An Evening of Long Goodbyes (49 page)

It appeared that Celtic Tiger, having vanquished his foe, had not gone on and finished the race like a sensible dog, but instead had turned his attentions on the dogs grouped miserably together a hundred yards behind.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ the crowd were crying, clutching their heads as the cowardly dogs turned tail and fled with Celtic Tiger now in hot pursuit. ‘The other way, you prick! Run the other way!’

‘Too much PCP,’ a whiskery geezer with defeated eyes observed beside me.

But that was not all. At the other end of the track – far away from where the stewards were trying to fend off Celtic Tiger with a steel pole – An Evening of Long Goodbyes was beginning to stir. At first no one noticed – everyone was too busy trying to convince the renegade favourite to rejoin the race – but then a lone voice cried out, ‘Hey! That thick dog’s not dead yet!’

There was a pause and then a collective rustling, as people checked the number in the programme: and then, sporadically, from one or two points in the crowd, the shouts came: ‘An Evening of Long Goodbyes! An Evening of Long Goodbyes!’

The dog’s tail thumped once, twice against the ground.

Seeing this, more voices joined in. The shouts grew louder. ‘An Evening of Long Goodbyes! An Evening of Long Goodbyes!’

And slowly, painfully slowly, the dog picked himself up, until, on legs as frail and ungainly as a newborn calf’s, rain pasting his fur to his bony head, he stood there blinking at us in wonderment.

The clamour was deafening. Men shouted and pummelled the glass and stamped their feet. ‘That’s it!’ they bellowed. ‘Go on, you cunt! Go on, Goodbyes!’ Everyone was of one voice, as if the only reason any of us were there was to cheer on this chewed and rather mangy-looking dog, which seemed to feed on these waves of furious noise and energy and – as the cheering grew to a roar, as Celtic Tiger was ushered into a cage by two men with cattle prods – now wagged his tail, and began to trot towards the finishing line.

‘
Sprezzatura
,’ a voice in my ear said; and I looked round to see, in the midst of the churning punters and the pillars of smoke, a familiar grey emanation. ‘What?’ I said faintly. He smiled hermetically, and pointed out the window; and turning, I saw the rainy stadium filled with men in top hats and tails, with black dicky bows and carnations in their buttonholes, cheering on the dog they’d bet against as the voice behind me mused, ‘What was it Oscar used to say?
In a good democracy, every man should be an aristocrat
.’

I spun round – there was so much I wanted to ask him, there were so many things I didn’t understand. ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Come back!’ But he was already halfway to the door, hoisting on to his head, as he melted into the throng, what appeared to be a giant sombrero… And now, after a series of dramatic collapses, An Evening of Long Goodbyes finally hauled his carcass over the line, and the place went crazy. It was as if we had just won a war. People whooped and sang; they tore up their losing stubs and threw them in the air like confetti. Frank appeared, laughing, and caught me in a bear hug. ‘We done it, Charlie!’ he exclaimed. ‘We done it!’

Someone must have overheard him, because before I could correct his grammar, we were picked up and borne along on a sea of strangers’ hands to the betting hatch, where, with the crowd amassed behind us, the clerk hastily agreed that it would be poor form to declare the race forfeit, and paid out our winnings on the spot. Everybody in the bar applauded; Frank asked if anybody wanted a drink, and it turned out that most people did; and everything was so breathless and euphoric that it took me a while to pinpoint that irritating bleeping noise. Finally I realized it was Bel’s phone. I had brought it along to give back to her tonight. It appeared to be having some kind of an episode. I pressed some buttons to make it stop and it started talking to me – a girl’s voice, someone looking for Bel.

‘She’s not here,’ I shouted, putting a finger in one ear. ‘She’s at home.’

‘I can’t get through to her at home,’ the girl said.

‘They’re having a dinner thing,’ I said.

‘Oh. Well, can you pass on a message?’ The girl had a husky, rasping voice, as if she made a regular thing of smoking too many cigarettes. ‘Will you tell her Jessica wants her to –’

‘Wait, you’re Jessica?’ I interjected.

‘Why, does my fame precede me?’

‘It most certainly does,’ I averred. ‘I’d like to know what you mean, running off with my sister.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was running off with anyone,’ the girl said. ‘Who is this, anyway?’

‘It’s Charles,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Bel told me about you,’ she added, rather pointedly.

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ I said. ‘The fact is, Bel is clearly not fit for – what did you mean by that last remark? What did she say about me?’

‘All
sorts
of things,’ Jessica said light-headedly, as if she had never until now believed they could be true.

‘Well, be that as it may,’ I muttered uncomfortably. ‘The thing about Bel is –’

‘Aren’t
you
going to this dinner?’ she interrupted. ‘Or have you been blacklisted?’

‘Yes, I am going,’ I snapped. ‘Look, just give me your damned message, will you?’

‘Certainly,’ she said primly. She told me that their flight was at seven, so would Bel get a taxi for four, and pick her up on the way? I said I would pass this on; there was a pause, and just as I was about to look for the off button, the voice came again: ‘Charles?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think Bel
means
those things she says about you, you know.’

‘Mmm,’ I said ambiguously.

‘And Charles?’

‘What?’

‘I promise I’ll take good care of her in Russia.’

‘Oh.’ I was rather touched. Possibly she was making fun of me, but somehow I didn’t think so; there was a warmth in her voice that was really quite appealing. ‘Well, thank you.’

‘You’d better get to your dinner before everyone’s gone to bed,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said; and then, ‘You know, when you get back perhaps we ought to go for a drink or something. I’ve written a play and there’s a part you might be interested in…’

She laughed, and said she’d see. ‘But our paths will cross again, Charles, somehow I’m sure of that…’

I tucked the phone away, beaming to myself. That old Hythloday magic! I was back in business!

It was now quite late. I went to find Frank and told him I was getting a taxi back to Amaurot. However he insisted on driving me over himself. This struck me as a damned decent gesture, and as we left I had another of my ideas: ‘You know, why don’t – ow!’

‘You all right, Charlie?’

‘Obviously I’m not all right, who put all those stairs there?’

‘I think they were there on the way in too.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I admitted. ‘I wish… I wish they hadn’t opened that second bottle of champagne, might have gone to my head a little…’ as he hoisted me up off the tarmac and closer to a ring of prettily spinning cartoon stars. ‘B’ what I was saying was, why don’t you come along to dinner too? I mean, you’re not in black tie, but…’

‘Van’s over here, Charlie.’

‘But don’ you worry about that,’ I dismissed these concerns with a wave of the hand; I was feeling magnanimous and iconoclastic and suddenly no obstacle seemed insurmountable. ‘I’ll explain about all that. Mother’s an absolute, an absolute pussycat if you know how to handle her – and anyway, I’ll just tell her that you’re
my guest
, and a, a damn fine fellow…’

‘Thanks very much, Charlie.’

‘Not at all, not at all – I say, look at that. Someone’s left behind their astrakhan jacket.’

The van’s headlights had illuminated an especially desolate section of the car park, where in a patch of weeds lay a discarded heap of clothing. It appeared to be emitting sounds of distress. I couldn’t remember if jackets typically did this or not.

‘Just a second –’ I got out and weaved my way over the unsteady gravel to the heap.

‘What is it?’ Frank called from the van

‘Hmm…’ The astrakhan jacket looked up at me with a pair of hopeful brown eyes. A long pink tongue tentatively licked my hand. ‘It seems to be An Evening of Long Goodbyes.’

‘They must have dumped it,’ Frank said, coming over.

‘
Dumped
it? Don’t be absurd. How could they have dumped it? Why, that dog’s a hero – a hero!’

‘Don’t think it’s goin to win many more races, though, Charlie.’ He was right. The dog’s flanks were streaked with blood. One of his legs was badly chewed, and his eyes and snout bore the gouge-marks of Celtic Tiger’s teeth. He laid his head back on the ground, panting rapidly.

‘But that’s – I mean to say, of all the…’ I scratched the back of my neck and lapsed into a confounded silence. ‘What are we going to do? I mean we can’t just leave it here.’

‘Ah Jay, Charlie, I thought we were in a hurry.’

I held up a finger for silence. My mind was clamouring at me to make a connection: something to do with the greyhound and the reflection of the moon in this long, kidney-shaped puddle –

‘Aha!’ I fumbled about in my pocket until I’d found what I was looking for: the pale disc of metal Bel had become so enamoured of; now I knew what it was.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a dog-tag, old sport.’

‘What, like a soldier has?’

‘No, like a dog has…’ It was the same one Bel had bought with her pocket money years and years ago, along with a red-leather collar and leash. It had been meant for the spaniel we hadn’t been let keep, the one she’d worried over so; she’d been going to get its name engraved on it, if we’d ever got so far as to give it a name. Someone must have unearthed it in the attic.

‘What would Bel be doin carryin that around, though, Charlie?’

‘Shh,’ I said, blinking back the haze of alcohol that ringed my brain, trying to puzzle it out. I didn’t know why Bel was carrying it around. It had to mean something. Was it that she’d never got over losing that spaniel? Had she been pining for it all this time? Or was it something more complicated? Did it have something to do with Mother? Or me? I frowned, swaying on the tarmac. Bel’s understanding of the world was byzantine at the best of times, and often there were complex movements involved, such as things being signs, or standing for other things that to a normal person they had obviously nothing to do with. But the fact was that here was a dog being offered to us on a plate: not a spaniel, admittedly, and possibly requiring some minor surgery – still, given the fateful quality of the night so far, it seemed remiss to simply ignore it.

‘Charlie – ah, Charlie, what’re you doin?’

There was blatantly not time to explain this to Frank.

‘Ah here, you’re not puttin that wet thing in my fuckin van –’

‘Talisman,’ I huffed, ‘lucky – symbolical – might bite Harry –’

‘Bark!’ barked An Evening of Long Goodbyes.

‘Bark, that’s right, good boy, we’re going for a ride in Frank’s van, aren’t we? Yes we are!’

‘For fuck’s sake –’ as he unlocked the loading doors and I stowed the dog in the back, where he curled up pacifically in a nest of altar cloths and priests’ vestments Frank had taken from a church that was being turned into a shoe shop. ‘Charlie, are you thinkin if you give her a dog Bel’ll forgive you for boffin that one-legged bird?’

‘I wish you’d stop saying I
boffed
her, it really is a most disagreeable turn of phrase.’

‘Well, for ridin her then.’

I thought about it. ‘Yes,’ I said. I studied the dog through the doors. He panted amicably at us. ‘Although,’ as Frank closed the doors up, ‘you know, An Evening of Long Goodbyes is such a cumbersome name. We ought to give him a new one.’

‘Yeah, like I was thinkin maybe that’s why it ran so slow, cos like it was draggin round all them words after it.’

‘Yes, quite, anyway, what I’m thinking is – Ozymandias.’

‘Oz-y-mandias?’

‘You know, the poem. Ozymandias, king of kings, look on my works, ye mighty, something something, I forget the rest – has a kind of a grandeur to it, don’t you think? Kind of a
presence?
’

‘I dunno, Charlie, it sounds a bit gay.’

‘A bit
gay
?’

‘A bit, yeah.’

‘Well what do you suggest?’

‘How about Paul?’

‘Paul? You can’t call a dog Paul. Why would you want to call it Paul?’

‘I had a mate once called Paul.’

‘So did I,’ I remembered; and we both reflected for a moment. ‘I suppose he does have a sort of a paulish quality. Well, maybe we should leave it for the time being. Bel might have her own ideas.’

We got into the van. Frank stowed our winnings in the glove compartment and started the engine.

‘Funny to think she’ll be leavin, though, isn’t it Charlie?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think maybe she’ll be all right.’ For as the city began to unreel through the window, and with all that money in the glove compartment, it felt like there was time still to set things to rights, to turn the clock back on old hurts. The night seemed limitless and replete with possibilities; everything glistened with water as if it had just come into being. ‘Well who’s this?’ as a long brown nose poked between the seats and smiled doggishly at us.

‘Bark!’ he said, as we hit the motorway and picked up speed.

‘What’s he sayin, Charlie?’

‘He’s saying, “Forward, friends! Don’t fall behind!”’

‘Bark!’

‘That’s right, old chap,’ I laughed, rubbing his chin. ‘That’s right –’

15

All the excitement must have overtired me, because I nodded off on the way. I was having the strangest dream, in which we were all buried in a terrible avalanche: but then I woke up to find we had stopped outside the old house, and that the avalanche was nothing more than the rumbling of Frank’s stomach.

I don’t know who Mother was expecting at that late hour, but she seemed surprised when she answered the door and found me there: in fact she turned quite pale, and her glass slipped out of her hand, sending sherry all over the floor.

‘I’m perfectly all right, leave it
be
, Charles,’ she recovered herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting any more guests, that’s all. Didn’t I tell you eight sharp? And honestly, is that what passes for a clean shirt with you these days?’

I began to explain about the rent and the race, but Mother cut me off. ‘Charles,’ she said, peering downwards, ‘there appears to be something dripping on my foot.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you – Mother, I’d like to introduce the newest member of the, the gang – An Evening of Long Goodbyes.’

‘You’re not planning to bring it inside, I hope.’

‘Well, yes, it’s a sort of a bon voyage gift for Bel, you see.’

‘Charles, if you think I’m going to let you take in some flea-ridden stray to die on my parquet when there are guests in the house…’

‘It’s not going to
die
. It’s just had a couple of knocks, that’s all. Give it some food and it’ll be right as rain – won’t you, old fellow?’

Mother sighed heavily and straightened up. Muffled sounds of merriment drifted past her from inside. ‘Where’s Patsy?’ she said. Raising her lorgnette, she stared into the shadows, then turned back to me. ‘Charles,’ she said
sotto voce
, ‘that is not Patsy Olé.’

‘No Mother, it’s Frank, you remember Frank –’

‘Not the boy from the cloakroom?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s him.’

The ends of her mouth took another turn south. ‘I know several people who would be very interested to hear his thoughts vis-à–vis the whereabouts of their handbags.’

‘Oh, that’s just silly,’ I objected. ‘Frank’s straight as a die. Why, just look at him…’

We considered Frank once more where he waited by the van. He waggled his fingers at us and grimaced horribly.

‘I promise I’ll keep an eye on him…’

There was a faint whistling sound as Mother exhaled through her nose. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But if there is so much as a hint of trouble…’ She let the threat hang unstated in the air. ‘And take that
thing
in by the kitchen.’

I wasn’t sure whether she meant Frank or the dog, but I didn’t press her. I gave Frank the nod: he lurched over and, picking up the stricken greyhound at either end, we navigated around the soggy garden.

Rococo Christmas decorations hung in the windows, and every light in the house was on, throwing buttery light over the grass and the leafless trees of the orchard; the bottle-green Mercedes sat proudly in front of the garage, like a mountain lion surveying its kingdom. From outside, the kitchen resembled a Greek funeral: black-clad caterers were rushing everywhere, carrying dishes and dropping pots into quivering mounds of soapsuds. No one paid any attention to us or to our strange cargo – not until we found Mrs P, fiddling about in the alcove by the refrigerator.

‘Master Charles!’ she cried, throwing her arms around me. ‘You have a face again! Your beautiful face!’ And then she caught sight of the dog. ‘Ay, Master Charles, you have run him over with the car?’

‘No,’ I said, annoyed. ‘It’s a bon voyage gift for Bel.’

She said something in Bosnian and Zoran, the round-headed son, came over and began pressing the dog’s ribs with his fingers.

‘I am thinking this dog is how you say a goner?’

‘He’s not a goner. I wish people would stop saying things like that, you’re
upsetting
him,’ although admittedly An Evening of Long Goodbyes wasn’t looking his best, lying there on the floor not moving. ‘He’s had a couple of knocks, that’s all. He just needs some food, and… what are you doing?’ Zoran had attached a thin metal clamp to the dog’s side and was rattling about in a case of sinister-looking instruments.

‘It’s all right,’ Mrs P whispered in my ear. ‘He is trained as a doctor.’

This was news to me, as all I had ever seen him do was drink beer and play the trumpet badly; and An Evening of Long Goodbyes didn’t appear too keen on those needles that were materialising out of the case. Still, Zoran seemed to know what he was about and, on consideration, it was probably better that the dog was patched up a bit before we surprised Bel with it.

‘Charlie…’ a feeble hand clawed at my sleeve.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, don’t be so melodramatic – Mrs P, I don’t suppose there’s any dinner left? Frank’s feeling a bit…’

Mrs P was doubtful, but said she would forage about and see what she could do. In the meantime, she directed us to clean ourselves up and join the others inside.

‘Here, Charlie, how come Mrs P isn’t invited to the party?’ Frank asked as we came down the hall.

‘Well she’s… well I mean it’s not that she’s
not invited
, as such. She prefers to stay behind the scenes at these things. Hates extravagance, you know.’

‘Oh right. I was just wonderin what was she cryin about.’

‘Was she crying?’

‘Yeah, when we came in.’

‘Probably chopping onions or something. Or maybe she’s upset about Bel. She’s very maternal, you know, cooks generally are.’

Individual voices could be heard as we approached the dining-room, Niall O’Boyle’s pre-eminent among them: ‘… new alloys we’re using mean that when you drop it down the toilet, for example, it won’t break, and if you stand on it – go ahead, stand on it – see? That’s the future of communications you’re standing on there. Or even, say, if you threw it against a wall…’ We pushed open the door to enter a seraglio of hushed lights and the most breathtaking golds and reds.

‘Good Lord!’ I said, taking Frank’s arm. ‘Isn’t this wonderful? I say, duck –’

‘What?’ Frank said, as Niall O’Boyle’s phone came whizzing through the air to catch him square on the temple, and he toppled to the floor like a felled tree. Two dozen pairs of eyes lit on us, and at the head of the table Niall O’Boyle and Harry, the phone-thrower, stood guiltily agape. Mother looked balefully at me. Hastily I picked the phone up and displayed its flashing screen. ‘Still working, ladies and gentlemen.’ Everyone exhaled a happy sigh of relief and resumed their chattering.

‘I was just trying to demonstrate,’ Niall O’Boyle blustered.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Mother assured him, drawing him back to his seat. ‘Bel, darling, get him some ice or something, will you?

Bel rose reluctantly from the far side, the warm glow of the candelabra catching in a slender gold necklace around her neck. She was also dressed in black. She came round and knelt down beside Frank, who was writhing about with his eyes closed, babbling incoherently. ‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘I haven’t done anything to him,’ I said. ‘It’s been rather an exacting day, that’s all.’

‘The pair of you smell like a distillery.’

‘Let’s just get him some food… is there any food left?’

‘There are truffles,’ Bel thought. ‘And maybe some bisque?’

‘What’s bisque?’ Frank said, opening his eyes.

We guided him to a chair. Bel went out and returned with an ice pack and a plate of leftovers that Mrs P had scraped together, which seemed to pacify him. I sat down opposite. I was feeling a trifle light-headed myself. I hadn’t eaten anything since that crêpe Frank had thrown in the dustbin and I was beginning to wish I’d taken his advice and we’d stopped at the takeaway for Chicken Balls on the way back from the dog-track. But it was too late now, so I made do with a bottle of smoky Rioja which was floating around, lit my briar and took in the table. Mother was seated at the top, with the guest of honour, Niall O’Boyle, on one side and Harry on the other in that repellent country-squire waistcoat. Mirela was next to Harry; I did not allow my gaze to linger. Beside Niall O’Boyle was a woman in a rather unfortunate lavender jacket – his personal assistant, I discovered – and then, Geoffrey, the woolly-headed old family accountant. I hadn’t seen him in the house since he’d executed Father’s will; he looked uncomfortable, as if something were caught in his throat. Our place in the new order was plain; we had been given unglamorous seats in the middle, just at the watermark past which the company descended into hooting actors and stage managers.

‘Must’ve thought we weren’t coming tonight,’ I said to Bel jauntily.

‘What
is
that thing?’ She reseated herself next to me with a choking cough. ‘Since when do you smoke a pipe?’

‘I have a lot of time on my hands,’ I explained. ‘As I was saying, though, we almost didn’t make it. It’s been a perfect nightmare of a day. But I said to Frank, this is Bel’s going away, and come hell or high water I’m going to be there.’

‘It smells repulsive,’ she murmured.

I was glad she was talking to me, even if she wasn’t exactly turning cartwheels; but she seemed removed from things, and everything she said had a rhetorical ring, such that I began to feel foolish replying to her. Try as I might, I could not breach this porcelain reserve: not only was I unable to get on to the subject of forgiveness, and the manifold speeches I had prepared on that topic, but – once I had passed on Jessica Kiddon’s message about the taxi and made a little smalltalk about the décor – I quickly ran out of anything to say to her at all; and frankly it came as something of a relief when Mother stood up and pinged a glass and I realized that, although we might have missed the food, Frank and I had arrived just in time for the dull speeches.

‘Tonight,’ Mother pronounced, ‘is a night of hellos and goodbyes. In one way, it is a sad occasion, because we will be taking leave, if only for a short while, of our dear Bel, who is travelling to Russia in the morning. But in the main it is a joyful one, for tonight we mark the beginning of a new epoch – a new passage in the history of this marvellous old house.’

We applauded dutifully.

‘It is also an opportunity for us to say thank you – to Telsinor Ireland, and more particularly to Mr Niall O’Boyle, whose personal vision and sense of social commitment, so rare in today’s business world, have played such a part in creating this unique partnership.’ As Niall O’Boyle basked like a basilisk on a rock, Mother asked us to reflect for a moment on the meaning the partnership – cemented tomorrow morning when the papers were signed – would have for the house. She outlined the plans to renovate the old west wing, expand the theatre, begin the long-promised instruction of children from underprivileged parts of the city; she explained how, on a more personal level, the signing of the papers would at last secure the house financially, something that her late husband, for all his years of work, was never conclusively able to do –

‘Charles, stop
twitching
.’

‘It’s Geoffrey, he keeps
staring
at me. He looks like he’s suppressing the urge to bless himself.’

‘It’s your face, Charles,’ Bel whispered back. ‘Haven’t you seen it? You look exactly like – oh –’

Mother had moved on to the goodbyes part of the speech and was calling on Bel to stand up and take a bow. ‘Our loss is Russia’s gain,’ Mother was saying. ‘Bel’s devotion to the theatre has never been in question. I can’t think of any other girl who would come to her own going-away party dressed like Hamlet…’

Everyone laughed obligingly and clapped again. Frank leaned over to Mirela, who had left most of her food uneaten, and asked if she was planning to finish it. Niall O’Boyle rose and thanked Mother and began to read from flashcards handed him by his PA to the effect that Amaurot was more than just a house, it was a symbol, the symbol of an ideal, and how inspiring he personally found it to see this ideal being perpetuated by modern technology in the form of the Telsinor Hythloday Centre for the Arts, and so on and so forth; I drifted away. There was a fresh sally of rain against the window. To my left Bel fidgeted with a doily. The tubby stage manager was rubbing his foot up and down the girl with barrettes’ ankle and trying to make her laugh.

‘… a central part of our project of renewal, who really
embodied
these values we’ve been talking about, and more importantly used them and shared those qualities with others in order to make the world a better place, a permanent monument to him.’

Noisy applause here. ‘What did he say?’ I whispered to Bel.

‘They want to put up a statue of Father,’ Bel said, absently twisting her doily into a garrotte.

With this announcement, the speeches came to a close, and the table fragmented into a happy babel of conversation. But Bel retreated further into herself, watching the proceedings as if they were occurring on the other end of a microscope. It didn’t matter what I asked her about – Yalta,
Ramp
, Olivier’s legal travails – she would answer politely in as few words as were humanly possible, and then withdraw into silence. It was like being seated next to a vacant lot.

I decided it was time to bring out the big guns. When Mrs P came in to ask about coffee (Frank was right, she did look rather out of sorts), I had a word in her ear. A few minutes later, An Evening of Long Goodbyes nosed into the room, bandaged up and looking much improved.

‘Well!’ I said. ‘Look who it is!’

‘Who is it?’ Bel barely lifted an eyebrow.

‘Don’t you recognize him?’ I said, seeking to disengage the dog’s head from its reproductive organs momentarily so she could see him properly. ‘It’s that dog you bet on at the races that time, remember? An Evening of Long Goodbyes. You thought it was romantic.’

‘What’s it doing here?’ Bel said.

I stifled my exasperation. ‘Well, it’s for you, obviously. I mean it’s a bon voyage gift.’

‘We robbed it from the car park,’ Frank chipped in unhelpfully.

‘We didn’t
rob
it,’ I said. I explained about the race and the dog’s heroics earlier that evening. Bel still didn’t seem to understand how this related to her; she nodded neutrally, patting the smooth area between the dog’s ears, and made some remark about not knowing if Aeroflot allowed dogs on as hand luggage.