“And?”
“And it wasn’t a roaring success. He brought his new . . .” it was an effort for him to say the word, but he said it nonetheless, “. . . mistress.”
“How interesting!” said Angus.
Big Lou raised an eyebrow. “Mistress? What do you mean by that, Matthew?”
“Well, that’s what she is,” he said. “She’s his mistress.”
“But he’s a widower, isn’t he?” Big Lou persisted. “You shouldn’t call her that! That’s downright insulting.”
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Angus Lordie shook a finger at him. “Yes, Matthew! You should be ashamed of yourself ! She’s his
Matthew shrugged. “Whatever you say. But I think of her as his mistress.”
“Well, you need to think again,” said Big Lou. “What’s she like, anyway?”
“A gold-digger,” said Matthew.
Big Lou stared at him. “How do you know she’s a gold-digger? Did she say or do anything that made you think that?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” said Matthew. “There she is, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than him, probably more, and she’s all over him. She must know that he’s not short of the readies.”
“Maybe she likes him,” said Big Lou. “Ten years isn’t all that big a gap.”
While this discussion was raging back and forth, Cyril had edged slightly closer to Matthew’s ankles. He was now no longer curled up, but was lying flat on the ground, his front paws extended before him, his chin resting on the ground between his legs, his eyes fixed on the exposed flesh above the top of Matthew’s socks.
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Cyril was a good dog. Although he liked to drink beer in the Cumberland Bar and to wink at girls, he had few other vices, and in particular he was not aggressive. He liked people, in general, and was always happy to lick any hand which was extended to him in friendship. If people insisted on throwing sticks, Cyril would always fetch them, although he found this tedious and pointless. But he liked to oblige, and he knew that it was obliging to do the things that people expected dogs to do.
But there was something about Matthew’s ankles that was just absurdly tempting. They were not fat ankles, they were average ankles. Nor were they any different in colour from most of the other ankles that dogs usually saw. In smell, they were neutral, and so there was no olfactory clue to their attractiveness. It’s just that they were immensely attractive to a dog, and at that moment Cyril could think of nothing else that he would prefer to do than to bite them.
But he could not. He knew the consequences of succumbing to the temptation. There would be the most awful row and he would be beaten by his father, as he thought of Angus. There would be raised voices and words that frightened him. And worst of all there would be disgrace, and a feeling that the human world did not want him to be part of it. There would be rejection and exclusion in the most unambiguous sense.
Suddenly, Cyril stood up. He turned away from Matthew’s ankles – put them beyond temptation – and began to howl. He lifted his head in the air and howled, pouring into the sound all the sadness of his world and of the canine condition. It was a howl of such regret and sorrow as to melt ilka heart, ilka heart.
And none of those present knew why he cried.
Trudging up Dundas Street with his mother, deep in thought, Bertie reflected on the dire course of events over the past few days. He had enjoyed Tofu’s party immensely – and had decided 234
that when he turned eighteen, and became free of his mother, he would go to as many parties as possible. He understood that when one was a student one did not even need to be invited to parties – one just went anyway. That prospect appealed to him greatly, as he doubted whether he would get many invitations.
Indeed, the invitation to Tofu’s party had been the only invitation he had ever received.
But if the party had been a conspicuous success, the same could not be said of its immediate aftermath. When Irene had picked him up in the car, Bertie had been worried that she would immediately notice the fact that he was wearing the pair of jeans which he had obtained from Tofu in exchange for his crushed-strawberry dungarees and a hot-dog. The jeans fitted him perfectly and they were just right in every respect.
There were faded patches at the knees and the hems at the bottom of the leg were ragged. There were several pockets on each side, which were undoubtedly useful, although Bertie had nothing to put in them. He had always wanted a penknife, and had been consistently refused one by Irene; if he were ever to get one, then there was a place for that in the right pocket.
“What do you want a penknife for?” Irene had asked when Bertie had raised the subject some months earlier.
“They’re useful for cutting things,” said Bertie. “They have lots of blades, Mummy, and some of them have those things for taking stones out of horses’ hooves.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Bertie,” said Irene. “You’ve never even been near a horse, and you don’t need to cut anything. If you do, then just ask Mummy to cut it for you with her nice scissors.”
Bertie had said nothing more, knowing that there was no possibility of getting Irene to change her mind once she had made a ruling. She just did not understand, he concluded, and he thought she never would. Boys need to do certain things –
to have penknives, and secret clubs, and bikes – but Irene would never accept this. That was because she had
