Clouds among the Stars. Victoria Clayton

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СКАЧАТЬ But he answers to Derek. When he answers at all, that is.’

      ‘Why should I want to call him anything?’ I began to be suspicious.

      ‘Because he’s a present for you. To make up for getting drunk yesterday and not going with you to the police station to see Pa. Maria-Alba was quite right. It was very bad of me and Derek’s to say sorry.’

      ‘Oh, but … Really, Bron, you shouldn’t have – I’d forgotten all about it. I don’t think I can … You know how Pa hates dogs.’

      ‘Haven’t you always said you wanted one? Well, now Pa’s in the clink this is your chance.’

      ‘But, Bron, imagine what he’ll think when he comes home – as though we were taking advantage of him being away. Of course I have always wanted a dog, but not now, when things are impossibly difficult as it is –’

      ‘Well, I must say …’ Bron’s handsome face was despondent. ‘It’s extremely hurtful, you know to have one’s presents rejected. I was so pleased when I had the idea. I thought. I know what will make Harriet happy again. A dear little dog she can love, to make up for Pa being banged up.’ He lifted a hand to shade his eyes and his voice was broken. ‘I don’t think I was ever more unhappy –’

      ‘Oh, Bron, I’m sorry! It was kind of you and I’m very grateful but –’

      ‘Not another word!’ Bron heaved a sigh and dashed away an invisible tear. ‘I’ll take him away. Though the man I bought him from has already left the country. He was on his way to the airport. That’s how I managed to get him for such a good price. He’s a very rare breed, you know. I’m afraid it’s the dogs’ home for Derek. He won’t like it. Apparently he hates being alone. They’ll put him in a concrete pen and he’ll howl until his poor little chest hurts and then at the end of the week, when no one’s claimed him, they’ll take him to the vet. He’ll be so happy, thinking he’s going to a good home, and instead they’ll fill his veins with poison –’

      ‘All right, all right!’ When we were children Bron used to enjoy telling me sad stories to make me cry, about overburdened donkeys and starving robins frozen to branches, and it always worked. ‘I’ll keep him – for the moment, anyway. Just until Pa gets home.’ I fondled Derek’s soft brown triangular ears that lay flat against his head and he wrinkled his brow comically. He was the colour of muscovado sugar, with a white muzzle and a black nose. I made up my mind to put an advertisement in the local post office straightaway before I got too fond of him. ‘And – thank you.’ I spoke a little gruffly because I was not feeling particularly grateful but Bron didn’t seem to notice.

      ‘Righto. Here you are.’ He handed me the loop of the lead. ‘He likes bacon and eggs to eat.’

      ‘What? Oh, don’t be silly, Bron. You know nothing about dogs.’

      ‘It’s what the man said. I wasn’t aware that you were an authority.’

      ‘I’m not, but surely he eats raw meat and tins of Scoffalot and that sort of thing.’

      ‘I didn’t say you had to cook the bacon, did I?’

      ‘Well.’ I tried not to sound ungracious. ‘What sort of dog is he, then? I hope he isn’t going to get any bigger.’

      ‘Oh, no, he’s fully-grown. The man said so. He’s a – a Cornish terrier.’

      ‘Really?’ I looked at Derek with interest. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

      ‘You’ve still got a lot to learn, Miss Harriet Byng.’ Bron spoke sarcastically as though still smarting at my ingratitude. ‘Expert though you are, in so many fields.’

      ‘I’m not going to call him Derek, though.’

      ‘Whatever you like. I’m going out. Tell Maria-Alba I shan’t be in for supper.’

      ‘But, Bron, you’ll come with me to see Pa today, won’t you? Ma’s gone to have her jaw tightened and Ophelia’s in a state about Crispin’s desertion and Portia still isn’t back and I don’t like to ask Maria-Alba – she was so upset yesterday.’

      ‘Look, we can’t all go trooping along as though it was some kind of party. A little tact is called for.’ Bron pressed his chin into his neck and looked at me reprovingly. ‘I’m going to see Wanda.’ Wanda was Bron’s agent. ‘There should be some good piccies in the evening papers. They took hundreds from every angle and wrote down everything I said, like bees sipping nectar. I don’t suppose they often get the chance to interview someone highly articulate. Wanda particularly wants me to go to this party tonight to meet an important film director. It would be madness to hurl away all my chances just to visit Pa. Ten to one Marina Marlow will be there, and Pa won’t want grown children at his knee when he’s trying to lure the bird into the cage. Honestly, Harriet, you must try to put yourself in other people’s places. It’s no good just thinking about what would suit you.’

      My mother must have been right about Marina. It was selfish of me, perhaps, to be depressed by the idea. Derek suddenly took it into his head that down in the kitchen was the one thing for which he had been searching all his life and that nothing must hold him back from immediate consummation. His paws windmilled on the polished floor and my arms were pulled painfully in their sockets. I went downstairs with him, leaving Bron with the moral high ground.

       SEVEN

      ‘I shall call him Byron,’ I said. ‘After the poet.’

      ‘He doesn’t look a bit like a nasty old poet.’ Cordelia was feeding Derek with glacé cherries, which he was gobbling greedily. ‘I wish Bron had given him to me. He’s such a sweet little snookums. I’d call him Honeypot.’

      ‘You wouldn’t!’ I was revolted. Derek blinked and panted and laid his chin gratefully on Cordelia’s knee, showing a regrettable lack of taste.

      ‘Why not? Better than calling him after a boring, wrinkly old man.’

      ‘Byron was only thirty-six when he died. He was stunningly attractive and women fell in love with him by the lorry-load, even though he had a club foot. Besides he was a first-class poet,’ I added, attempting to redress the trivial aspects of my argument.

      ‘A club foot? Now that is romantic,’ Cordelia became dreamy. ‘Like Richard the Third, do you mean?’ This was Cordelia’s favourite film and every time it came to the arty little cinema down the road she made me sit through practically every performance. Laurence Olivier’s improbable wig sent shivers of delight through her and she made noses like shoehorns out of Plasticine for all her dolls. Now she got up from her chair, brought one shoulder up to her ear and walked about the kitchen, limping. Derek – Byron, I should say – was driven into a frenzy by this performance, racing several times round the table, jumping up at Maria-Alba and knocking the whisk from her hand.

      ‘Uffa! Senti!’ she said, fetching a cloth to wipe zabaglione from the table, chairs and floor. ‘Le cose vanno di male in peggio!’

      By which I understood her to mean that things were going from bad to worse. Derek was sick at her feet, the glacé cherries being conspicuous on their return. Maria-Alba flung me the СКАЧАТЬ