for over an hour this afternoon, and, hearing all the screams and laughter, must have thought,
What on earth have I done?
And, anyway, just look at her!”

Susie had gone to the front door and was gazing back with soulful trustingness in the integrity of man—and with a tail that wagged in tentative anticipation.

Added to which, I myself was fancying a stroll: a short time in which to ponder without interruption, to plan, to dream, take stock…or simply be. I often meant to do all this in bed but either fell asleep or was distracted by Junie's frequent resettlings or—sometimes—gentle snoring.

“Ah, Suze,” I said. “
I
know your evening walk is one of the few simple pleasures you can really count on. How could your mistress be so rotten as to want to deprive you of it?”

“Oh, Susie. Is that what I was wanting? To deprive you of one of the few simple pleasures you can really count on? Then isn't it a good thing
somebody
here has a heart?” To me she said: “But you won't be going far?”

“No, only round the block. Won't even take the lead.”

In fact I'd been considering returning to the beach, to sanctify my day with a tranquil half-hour listening to the ebb and flow of the ocean. But the beach was too far. So now I chose to wander through the back streets. At this time on a Sunday these were wholly deserted, their houses all in darkness. But at least I could smell the sea. And I loved that smell. I'd always been a son of Neptune, even before I'd been a son of Richard Widmark. The sea had made the setting for some of my greatest exploits, both actual and imaginary, but sometimes I'd felt I should simply like to swim out as far as I could, mile after mile after mile—sun-dappled and serene—until either my strength gave out or else I finally walked ashore, all glorious and shining, with muscles now pleasantly tired, onto some lush tropical island with silvery sands, exotic fruits and Gauguin's available maidens. The sea was purifying; it was a transmuter of base metals. It seemed eminently right that beside the sea, and underneath the stars, I should have been brought face-to-face again with love.

The car came quickly and it didn't stop.

For a second I couldn't adjust. One moment I was attending some glamorous cocktail function with Moira, being introduced to many of her sophisticated friends, arousing wonderment and envy. The next, I was staring down at Susie's bloody and broken body. Separating the two had been the heart-stopping thud of impact…and then the bastard's tail lights were already burning into the distance.

Yet she was still alive. The whimpering and the slavering and the frenzied breathing, the bared teeth and the smell of panic, all testified to that. I knelt beside her and laid my hand on her head and spoke her name softly and repeatedly, whilst trying to work out what I should do. And she gradually gave over snarling and attempting to struggle up.

I knew that the vet lived on the seafront, in a flat over his surgery. We were halfway there and I thought it would be better to carry Susie straight to Mr Dodd than carry her back to the house—also quicker and less frustrating than my trying to get a lift. No lights had been switched on; no windows had been thrown open. Everything remained as silent as before…almost …the only difference being a crying baby and a whimpering dog. Nobody had come to his front door.

I would have come to my front door.

So would Junie, Ella, Matt and nearly everyone I knew. They would all have come to their front door.

I felt an urge to stand there and throw back my head and howl. Howl until the incident was marked, its inhumanity acknowledged, in some way shared in.

But that wasn't going to happen.

“Okay, Suze. Easy does it, you mustn't be afraid! You're going to be all right.”

Okay, Suze, easy does it, you're going to be all right.
For the next ten minutes this was the refrain running through everything I said. I felt it mattered she should hear my voice. “You're going to be all right, Suze. Mr Dodd will take away your pain. You're going to be all right. As good as new! Oh, dear God! Dear God!”

Yet that was dishonest. I had nothing but scorn for anyone who, at moments of stress, turned to a god he otherwise disregarded. God played no part in my own world. I didn't need him. I wasn't the type to lean; I was the type to be leant upon. “You—are—going—to—be—all—right—Susie. Do you hear me?”

She was still conscious but a dead weight and my arms were aching long before we reached the vet's. She smelled dreadful. She was dribbling copiously onto one of my cable-stitch sleeves and there was blood and heaven knew what else across my chest and stomach. I saw scarcely anyone. I passed the ice-cream parlour we had passed the night before but now it gave the impression of still being shut for winter. It was odd to think that only a little over twenty-four hours ago we'd all been drinking inside
The Lord Nelson
—Susie making up to Moira and Liz, rather than bothering with myself.

To my relief there was a light in one of the windows above the surgery; it showed pinkly through thin curtains. Not that it would have made any difference if there hadn't been.

Mr Dodd looked like a young man out of an American soap. He had striking if somewhat vacuous good looks and thick blond hair combed back into a peak. But then you noticed the skin at his throat: not baggy so much as crumpled and crisscrossed and crêpey: and later on you learned he was a grandfather and you set him down as one of the creepiest people you had ever met.

(Superman, I can assure you, Matt, could never hold a candle to Mr Dodd!)

But when he came to the door he instantly took in the situation and opened up without the least sign of reluctance. While I held Susie down and did my best to look away from everything the harsh surgery light was so cruelly exposing he conducted a lengthy examination, having first administered a pain-dulling injection.

In an attempt to distract myself, I wondered why Mr Dodd, if you saw him about during the milder months, invariably wore an open-neck shirt, with nothing visible beneath, when possibly—with a skilfully arranged cravat or some high rolled-over collar—he could have gone on looking thirty-five forever. It was perplexing. Did he suffer, then, from a blind spot…or was it more from that self-destructive urge we're all supposed to have, but which, speaking for myself, I could never properly recognize? ‘O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion.' (Another four lines I could have quoted happily to Jake, and might well have done, had Mr Dodd been present.)

Yet the poor man was always thoroughly agreeable; besides being a first-class vet. And at present my mind couldn't dwell for long on quirks of personality or appearance.

“I'm afraid she's very badly hurt,” he announced at last.

“Well, I can see that!” I said. “But she'll be all right, won't she? She
is
going to pull through?”

“It's not these gashes on the body we need worry about. It's the damage to her head.”

“Concussion—right? But concussion heals with time.”

“Unfortunately, it's more than that, Mr Groves. I'm sad to have to say it—”

“No,” I cut in.

“But I truly feel—”

“No,” I repeated, “
I am not going to have my dog put down
!”

“But I don't believe she can make a full recovery. I am sorry. I appreciate what you're going through—”

“No!” I said.

The sound of my tone. The set of my features. Obdurate like Matt.

“Very well, then.” Without a shrug he still conveyed the impression of one. “In that case, I'll now give her something to help her sleep until morning.”

“Don't you see? We love her. My wife…my children… It wouldn't be like home without her.”

“Of course. I understand that. Yet I still think that when you've had a chance to reconsider… I know none of you would wish to condemn her to a life of—a life of—”

“But how can you be sure?
Can
you be so sure…?”

“Short of a miracle,” he answered. “Yes.”

I paused.

“All right, if that's the way it is,” I told him, heavily, “then there's nothing else for it, is there? We'll just have to hope for a miracle.”

He drove us home; assured me with an air of concern that he would come to look at Susie in the morning.

Burrowed in the pocket of my jeans, opened the front door for me. Then departed.

“Samuel—is that you? Do you realize you've been gone an hour? Over an hour? I've been getting so worried. So cross. You said ten minutes! I'm almost coming to believe I can't trust you any longer.”

I called back up the stairs. In other circumstances I'd have found it satisfying, my being able to vindicate myself so fully. Even now there was a sneaking sense of righteousness. Junie was still pulling on her dressing gown as she came running after me into the kitchen. Her hand was on my shoulder, squeezing in mute apology, while I settled Susie into her basket. At the same time I added all the salient details. “I think I may sit up with her,” I said.

“But, darling, there's no point. Not if Mr Dodd's sedated her and told you it'll last all night.”

I allowed her finally to lead me up to bed.

“We mustn't let her die,” I said, in a voice that seemed treacherously to quaver. “It wouldn't be right, she's had barely half her life…” I was aware how inadequate this sounded but I was now having actually to hold back tears and I had a strong feeling that if after so many years of hard-won self-respect I were suddenly to start blubbering I might not find it easy to stop. That would scarcely be helpful right now; and, more to the point, could insidiously spoil something we had all come to value. Once there had been a first time of showing weakness, who could say there wouldn't be a second?

“I promise you,” answered Junie, “we'll do our very best to save her. But, love, do try to keep your voice down! It's far better the children shouldn't hear us.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose it's a minor miracle that
I
didn't wake them!”

There! That word again! It struck me as auspicious. And at the top of the stairs there was a horseshoe hanging on the wall. I brushed my hand against it as we passed.

Come on, I thought.
Be positive
!
Broad-shouldered
!
Unbeatable
! This was the sort of thing I always said to myself when going through a depression; or, anyhow, beginning to come out of one. And there were plenty of other situations in which it was equally apposite. Of course there were. I turned and gave her a ferocious hug.

“Darling, it's going to be all right, don't worry,” I said. “Yes, all of it! I love you, Junie Moon.”

10

And I slept well. I awoke at half-past-six feeling refreshed and practically as optimistic as on the day before. Drew back the curtains to discover another bright sky, then immediately ran downstairs to take a look at Susie. She appeared inert but her breathing was less laboured. She really was on the road to recovery. I squatted and stroked and spoke to her as normal because although I naturally expected no reaction it would have seemed like betraying a trust if I hadn't, and of course I hoped some emanation from my words and actions might be reaching her. I carried on our conversation as I filled the kettle. I doused my face in cold water. Then, buoyantly impulsive, I walked into the garden and had a long pee on the grass. It was the first time I'd ever done this and it made me feel romantically close to nature, standing there erect and naked in the early morning sun and watching my urine arch like a fountain from some Greek or Roman statue, shoot up prismatically before it frothed among the daisies; and if anyone in either of the next-door houses had happened to be looking from an upper window…well, just too bad. Or just too good: let them, for once, set eyes upon a real man. Waiting for the kettle to whistle I meandered round the garden; savouring the dew beneath my feet and the air between my loins. I did a few physical jerks, defiantly facing those same neighbouring windows: toe-touching, running on the spot, swivelling at the waist—with legs apart and arms in line with shoulders. I'd have done more but then the whistling came. I made the tea, put a couple of Petit Beurre on each of our saucers, was careful not to slop as I returned upstairs, and, having wiped my soles on the carpet, got exuberantly back into bed. I hadn't bothered to take anything to the children; it wasn't yet seven. As usual, Junie only properly came to whilst drinking her tea but even so she'd instantly asked about Susie and been relieved by what I'd told her. I fetched us both refills, despite not really wanting mine nor drinking more than half, made love to her (“What, first thing on a Monday morning!” she'd exclaimed, laughing)—
and
to a count of eight hundred and seventeen—then went to shave and have my bath. A perfect start to a second, potentially, perfect day…although, obviously, blocking out that bloody motorist and the effect of his swift uncaring passage through our lives. I wondered if he were feeling any remorse.

Yes, it had to be a ‘he'. I found it impossible to believe that a woman wouldn't have stopped.

Reclining in my bath I thought about the possible openings to today's entry.
This morning I peed naked in the back garden and frightened the horseflies
…? No. Perhaps not.