Had I begun to vex my own husband?
For eight years, everything in our marriage was rather quite agreeable, but in the ninth, it seemed Richard grew positively irritated by everythingchiefly, it must be said, by me.
Hed return home late, rarely offering more than a grunt over supper, before disappearing behind his laptop to play war games into the early hours. If ever his eyes met mine, it was with the expression of someone enduring a dreadful toothache from head to toe. More often, hed dryly inform me hed be spending the night at his mothers.
One evening, quite undone, I rang his mother.
Mrs. Pritchard, is Richard with you by any chance?
In her honeyed tone, she replied, A good wife, Alice dear, always knows where her husband is.
I even bought a book entitled How to Keep Your Husband, and for some reason, explained to the cashier it was for a friend. The young woman regarded me with barely disguised pity.
It dawned on methe whole concept was absurd. Just how many husbands must an author keep in order to write an entire manual about it? And where do new ones come from, if all the old ones are, apparently, being kept?
A hundred-odd pages of advice: tempt your man with the comforts of home, surprise him in alluring undergarments, take an interest in his affairs. I even managed, for the first time, to master a pastry dough Id never managed before, but it didnt lure Richard home. Perhaps I ought to have kneaded the dough whilst in seductive lingerie. Or arrived at his mothers house dressed thus, since rumour had him living there more than our flat.
Even trying to join him in his interests failed: in his favourite video game, I bested a level hed been stuck on for a week, which did not warm his affections one bit.
It was during a dreary November that I went shopping for winter boots, but instead came home with a chubby puppy for the same amount of pounds. One look at the animal, and I realised Id always longed for a proper dognot some yappy miniature, but a companion of substance.
The woman who sold him to me introduced herself as a breeder.
You know your dogs, love? she asked. No? Well, thats a golden retriever, very in vogue. Both parents champions. Ive all the papers. Hell be a beauty! Letting him go for next to nothing, just for you.
She rattled off a price that emptied my purse; thankfully she accepted what I had.
Someone in the house ought to be happy when I returned. Boots dont look up at you adoringly or fetch your slippers.
That night, Richard happened to return to hearth and home.
What on earth is that? he demanded.
A golden retriever, love, I replied, brandishing papers. Pedigreeand a bargain, too.
The papers said he was a pure-bred Alapaha Blue Blood Bulldog. The breeders listed number was that of a scaffolding firm, whose foreman took great and rude exception to queries about spaniels and bulldogs.
Are you blind? Where, exactly, is this alleged retriever or bulldog? How much did you pay? How much? I cant believe how brainless you are sometimes!
The puppy, affronted by Richards roars, attempted a fearsome growlproduced instead a prodigious puddle.
Lord above, whom did I marry? Richard addressed the ceiling, before returning to his computer. He glared at me as though, in blasting virtual monsters, hed happily substitute me.
By morning the puppy had made himself at home. Overnight hed targeted Richards trainers and gnawed one of his good shoes to a state beyond repair.
That was quite the catalyst.
Suddenly, everything about me was intolerable: face, clothes, mind, even my soul. Worse still, I earned twice his salaryadded, apparently, for the express purpose of humiliating him. And I was childless.
You never wanted children, Richard, I ventured feebly.
And what sort of children would you produce? Idiots, like yourself! Take a look at yourselfwhod want you?
The poor puppy, on hearing this, tottered to Richards ankle and nipped at his sock.
For my part, I was rendered mute by the sting of his words about our imaginary children and could only watch as Richard hurled some belongings into his suitcase.
Thirty years old. Life, it seemed, was over. Finito. Nothing more to be said.
Going on felt pointless, but try explaining such gloom to a dog. There he sat, clutching my sock in his mouth, radiating the innocence of a poorly cared-for pup. He cared not one jot for my suffering or despair. He wanted feeding, water, a bit of praise, and his tummy scratched.
The puppywho Id named Baskervillegrew rapidly, but despite his imposing look, was no sort of guardian. The instinct to bite never developed. He simply lavished affection on everyone in reach.
So it was our habit to wander the neighbourhood until late. One blustery December evening, as the council dug mysterious holes in the estate, sleet lashing the windows, Baskerville tumbled straight into one. He whimpered desperately; I jumped in after, and by luck alone, escaped a broken leg. It was a deep, slippery pit in the clay, nearly midnightand of course my mobile sat at home on the dresser.
After several attempts to scramble out, I began to call for help in earnest.
Two youth in blackgoth types, pale and dismal in the lamplightcame ambling by. To their credit, they did not start upon any grave sacrificial rites, but rang emergency services, waiting atop the pit, giggling over some private gothic humour.
Baskerville was rescued first, and repaid everyone with enthusiastic tongue-baths, goths included. Then I was hauled up shivering and so caked with earth my embarrassment was buried beneath my gratitude.
The lead firefighter gave a scathing verdict on idiotic mongrels, silly women, and useless council workmen. Baskerville, hearing such language for the first time, bounced about and managed to headbutt the firemans nose quite thoroughly.
At nearly one oclock that night, the scene was: muddied yet beaming Baskerville, myself shaking in filthy layers, the fire brigade and goths grimy from our rescue, and a commander with a nosebleed.
You, madam, ought to show some discipline over your mutt, he scolded.
I do try, I said. But hes rather willful.
Just my sort, said one of the goths to his mate, abandoning his gloom for a gale of laughter.
My flats just hereplease, do come up and wash, I offered, still trembling.
Go on, the firemen encouraged their boss. You look like something out of a Hammer Horror film.
Perhaps I ought to dig my own pitat least until the council gets its act together. Otherwise Ill be a spinster to the end of my days, my friend remarked later.
P.S. My children are no prodigiestheyre simply cheerful, clever youngsters. Jack and Maisie. When asked in year one to describe our family, Jack announced, Our dad saves the world! And our mum works with computers! To which Maisie, always the quiet one, added, And our dog can watch telly!That night, Jack and Maisie squeezed in on either side of me and the three of us watched a film that ran too late, Baskerville snoring softly on my feet. As the credits rolled, I caught my reflection in the darkened window and for the first time in many years, felt a lightness where dread used to be. There were still mismatched curtains and muddy paw prints on the floor, and somewhere, Richard was probably glaring at his mother over dry toast. But in our small lounge, there was laughter so bright it warmed the dim corners; there were little arms draped around my waist and a dog whod survived both council holes and heartbreak.
I thought of that bookhow to keep your husband. Perhaps the real secret was that there is no keeping anything, not husbands nor trouble nor even the best pair of winter boots. Some things are lost so we have room to find new joys: a dog with no pedigree, a pair of muddy wellies, two fearless children, and a home not always tidy but always, unmistakably, ours.
And, as Maisie drifted to sleep with Baskervilles head on her lap, Jack tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, Mum, do you think dogs dream like people do?
I think, I said, pressing a kiss to his curls, that sometimes they dream even bigger.
