Out of the Blue (34 page)

“I see,” said the woman politely. “Well, I’m looking through our database right now and no matches are coming up. But we’ll call you if we think we have him, and we’re open until eight tonight.” Then I phoned the five vets’ surgeries with a pounding heart. None of them had got him, and nor did the Chiswick dog warden.

“Katie,” I said, “you stay by the phone while Matt and I go out again and look.” We went down to the common and called his name—he’d have come in a flash if he’d been there. Then we went up onto Chiswick High Road—the traffic was so heavy, and the thought of him trying to get across it filled me with utter dread. Matt went left, and I went right. I passed Waterstone’s, and Marks and Sparks, and The Link, the Church, and Café Rouge, then headed up towards Kew Green. I must have looked a sight as I ran down the street with a desperate expression on my face, calling out his name. But I was beside myself with anxiety and didn’t give a fig what anyone thought. By the time I got back to the house again it was half past five.

“Any calls?” I said to Katie. I was panting and bathed in sweat.

“Dad rang for an update, and you’ve just missed Jos,” she said. “I told him about Graham and he’s going to come and help us look.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of him,” I said as I sank onto the stairs.

“Yes,” said Katie guiltily. “It is.” Then Matt appeared from upstairs with some “Missing” posters which he’d designed on his Apple Mac.

“I’m going to stick them on lamp-posts,” he said. “Here are twenty for you.” As he went off, Katie and I tried to work out where Graham might have gone.

“Where does he like going?” I said.

“Chiswick House,” she said. “He loves it there. And the river—oh look, here’s Jos.”

Jos hooted his horn, I ran outside with Matt’s posters and some sticky tape and jumped into his car.

“Thank you,” I said. I squeezed his hand.

“Love me, love my dog,” he replied with a shrug. “I just hope we’re lucky.” We crossed over the high road and went down Duke’s Avenue, driving along slowly while we scanned the gardens and side roads for a flash of ginger fur. At the end of Duke’s Avenue was the Great West Road. I looked in horror at the thundering juggernauts and speeding cars, and imagined Graham trying to cross.

“He’d never survive,” I said faintly. “It’s like crossing a motorway.”

“I think he’d be too clever, and too frightened, to try.” We negotiated our way over it, then turned left to get to Chiswick House. Jos pulled up, parked the car and we went through the side gate.

“Graham!” I called. “Graham! Here boy! Come on!” There were hundreds of dogs out with their owners. There were setters and pointers, Dalmatians and Alsatians; we walked for twenty minutes past the Ionic Temple, and the Conservatory and the Camellia house. By now the light was fading with our hopes. So I put a few posters up on trees, praying as I did so that someone might know where he was. And now, as dusk descended, we drove down to the Thames. We parked by the tennis courts and walked for a mile, just shouting his name. But all we could hear was the lapping of the water, and the wind swishing through the trees.

“We ought to get back,” said Jos. I nodded. And as we drove slowly along I imagined Graham lying injured somewhere, or wandering around distressed and disorientated, unable to find his way home. As I clicked open the front gate I felt oppressed and sick at heart. I lifted my hand to put the key in the lock, but Katie had got there first. She was crying. Oh God. Oh God.

“Tell me,” I said. And now I was weeping, too.

“He’s at Battersea,” she croaked, wiping her eyes. “They’ve just phoned. He’s OK. We can go and get him tomorrow.”

So at ten thirty this morning we were first in line on the pavement outside the dogs’ home.

“Come on!” said Matt impatiently. “Open up!” At last the metal grille was raised and we went in. On the floor were trails of colored pawprints. The receptionist told us to follow the yellow ones to the Lost Dogs department. As we did so we could hear a cacophany of indignant barking, baying and whining. I filled in the form, provided proof of our identity, and then the kennel maid processed our claim. While we waited we looked at the noticeboard which was plastered with “Missing” posters like ours, offering rewards of a thousand pounds and more. Some dogs had got lost or run away, but many had been stolen. There was a photo of an Alsatian called Toby which had been taken from outside Sainsbury’s in Kenton, and of Bumble, a greyhound puppy, “last seen being dragged away by four males who then bundled him into a van”.

“How horrible,” said Matt. Now, at last, the kennel maid took us through to the pens in which strays are held. The air was sharp with the tang of disinfectant mingled with dog.

“He’s at the end,” she said as we passed along the row. Staffordshire bull terriers and elderly Labradors gazed mournfully out at us. A sprightly looking springer spaniel offered us his toy. A Jack Russell leaped up, yapping, at our approach. We passed two Alsatians, a three-legged chow, a sleeping Maltese terrier, then finally we stopped and gazed into the end pen.

“Is this him?” said the kennel maid. Same color. Same size. Similar type. But to us it might as well have been a great Dane. We drove back to Chiswick in silence, then sat disconsolately in the kitchen. Matt filled Graham’s water bowl and put some biscuits on his plate.

“He’ll be hungry when he gets back.”

“Yes, darling,” I said, “he will.”

“We’ll have to give him a bath. He’ll be dirty.”

“Mmm. Probably,” I said.

“I’ve got him this,” he added, holding up a video of
The Naked Chef
.

“That’s very sweet of you, Matt, I don’t think he’s seen that one.” To make the waiting less agonizing, we played cards and Scrabble. And the kids told me about their trip to the opera house, and about Jos’s brilliant designs. Then at lunchtime Peter phoned again, and we said there was still no news. A little later Jos rang from work on his mobile. Then at five the phone went again.

“Is that Mrs Smith?” said an unfamiliar male voice.

“Yes, it is,” I replied.

“I’m calling from Westminster City Council. I’m the animal warden. I thought you’d like to know that we’ve got your dog.”

“Thank God!” I murmured, sinking onto the hall chair. I clapped my left hand to my breast. “Thank God,” I repeated wearily. “But is it definitely ours?”

“Oh, no doubt about it,” he replied. “He’s got his collar and tag on. Tell me to mind my own business, but I think Graham’s a funny sort of name for a dog.”

“I know,” I said, laughing now as tears of relief pricked my eyes. “It’s a very funny name,” I wept. “In fact, it’s a ridiculous name for a dog. Thank you so much,” I sniffed. “We’ve been distraught. But where on earth did you find him?” I added as I scribbled down the address.

“Very near the Tate.”

“The Tate?” I repeated wonderingly.

“Yes, he was sitting outside a house in Ponsonby Place.”

“Ponsonby Place?”

“That’s right. Number seventy-eight.”

“Number seventy-eight?” I echoed.

“Do you know anyone who lives there?”

“Yes. My husband,” I said.

September

DOG BONES

Ingredients:

3 cups wholewheat flour

1 1/2 cups cornmeal

1 cup rice flour

1 cup chicken stock

2 ozs melted butter

1/2 cup milk

1 whole egg

1 egg yolk

* * *

Method:

Mix together the flour, cornmeal and rice flour. Blend the stock, melted butter and milk, then stir into dry ingredients. Add whole egg, then egg yolk. Knead the dough until it is very stiff, roll out half an inch thick and cut into bone shapes. Place on baking parchment in an oven preheated to 325 degrees for 45 minutes. Cool, then store in an airtight container. Makes 24-30 biscuits.

* * *

I read Lily’s accompanying note again, which she’d stapled to the recipe:
Darling F, The chef at the Four Seasons in LA gave me this. Such a treat, and I think it will cheer Graham up after his ordeal. I always make some for Jennifer whenever she’s had some horrid shock. Woof woof! Lxx.

I reflected that the only shock Jennifer was likely to receive was being forced to wear her Burberry collar instead of the Gucci, but I knew that Lily meant well. As for Graham, he seemed none the worse for wear, though still indignant at being prised off the pavement outside Peter’s flat. According to a neighbor he’d been sitting there for twenty-four hours.

“Don’t you
ever
pull that trick on me again,” I said to him as I kneaded the biscuit dough. “In any case,” I added, “you won’t be able to because I’ve had that window fixed. Daddy was
very
upset,” I added. “You could have been killed, you know.”

“Yes,” said Matt, wagging an admonitory finger at him. “You put us through absolute hell.”

“It was extremely irresponsible of you,” added Katie seriously. Graham heaved a regretful sigh. He’d had the ecstatic welcome home, the hugs, kisses and tears, and now he was getting a bit of grief.

“Don’t
ever
do that again,” I said crisply. “You can dig holes in the lawn, you can moult all over the house, you can even throw up in the car—but you are
not
allowed to go missing.” By now he looked decidedly hangdog.

“You put us to a lot of trouble,” said Matt.

“And you seriously increased our stress levels,” added Katie. “We were all running around trying to find you—even Jos.”

“Yes,” I said. “Even Jos. Which was nice of him when you think about it.” Graham seemed magnificently unimpressed. “But how did he know the way to Peter’s flat?” I wondered aloud, yet again.

“He’d been there once before, on Easter Day,” said Matt. “He’d obviously remembered the route.”

“It was his sense of smell,” Katie opined. “Dogs have a sense of smell two hundred and fifty thousand times more powerful than ours. Apparently they can detect a drop of vinegar in forty thousand gallons of water.”

“Not all dogs,” said Matt judiciously. “I mean, Jennifer Aniston wouldn’t be able to detect the vinegar in a fish and chip shop. But Graham’s so clever,” he added, stroking his ears. “Though he’s a bit naughty, aren’t you?”

“Well, I think we’ve all said enough now,” I pointed out fair-mindedly as I put the biscuits in the oven. “All’s well that ends well, as they say.”

At that precise moment the phone rang.

“It’s your solicitor!” Katie yelled.

“Hello, Mrs Smith,” said a pleasant female voice. “It’s Mr Cheetham-Stabb’s secretary here. He asked me to chase you up about the papers he sent you in June.”

“Oh. What papers are those?”

“The Affidavit by petitioner in support of the petition, which you have to sign in front of another lawyer, then return. On that form you are also required to swear that the signature on your husband’s Acknowledgment of Service form is his.”

“Why do I have to do that?”

“That’s to stop women from forging their husbands’ signatures in order to obtain a divorce.”

“Do they do that?”

“They certainly try. We sent you the document three months ago,” the woman went on. “Now that Mr Cheetham-Stabb’s back from his vacation, he wants to get things going.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “Of course.”

“I’m very surprised you haven’t received it,” she added. “It was in an A5-sized brown envelope.”

“Ah. Well, I never open brown envelopes,” I explained. “It’s a sort of phobia I suppose. I always leave those ones to my husband, but he’s in the States until next week.”

“In that case I’ll send you a duplicate. In a white envelope.”

“Yes,” I said. “That would be…great. But no hurry, you know. Whenever. I’m sure you’ve got lots of other things to do.”

The white envelope landed on my mat at eight a.m. the next day. I opened it but was too busy getting the children ready for school, and didn’t get round to reading the contents for several days. But on Sunday I finally sat down in the kitchen and looked through the cream-colored form. It was set out in a simple, question-and-answer way.
QUESTION: State briefly your reason for saying that the respondent has committed the adultery alleged. ANSWER:
“He confessed.”
QUESTION: On what date did it first become known to you that the respondent had committed the adultery alleged? ANSWER:
“Valentine’s Day.”
QUESTION: Do you find it intolerable to live with the respondent
?
ANSWER
: “Well, yes, I suppose I do.”

Oh God, this was awful. Awful. I put the form away. I didn’t feel like filling it in now—I was much too depressed. The children had just gone back to school and I hadn’t seen Jos for almost a week.

“Darling, I’m sorry. I’m neglecting you,” he said when he phoned me later that night. “I’m afraid it’s going to be like this until
Butterfly
opens,” he explained.

“It’s OK,” I said. “I understand. I know you’re working all hours.”

“Why don’t you come in to work tomorrow?” he suggested. “You can watch a bit of the technical run, then we can sneak off for a cup of tea.”

So the following afternoon I got the tube to Covent Garden and walked to the Stage Door in Floral Street. The Tannoy was on in reception, and as I sat there, waiting for Jos, I could hear banging and hammering on-stage.

“The technical rehearsal will continue in twenty minutes,” I heard a stage manager announce. “Would all technical staff please return to the stage in twenty minutes’ time.”

While I waited for Jos to appear I looked at the program he’d given me, and as I read his name and biography my heart expanded with pride. Then I studied the synopsis again. It explained that Butterfly, a fifteen-year-old geisha, enters into a “marriage” with the handsome American, Lieutenant Pinkerton. For him it’s just a casual affair, but she is infatuated with Pinkerton, even converting to Christianity for him. When Pinkerton’s ship sails for America, Butterfly is confident that he’ll return. Three years later, he does, and she joyfully prepares to greet him, not knowing that he has since married an American woman called Kate. Pinkerton sends the consul, Sharpless, to prepare Butterfly for this fact. But Sharpless discovers not only that she still worships Pinkerton, but also that she has had his child, a son. He cannot bring himself to tell Butterfly the awful truth. The following morning Pinkerton goes to the house, where she is asleep, having been watching for him all night. When he sees the child, who resembles him, he is shocked and filled with remorse. But Pinkerton is too cowardly to speak to Butterfly himself, so he leaves Kate and Sharpless to explain. When Butterfly wakes, and sees Kate standing in the garden, she intuits the awful truth. Kate explains that she and Pinkerton wish to adopt the little boy. Butterfly agrees on condition that Pinkerton comes in person to collect him. Now, left alone, she kisses her child goodbye, then kills herself, having nothing left to live for.

“Terrible,” I murmured. My skin had gone bumpy with goosepimples and my eyes were stinging with tears. “Terrible,” I whispered again.

“Faith!” Suddenly the glass doors slid back and there was Jos, smiling at me. “Hey!” he said as he kissed me. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said.

“You look a bit serious. Cheer up!”

“Oh, I am cheered up,” I said. And I was. Puccini’s tragic story had suddenly receded, and it was as though the sun had come out. Here was Jos, all smiles, and I felt glad. His curly hair was tousled and tangled; his checkered shirt was hanging out; his jaw was stubbled with growth from the long hours he’d been putting in. Even in this unkempt state, he was such a handsome man. And I’d fallen in love with him all over again after the sweet way he’d looked for the dog. “I’m lucky,” I’d told myself after that. “It’s not perfect, and yes, sometimes I’m not quite sure…but Lily’s right. I’m incredibly lucky to have someone like Jos in my life.” Now he was signing me in and proudly introducing me to the receptionist as “my lovely girlfriend, Faith”. Then he whisked me inside along smartly painted grey corridors and up two flights of stairs.

“I’ve just got to get some notes I left in the Model Room,” he said. “Then we’ll go down to the auditorium for the start of Act Two. The Model Room,” he added, “is called the Model Room because we’re all so damn good-looking.”

“I know you are,” I smiled. In reality the Model Room resembled an architect’s practice. Designers sat hunched over drawing boards, marking lines on sheets of tracing paper or cutting card with Stanley knives. To one side were several tiny replicas of opera and ballet sets. There was one marked
Coppelia,
another marked
Rosenkavalier
and now I peered at the model for
Madame Butterfly
. It was like looking into a doll’s house.

“We make them to one twenty-fifth of the actual size,” Jos explained as he rummaged in his desk. “It’s accurate in every detail, down to the garlands of flowers Butterfly decorates her house with when Pinkerton returns. Luckily
Madame Butterfly
is a simple work,” he explained. “So the set is usually simple too.” I peered at the model. There was Butterfly’s house, a small square structure with a white blind made of gauze. Inside was a futon, and in the corner, an American flag and a vase of flowers. There was even a tiny mirror on the wall. Around the house was a verandah, the planks no wider than lollipop sticks: in front was a small garden, with a lily pond and a bridge. And there was the figure of Butterfly herself, by the cherry tree, looking out for her beloved Pinkerton. And, in the background, instead of the boat-filled harbour of Nagasaki, was that ugly tenement building.

“Do you like it?” said Jos.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Although the tenement building looks a bit stark.”

“That’s deliberate,” Jos replied. “It’s meant to emphasize that Butterfly is blind to the harsh realities of life. The director wasn’t sure about it,” he added, “but I talked him round in the end. When Butterfly meets Pinkerton,” he went on, “she thinks life’s a bowl of cherry blossom. But she’s forced to recognize that she was deluded in believing that.”

“Poor Butterfly,” I murmured. “She really suffers.”

“Oh, she’s a little idiot,” said Jos. I looked up, startled.

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“No, because it’s true. She brings it
all
on herself,” he went on with a grim little smile. “Everyone warns her that her devotion to Pinkerton is foolish, but she refuses to listen. I mean, she
knew
the rules,” he went on irritably, his left hand cutting through the air. “She
knew
it was just a temporary arrangement so she has only herself to blame.”

“Yes, but knowing is different from feeling,” I said. “Then of course she’s very young.”

“She’s a fool,” he said, ignoring me. “Doubly so because a Japanese prince offers to marry her but she won’t have him, stupid girl.”

“Well, she won’t compromise,” I said. “She can’t. She’s even prepared to die for love.”

“Her suicide is just a selfish act,” he said contemptuously, “designed to punish Pinkerton.”

“But Pinkerton’s a shit. He
should
be punished.”

“I don’t agree,” he said. At this he looked quite angry and I suddenly thought: this is
mad
. We’re having a heated argument about a woman who doesn’t even
exist
.

“Well, I think her suicide is tragic,” I went on quietly. “She renounces everything. It’s noble and it’s wonderful, too.”

“I’m sorry, Faith,” said Jos briskly as he picked up his file. “I just can’t sentimentalize some crazy, pathetic bitch who’s bent on victimhood. But fortunately for us opera folk, an awful lot of people do.”

I was taken aback by Jos’s heartless comments, but resolved to put them to the back of my mind. There are times, yes, there
are
times when he says things I really don’t like. Things that make me tense up inside. So I find the best thing is just to ignore them, and think about his good points instead. In any case, I reasoned as we went downstairs, we can’t always view the world in the same way. How could we, when our experiences of life have been very different. So if he wants to get all steamed up about
Madame Butterfly,
well—let him, I said to myself. I mean, he’s worked with the opera for months so he’s bound to have a more sophisticated view than mine. By now we were in the back stage area, where sound engineers and lighting technicians were standing around in small groups. I stood in the wings as Jos walked about on the gently raked set. He was conferring with the lighting designer, and the director, and the production manager, and there were a number of people wearing headsets, staring up into the flies. A carpenter was adjusting the blind on Butterfly’s house while three set painters—they looked very young—put the finishing touches to the backdrop.

“This is another world,” I reflected as I went and sat in the auditorium. I sank into the plush, red velvet seat as Jos strode about like a creative king. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone wanted to speak to him. Everyone wanted to know his opinion. He seemed to command such respect.