Fillets of Plaice, by Gerald Durrell (23 page)

“Well, don't, for heaven's sake, do it again,” I said. “The Pavilion is not a place for dogs. Now let's relax and try and enjoy the rest of the concert, shall we?”

“Of course, darling,” she said.

When the concert was over and Ursula had, as she put it, clapped herself hoarse, we extricated the puppy from the cloakroom and put it back in its basket and made our way out through the throngs of music lovers avidly discussing the prowess of the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.

“Darling, I did enjoy that,” said Ursula. “It's all those archipelagoes. They go running up my spine. There's nothing like Beethoven, is there?” she asked loudly and clearly, hanging on my arm like a fragile maiden aunt, gazing earnestly into my eyes and clasping in one hand the programme, which had embossed in large letters on the front, “A Concert of Mozart.”

“Absolutely nothing,” I agreed. “Now, what about this puppy?”

“Well,” she said. “I want to take him to a friend of mine who lives on the outskirts of Poole. Her name is Mrs Golightly.”

“I'm not at all surprised,” I said. “But why do you want to take the puppy to Mrs Golightly?”

“She needs it,” said Ursula. “She needs it desperately. You see, she's just lost her own Bow-wow.”

“She's lost her what?” I asked.

“Her Bow-wow,” said Ursula.

“You mean her dog?” I said.

“Yes,” said Ursula. “That's what he was called. Bow-wow.”

“And so she needs another one?” I said.

“Of course,” said Ursula. “She doesn't want one, but she needs one.”

“Are you, um, giving her this puppy because you think she needs one?” I enquired.

“But of course! Anyone with half an eye could see she needs one,” said Ursula.

“It strikes me,” I said, “that you spend most of your time interfering in your friends' affairs when they don't really want it.”

“Of course they want it,” said Ursula earnestly. “They want it but they don't
realise
that they want it.”

I gave up.

“All right,” I said. “Let's go to Poole.”

So we went. When we got to Poole, Ursula dived immediately into the back streets and eventually ended up at one of those tiny little houses, two up and two down, that stare frostily at each other across streets. This one had a highly polished brass doorknob and I noticed that the step was a beautiful white as evidence of hard scrubbing on someone's part. Urusla banged vigorously with the knocker and presently the door was opened by a tiny, grey, frail, old lady.

“Why, Ursula!” she said. “Miss Ursula, it's you!”

“Emma, darling!” said Ursula and enveloped this fragile wisp of a person in a vast embrace.

“We've come to visit you,” she said, unnecessarily. “This is Gerry.”

“Oh, do… do come in,” said the little old lady, “but I do wish you'd let me know. I'm all untidy and the house is in such a mess.”

She ushered us into a living-room full of the most ugly furniture I have ever seen in my life, that glowed with love and polish. It spoke of the most impeccable bad taste. It was a room which had been cherished as things are cherished in a museum. Nothing was out of place; everything glittered and gleamed and the air smelt faintly of furniture polish and antiseptic. Carefully arranged on the upright piano, that didn't look as though it had ever been used, were a series of photographs, two of them portraits of a heavily moustached gentleman standing rigidly, and the rest of a fluffy mongrel in various attitudes. Most of them were blurred and out of focus, but it was obvious that the moustached gentleman took second place to the dog. This, I suspected, must have been Bow-wow.

“Do sit down. Do sit down,” said the little old lady. “I must make you a cup of tea. I've got some cake. What a merciful thing, I made a cake only the other day. You will have a slice of cake and a cup of tea?”

My one desire at the precise moment was for several very large pints of beer, but I said that I would be delighted with tea.

Over tea and a slice of sponge cake that was as light and frothy as a pound of lead, Ursula chattered on. It was obvious that Emma Golightly had, at some time, been somebody in her father's household for whom she quite obviously had a great affection. It was extraordinary to watch the effect of Ursula's exuberance on Emma. When she had opened the door to us her face had been grey and gaunt, now it was flushed and smiling and she was obviously injected with some of Ursula's enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes!” she kept saying, “and do you remember the time…”

“But of course!” Ursula said.

“And then do you remember that other time when…” And so it went on interminably.

Eventually, with masterly adroitness, Ursula steered the subject on to Bow-wow.

“Er, Gerry doesn't know about Bow-wow,” she said, looking at Emma commiseratingly. “You tell him.”

Emma's eyes filled with tears.

“He was a wonderful dog,” she said. “A wonderful dog. Really. you know, he could almost speak… almost speak, he really could. And then, one day, I let him out and some bloke in a car came down here and knocked him over. Didn't even stop… he didn't even stop. I took him to the vet… he was all covered in blood. I took him to the vet, and I said… I'll pay anything, anything to keep him alive. 'Cos, you see, after my husband died, he was all I had. And he was a lovely dog, he really was. You would have loved him if you'd known him. And he was all covered with blood and he didn't seem to be suffering much, but they said there was nothing they could do. They said the kindest thing would be to put him out of his misery. Well, now, he'd been my companion ever since my husband died. For… for years I'd… I'd had him… For nearly twelve years. And so you can imagine it was a bit of a shock to me. So as they said it was the only thing to do, I said, ‘Well, all right, well — go ahead and do it.' And so they… they put him down.”

She paused for a moment and blew her nose vigorously.

“It must have been a great shock to you,” I said.

“Oh, it was. It was a tremendous shock. It was like taking away part of my life, because, as I said to you, ever since my husband died he'd really been my only companion.”

I wasn't quite sure how to continue this conversation because it was obvious that if Emma went on talking about Bow-wow she would break down and I didn't know how we could cope with that situation. But at that moment Ursula, as it were, unveiled her guns.

“
Darling
Emma,” she said. “It's
because
of the way you treated Bow-wow… the way that you looked after him and gave him such a happy life… it's for that reason that I want to… I want to ask you a
very great favour
. Now please say no, but I do wish that you'd consider it.”

“A favour, Miss Ursula?” said Emma. “Of course I'll do you a favour. What do you want?”

“Well,” said Ursula, prevaricating like mad, “this friend of mine has got this puppy. Unfortunately, owing to illness in the family — his wife is desperately,
desperately
ill — he can't give it the attention that it really deserves, and so — just for a week or so — he wants somebody to look after it. Somebody who'll love it and give it the affection it needs. And immediately I thought of you.”

“Oh,” said Emma, “A puppy? Well, I… I don't know. I mean, after Bow-wow… you know, you don't seem to want another dog, somehow.”

“But this is only a
puppy
,” said Ursula, her eyes brimming. “Only a tiny,
tiny
little puppy. And it's only for a week or so. And I'm sure that you could look after it so
marvellously
.”

“Well, I don't know, Miss Ursula,” said Emma. “I… I wouldn't like to have another dog.”

“But I'm not asking you to
have
it,” said Ursula. “I'm just asking you to look after it for this poor man whose wife is terribly,
terribly
ill. He's torn between his wife and his dog.”

“Ah,” said Emma. “Just as I was when Bill was ill. I remember it now. I sometimes didn't know whether to take Bow-wow out for a walk or stay with Bill, he was that sick. Well, what sort of a dog is it, Miss Ursula?”

“I'll show you,” said Ursula. She bent down and opened the basket. The pekinese was lying curled up, exhausted by his cultural afternoon at the Pavilion, sound asleep. She picked him up unceremoniously by the scruff of his neck and held him before Emma's startled eyes.

“Look at him,” said Ursula. “
Poor little thing.
”

“Oh,” said Emma. “Oh, poor little thing.” She echoed Ursula unconsciously.

Ursula attempted to cradle the puppy in her arms and he gave her, to my satisfaction, a very sharp bite on the fore-finger.

“
Look
at him,” she said, her voice quivering, as he struggled in her arms. “A poor little dumb animal that doesn't really know whether he's coming or going. He's been wrenched away from the family life that he is used to. Surely you will take pity on him, Emma?”

I began to feel that the whole scene was taking on the aspect of something out of
Jane Eyre
, but nevertheless I was so fascinated by Ursula's technique that I let her go on.

“This tiny waif,” she said, extricating her finger with difficulty from his champing jaws, “this tiny waif wants only a little bit of companionship, a little bit of help in his moment of strife… As, indeed, does my friend.”

“Well, I'll give you that he's very, very nice,” said Emma, obviously moved.

“Oh, he is,” said Ursula, clamping her hand firmly over his mouth so that he couldn't bite her again. “He's absolutely charming, and I believe — I'm not sure, but I believe — he's house trained… Just for a week, dear Emma. Can't you possibly see your way to… to… to putting him up, as it were, as though he was a paying guest or something like that?”

“Well, I wouldn't do it for everybody,” said Emma, her eyes fastened, mesmerised, on the wriggling fat-tummied, pink-tummied puppy with his great load of white fur and his bulbous black eyes. “But seeing as he seems a nice little dog, and as it's you that's asking… I'm… I'm… willing to have him for a week.”

“Darling,” said Ursula. “Bless you.”

She whipped the puppy hastily back into his hamper because he was getting out of control. Then she rushed across and threw her arms round Emma and kissed her on both cheeks.

“I always knew,” she said, peering into Emma's face with her brilliant blue searchlight gaze that I knew could have such devastating effect. “I knew that you, of
all
people would not turn away a tiny little puppy like this in his hour of need.”

The curious thing was that she said it with such conviction that I almost got out my handkerchief and sobbed into it.

So eventually, refusing the offer of another cup of tea and another slice of indigestible cake, we left. As we walked down the road towards the station Ursula wrapped her arm round me and clutched me tight.

“Thank you
so
much, darling,” she said. “You were a great help.”

“What do you mean, a great help?” I said. “I didn't do anything.”

“No, but you were there. Sort of… a sort of a force, a presence, you know?”

“Tell me,” I said, interested, “why you want to inflict this poor woman with that vindictive little puppy when she obviously doesn't require one?”

“Oh, but you don't know about Emma,” said Ursula. Which was quite true because I didn't.

“Tell me,” I said,

“Well,” she began. “First of all her husband got ill and then they got Bow-wow and then her attention was divided between the husband and Bow-wow, and then the husband died and she channelled all her recuperance, or whatever you call it, into Bow-wow. And then Bow-wow got knocked down and since then she's been going steadily downhill. My dear, you could see it. Every time I came to visit her I could see that she was getting more and more sort of, well — you know, old and haggish.”

“And how do you think the puppy is going to help her?” I enquired.

“Of course it's going to help her. It's the most savage puppy of the litter. It's bound to bite the postman or the greengrocer or somebody who delivers something, and it's got very long hair for a peke and it's going to shed that all over the place, and it's not house trained so it's going to pee and poo all over the place, dear.”

“Just a minute,” I said, interrupting. “Do you think this is a very wise gift to give a fragile old lady who's just lost her favourite Bow-wow?”

“But my dear, it's the
only
gift,” said Ursula. She stopped, conveniently under a street lamp, and her eyes gazed up at me.

“Bow-wow used to be exactly the same. He left hair all over the place, and if she didn't let him out he'd pee in the hall, and she'd complain for days… Gives her something to do. Well, since her husband died and Bow-wow died she's got nothing to do at all and she was just going into a sort of… a sort of grey
decline
. Now, with this new puppy, he'll bite her and he'll bite everyone else. They'll probably have court cases and he'll put his hair all over the place and he'll pee on the carpet and she'll be as delighted as anything.”

I gazed at Ursula and for the first time I saw her for what she was.

“Do you know,” I said, putting my arms round her and kissing her, “I think you're rather nice.”

“It's not a question of niceness,” said Ursula, disrobing herself on me, as it were. “It's not a question of niceness, She's just a pleasant old lady and I want her to have fun while she's still alive. That puppy will give her tremendous fun.”

“But you know, I would never have thought of that,” I said.

“Of
course
you would, darling,” she said, giving me a brilliant smile. “You're so clever.”

“Sometimes,” I said as I took her arm and walked her down the street. “Sometimes I begin to wonder whether I am.”

The next few months had many halcyon days for me. Ursula possessed a sort of ignorant purity that commanded respect. I very soon found that in order to avoid embarrassment it was better to take her out into the countryside rather than confine her to a restaurant or somewhere similar. At least in the countryside the cuckoos and larks and hedgehogs accepted her for what she was, a very natural and nice person. Take her into the confines of Bournemouth society and she dropped bricks, at the rate of an unskilled navvy helping on a working site.