Imaginative Experience (11 page)

The dog in Paris had been similar but with a darker coat; it, too, had a knowing expression, but it had been older, less demonstrative and trustful than the creature whose head she fondled now.

The Paris dog had appeared outside the cafe where they sat holding hands. It wove its way among the tables carrying its tail high, its flanks brushing against the customers’ legs. Making a beeline for Giles, it rested its head on his knee and gazed up into his face. Giles had dropped her hand and stroked the dog, scratched its ribs. She had watched it close its eyes in ecstasy when he patted its flank, and gravely, without snatching, it had accepted a lump of sugar.

The chestnuts were in flower and the sun was shining on that afternoon as it had on previous days. In the parks and gardens there were beds of iris and the air was scented with lilac. In the Luxembourg Gardens the gravel crunched under their feet and water splashed cool in the fountains. The dog, who had followed them, lapped the water, and the water dripped from its furry jaws. Giles put his arm round her shoulders as they walked; when she leaned her head back her neck rested on his bare arm. He carried his jacket and walked in his shirt-sleeves. As she lifted her face to the setting sun, feeling its warmth, Giles had said, ‘What about dinner? An early dinner. I am feeling hungry.’

They ate in a restaurant in a quiet courtyard off a side-street where they had eaten the night before and the two nights before that, sitting each time at the same table. They ate fresh asparagus and veal with cream and mushroom sauce, and strawberries dusted with sugar. Giles drank Chardonnay while she drank water. They ordered coffee and Giles drank brandy. She felt supremely happy and secure talking to Giles, watching the people round them, listening to the chatter.

Some time during the evening the dog had left them. Leaving the restaurant, they had strolled down to the Seine to watch the barges and pleasure boats, crane their necks downriver to see the spire of the Sainte Chapelle as they had done the night before and the nights before that. Then, wandering back to their hotel, they stopped at a cafe and Giles ordered a
fine.
They sat at a table on the pavement watching the strolling crowds. Before he had finished his brandy, a breeze sprang up which shook the chestnut trees and the flowers began drifting down to be trodden underfoot on the pavement.

Back in their hotel, high up on the seventh floor, she had undressed and, throwing the window open to the night, had looked across the narrow street and seen, as she had the several nights before, a woman working at a desk in a brightly lit room. ‘She’s working very late,’ she had said to Giles undressing in the room behind her and he, half-undressed in his shirt and boxer shorts, had said roughly, ‘It’s not late.’ Snatching up his trousers, he put them on again and, taking his wallet from where he had laid it, he had made for the door.

Surprised, she had said, ‘Where are you going?’ Or perhaps she had been too startled to say anything. Anyway, she remembered, standing in the street in London stroking the strange dog, Giles had left the room without answering. ‘Vamoosed,’ Julia said to the dog, and shivered in recollection of that long and evil night.

She had been too proud to follow and look for him in the cafes and bars they had frequented; she waited standing by the window, watching the woman working at her desk in the room across the street. When at last the woman put away her work and left her office, switching off the light, she had finished undressing and, getting into bed, lain wide-eyed, ears cocked for Giles’s return.

But she was asleep when the door burst open and Giles staggered in; he was drunk and the dog was with him.

‘It was looking a bit puzzled,’ Julia said to the dog in London, ‘and I don’t know where they had been, but they both smelled terrible and were so wet they might have been swimming in a fountain; there had been a thunderstorm and I had slept through it. They were very good-humoured, I remember that.’

As she walked Julia fished in her bag for her key and, reaching the house where she lived on the top floor, she said to the dog, ‘You had better go home now.’ Opening the door, she went in and closed it in the dog’s face.

Climbing the stairs to her flat, she wished she had not met the dog; it reminded her of the dog in Paris, and being so happy for those few days with Giles.

At first it had been all right when Giles came back; she had laughed when the dog shook itself and leapt onto the bed with her, rubbing its face on the covers trying to get dry. She had laughed, and Giles had laughed too, lurching about the room half-in, half-out of his trousers, romping with the dog who, playful in the way dogs are when they are wet, rushed about the room jumping on and off the bed, humping its back, tucking its tail between its legs and barking.

The racket they made woke people; somebody sent for the concierge, who came up in the lift and knocked on the door. There was a hissed altercation.
‘Alors, Monsieur, que faites-vous? D’où vient cet animal? Sale bête. Vous réveillez les clients. Vous faites un bruit épouvantable.’
And Giles,
‘C’est mon ami, mon copain,’
getting back into his trousers, tripping over his shoes, tottering along to the lift with the dog in his arms, chivvied by the concierge, laughing in the lift as it went down, his laugh echoing up the lift shaft. And she had laughed, too; the dog was such a comical and friendly dog. What happened later was no fault of the dog’s.

I would rather not be reminded, Julia thought, reaching the top floor and letting herself into her flat. The flat was stuffy; she had been out all day working. She slipped off her shoes and went to open a window and look out along the gardens behind the houses, in one of which was a plane tree which, having shed its leaves, displayed to full advantage its peeling branches and mottled trunk.

There were plane trees too in Paris, and if she looked out of her window which gave on to the street she might see the dog; it might still be there to remind her of Giles’s return that morning, minus his canine companion but with a bottle of whisky. Where had he got it at that hour? All those years later she was puzzled; it had never bothered her before, but now it niggled. ‘Oh God,’ she said out loud, wishing to blot that night and the many similar nights from her mind.

It had been her morning sickness which set him off; he had up until then been kind, made a joke of it. But as she retched at the basin, he had grabbed the toothglass for his whisky and knocked a tooth and hurt himself. Drunk and drinking he had suddenly yelled abuse, calling her a ‘stupid bitch, cow’; then he asked nastily why her mother had never taught her to fuck and cursed her when, clumsy from drink, he broke the glass.

Rapidly she had tried to pick up the shards for, lurching about in his socks, he was in danger of cutting his feet. He had forestalled her, scooped up the broken glass and thrown it in her face, cutting her eye, slicing his fingers, splattering blood on the wall.

It was raining in Paris that day when they left and raining in London when they got back. They did not see the dog again; it was not the dog’s fault. Now, reminded of those few short days of unadulterated joy, Julia Piper was justly grateful that none of the subsequent years of fear and disgust had managed to obliterate their memory.

O
NE REASON MAURICE BENSON’S
career as a private investigator had been less than successful had been his inconsistent attention-span; it was only when embarked on his career as a twitcher that he was ever to become totally absorbed by the subject he was watching.

On the evening he followed Rebecca from Sylvester’s house to Patel’s Corner Shop his attention was first deflected by the curious scene between a young woman he thought he recognized and Mrs Patel and then, while he was trying to place her, by the silly and acrimonious argument which broke out between Janet and her lover Tim, Janet maintaining that the Patels originated in Bombay or Bengal and Tim vigorously asserting that the family came from Karachi. Quite how he had become drawn into the dispute Maurice could not later remember—perhaps he had trailed too close on their heels—but with Tim holding his arm and calling him ‘squire’, and a little later ‘mate’, he found himself drawn up a street to the right as they left the shop, while Rebecca turned sharp left and was lost.

With Tim holding his left arm and Janet gripping his right he resigned himself to swaying along between his new and argumentative acquaintances; it was possible, he supposed, that they would know more about the young woman he thought he recognized than what he had overheard in the shop. For the present, though, it was not wise to interrupt Tim; he had obviously consumed more alcohol than was good for him and was, with it, aggressive and being made more so by Janet. Maurice did, though, observe and begin to wonder why, as they walked, Janet, who was steering their trio, kept turning right each time they reached a corner; some ten minutes after leaving the Corner Shop it was again in view but from a different angle. Before he could stop himself, Maurice exclaimed, ‘We have walked in a circle!’ Tim, who had stopped and was rummaging for a key, let out a shout of ‘Traitor!’ and, breaking loose from Janet, departed at a run.

Janet said, ‘Now you’ve done it. Go after him.’

Maurice said, ‘Why?’

Janet said, ‘He’s doubled back to the pub. I especially didn’t pass it. I am not going after him, you must. It’s your fault; he was coming home like a lamb.’ Then she said, ‘What are you waiting for? Go on!’

Maurice, who had experienced this scene with other couples, said, ‘All right, but just tell me, was that woman in the shop Julia Piper?’

Janet said, ‘Of course. She lives on the top floor. Do hurry, I do not want Tim any drunker.’

Maurice said, ‘Thanks. OK. Have you a key?’ He noted the number on the street door.

Janet said, ‘Of course I have a key. Do look sharp and fetch Tim back.’ She added rather reluctantly, ‘Please.’

Maurice said, ‘OK, number seven, the house with the dog. That your dog?’

Janet, noticing the dog, said, ‘Certainly
not,
they shit on the pavements. What’s it doing sitting here? The pub,’ she said, taking a key from her bag, ‘is the Goat, just round the corner. Oh, do buck up!’ And she pushed past the dog to put the key in the lock. ‘Get out of the way,’ she said, aiming a kick at the creature, who snarled and shrank aside but dashed through the door as she opened it.

Maurice said, ‘It seems to belong.’

‘Probably to someone visiting the Ellisons. Oh, please hurry and fetch Tim!’ Janet shouted. ‘He will pay attention to you. He did this once before we set up together; he went off with my brother and my father pried him from the bar. I am sure,’ she said, ‘you will manage.’

Maurice, thinking he could do with a drink, promised to do his best and set off for the Goat, where Tim was at once visible sitting at a table with what looked like a very large gin or vodka.

Maurice furnished himself with a pint of bitter and, approaching Tim, said, ‘Mind if I join you?’

Without looking up Tim said, ‘Feel free.’

Maurice sat, swallowed some beer, lit a cigarette. Tim said, ‘I suppose Janet sent you.’

Maurice said, ‘Spot on.’

Tim said, ‘I am sobering up.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ Maurice said.

Tim said, ‘This is water.’

‘Water?’ Maurice peered into Tim’s glass. ‘Vodka and lemon.’

‘Perrier.’

‘Go on—’

‘Taste it.’

Maurice dipped a finger, tasted, ‘M–m—. Why water?’

‘As I said, sobering up. I’m awash.’

Maurice drank some beer before asking, ‘Why?’

Tim, who had not noticeably sobered, said, ‘That would be telling,’ and looked sly.

Maurice inhaled his cigarette and waited. At the bar a group of men were discussing a goat for sale. ‘True, there’s an advert in Patels.’ ‘What’s a goat doing in London?’ ‘For sale, d’you say?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘My guess is some fool gave a kid a kid.’ ‘Whatever for?’ ‘For a pet, stupid.’

‘Tell me about Julia Piper.’ Maurice leaned towards Tim.

‘Top-floor flat.’ Tim drank his Perrier.

‘Know her well?’

‘No. Janet thought she was committing suicide.’

‘Suicide?’

‘She made Janet drunk; she’s not used to it, poor little thing. Could you get me another Perrier or two? Here’s the money,’ Tim fumbled in his hip pocket. ‘I’ve gotta drink a lotta Perrier.’ He belched. ‘Excuse—’

Maurice went to the bar, replenished his glass, returned with three bottles of Perrier, put them in front of Tim.

Tim said, ‘Thanks. Could you pour? Hands a bit shaky.’

Maurice poured. ‘Julia Piper?’

‘She shouted at Janet about God. Most odd.’

‘God?’

Tim swallowed his Perrier water in large gulps. ‘That’s a lot better, it’s working.’ He refilled his glass. ‘Tell you something.’ He leaned towards Maurice.

Maurice said, ‘Yes?’

Tim whispered, ‘Want to—but can’t when I’m pissed—d’you get me?’

Maurice said, ‘Well—’

Tim hissed, ‘It’s not well. If I can’t, she’ll despise me. It’s bloody humiliating, it’s—’

Maurice said, ‘Julia Piper?’

Tim said, ‘No, no, Janet. What has Julia Piper got to do with it?’

Maurice said, ‘I thought we were discussing Julia Piper.’

Tim said, ‘No, no, never even spoken to the woman. It’s Janet, she’s the object of this exercise,’ and he drank more Perrier. There was a burst of laughter at the bar and a voice said, ‘If the Pakis buy it, they don’t butcher kosher.’ Another voice jeered, ‘You’re confused, kosher’s for Jews.’

Tim said, ‘If Janet were here, she would go up to that lot and make a speech about racism. She’s like that, a wonderful girl. You married?’

Maurice said, ‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Boy?’

‘No.’

‘Thought not. No sex? What d’you do about sex, then?’ He was still partially under the liberating influence.

Maurice said, ‘Not much.’

Tim said, ‘Gosh.’ There was a pause while he finished his Perrier, drinking slowly and thoughtfully until the glass was empty. Then he stood up and, turning to Maurice, shook him by the hand and said, smiling, ‘All clear now! Time to go home. Thanks a lot. Must rejoin my lovely Janet. A breath of fresh air in the street and hey presto, total recovery. How’s that for an advertisement for Perrier water?’ And he pushed the door open and was gone.