Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (16 page)

“Have you noticed a change in his behaviour … eating, walking … urinating?”

“No, not really.” 

I try to reassure him, whispering, “It’s alright, you’ll be okay.”  But there’s something about the vet’s face that’s worrying me and I begin to feel that it’s not all right, at all.  The vet opens Gaz’ mouth and looks at his teeth, lifts his ear flaps and examines his ear canals. 

You have to admit, Gaz, he’s being very thorough.

“Well?” I say, quietly.  “What do you think?”

He doesn’t answer at first; he lifts Gaz back down to the floor and then says, “Well, I’d like you to bring him in tomorrow, for a biopsy.  His temperature is raised and I don’t like the look of the lump.”

My heart falls to my feet.  I had been so hoping for a different answer. 

“Oh,” I say, and bend down to hug Gaz, hot tears squeezing through my eyelids.  I stay down there rather longer than I should, hoping to dry my tears on Gaz’ black coat, but I fail miserably.

“Don’t worry, yet, Mrs McCarthy … it may be nothing.  It’s always good to be sure.”

He ushers me out and we make the appointment with the receptionist.  I have to bring him in the morning, before school. 

Gaz virtually runs to the door – I’m the one skidding on the linoleum this time, as we shoot through the door into the fresh air and freedom.  We both breathe deeply and we get back into the car with relief.  I take him for a little tootle around the rec, on my way home and as he sniffs his way around the periphery, I watch him with a heavy heart and a love that only a dog-lover can understand.

I sit on
the
bench and reflect on the things that have happened since that fateful day.  I feel pleased with myself … that I haven’t let David defeat me.  I’ve risen above the situation and started, slowly, to build a life for myself after marriage.  As Gaz waddles towards me and nudges my arm with his nose, I wonder what he has in store tomorrow.  Should I tell David about it?  Would he care?  He doesn’t appear to show any interest in Gaz any more, so I decide he’s lost the right to know what’s going on.  “Let’s go home, old bean,” I say, putting on his lead and standing up.  “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

He looks up at me with his hazel brown eyes, so trusting, so loving and we walk off to get in the car, to go home.

*

I drop him off the next morning and as the nurse leads him away, he looks back at me as if he is being led away to the guillotine. 

What’s happening to me?  Why are you allowing her to take me away?

I say, “See you later, Gaz,” hoping he’ll understand.

I find it difficult to concentrate at school and rush back at 4.30 to collect him.  I sit and wait for ages in the waiting room.  They know I’m here, but no one tells me anything and I begin to wonder if something dreadful has happened. 

Then the door opens and out he comes, wagging and squirming – smiling, even.  The nurse hands me the lead and says the vet will be out in a minute. 

We wait patiently – I note the bare patch on his back where the lump was, with a small bandage covering the wound.  “Come this way,” the vet says abruptly and we are once again ushered into his room.

“So … the good news is we’ve removed the tumour,” he says. 

I wait for the bad news.

“I’m afraid it was cancerous, but we think we’ve got it all.  You need to be vigilant now – to keep an eye on any possible recurrence.  It’s very common in dogs like Gaz, I’m afraid.”

I feel sick, pleased, worried and relieved, all at the same time. 

What would I do without him?  He’s been my stalwart companion through all this … he doesn’t deserve cancer. 

“So, do you mean he’s all right now, then?” I say, willing my eyes to dry up.  I really don’t want to cry again – I understand how difficult it must be to be a vet.  Not only are you dealing with animals in distress, but with their owners too.  You have to be a scientist, surgeon, counsellor and friend, all in one.

“He should be fine … but there are no guarantees, I’m afraid.  I’d like to see him again in a week, just to check the wound and if you have any concerns, bring him back any time.  Because of where the excision is, we don’t have to worry about him biting his stitches, but keep an eye on it.  He may try to roll …”

We say our goodbyes and I go to settle the bill at the little window in the waiting room.  As much as I love Gaz, I do a double take when I look at the total.  We’d never taken out pet insurance – David never considered it worth it.  I think of sending him the bill with a snarky comment  … but then I think, no, this is nothing to do with him any more. 

Gaz is
my
dog … my friend, companion and I’ll deal with it.

When we get home, I give him a larger than normal amount of tea to try to compensate for his bad day.  We snuggle down to watch Eastenders together on the sofa and I say, “Sorry, Gaz.  What a horrible day you’ve had.”  I grab his head, holding his silky ears in my hands and kiss him on the soft patch on the top of his head.

Steady on, old girl.  You’re hurting my ears, but thanks for your concern.  Not one of my better days.

Chapter Fourteen

We get two different estate agents round to value the house.  We don’t let on that, in fact, they won’t be making any money on the deal, so they wander around, saying what a ‘charming’ property it is and how, with a bit of updating here and there, it will be lovely. 

What a bloody cheek.  One of them says the bathrooms are ‘a bit tired’ and the other one, that the kitchen would benefit from some ‘modernising’. 

When they’ve gone, I appraise the house and try to look at it with objective eyes.  I suppose they’re right … we’ve lived here for years and done very little to it.  It’s funny how you don’t notice after a while; it’s just your home – you don’t notice the shabby tiles in the bathroom, the mould around the window panes, the threadbare carpet going up the stairs, the boring garden.  I thank God that we’re not
actually
selling it – we really would have to tart it up.  Everyone is so ‘into’ buying houses these days after watching too many programmes on TV – they expect Sarah Beeny to have personally designed the interior.  Well, show home this is not
…

The agents’ valuations are within £10,000 of each other, so David inevitably goes for the smaller valuation and I, for the larger one.  But what’s a few thousand when you’re talking hundreds?  We agree on a figure and I’m happy with it.

I start looking at Prime Location and Rightmove on the laptop more seriously now.  It’s funny how quickly I find myself looking at properties completely out of my price range –
I wonder if I could knock them down a couple of hundred thousand?  Maybe if I win the lottery, I could afford this Edwardian mansion with eight bedrooms and twenty acres …

I swop between rented and for sale and can’t decide what to do.  Renting is just money down the drain, isn’t it?  Do I know enough about Bath to buy something there?

People in France don’t have this obsession with buying houses.  Why is it we British feel it’s just not … well,
British
, to rent?  Surely it would be better to move somewhere temporarily first and see if I like it?

This all twirls round my head as I click on hundreds of houses and apartments.

David has agreed that I don’t have to move until December (that’s big of him).  He and Suzie have got to sort out the mortgage situation and I’ve actually got to find somewhere.  It sounds a long way away, but I suddenly realise it’s only, in fact, two months.  That’s eight weeks to the uninitiated and that’s not long at all.

*

I take myself off to Bath most Saturdays and wander around various areas, trying to get the ‘feel’ of the place.  I decide I like the area known as Bathwick – if you’re going to be in Bath, you might as well be central, otherwise what’s the point?

I’ve decided renting is the way to go – I can reassess after my trip to Australia.

I find several rented properties that I like the look of, but they don’t allow pets.  Gaz is turning out to be a stumbling block.

I turn out to be rather a troublesome potential tenant; it seems what I want is near impossible in Bath – two bedrooms, a garden, somewhere to park, all mod cons and it has to be pet-friendly.  A lot of the agents I speak to, look at me as if I might be slightly insane, but bite their lips and go and look through their filing cabinets, sighing heavily as they do so.

After a few weeks of searching, both physically and online, an agent rings me on my mobile and says something has just come on that he thinks is perfect for me.

I rush over after work and he shows me round this ground floor, two bedroomed apartment with its own parking place and a communal garden.  Pets are allowed (with restrictions like being kept on the lead in the garden etc, but that’s fine).  The street is a bit busy but – hey – it’s central and I can walk to the shops and there’s a park, just up the road.  It’s unfurnished, apart from the white goods in the kitchen, has gas central heating and it’s painted in neutral colours.

I feel a flush of real excitement as he shows me round.  I can’t quite believe I can afford it, but I think I can, just.  I can move in on 20th December, which is perfect.  School will have finished and I will have finished with school.

I take it – sign all the papers and pay the deposit.

When I get home, I email David with the news – we hardly ever actually speak to each other any more.  I find email can be wonderfully impersonal and cold.

David

I have found somewhere to live in Bath.  I move on 20th December. 

We need to discuss who has what, re contents.

Anna

I think that’s cold enough, don’t you?

*

I tell both the kids about my flat and send them links, via the internet.  Both approve and Lisa comes with me one Saturday to go and have another look at it.  We take the opportunity to have a wander round the shops and it begins to sink in that this soon will be my local area.  I’ll be able to walk to the Bath Theatre Royal and the The Little Theatre Cinema – both places I love.  I look forward to my future cultural forays.

Following on from my email, David and I exchange a chain of emails along these lines:

David,

As my mother gave us the canteen of cutlery and the cut glass wine glasses and decanter, I’ll take those.  I’ll also have the double bed (you can have the beds in the kids’ rooms).  I’m leaving all the white goods, as the flat has them.  I haven’t got a dining room, so you may as well have the dining table and chairs – but I’ll take the three piece suite.  I’m taking the telly, as I’m sure you and Suzie already have one.

Anna

Anna

That’s all okay with me – I would dispute the glasses and decanter though – I’m pretty sure my parents gave us those.  It would have been nice to keep the three piece suite – I always thought you didn’t really like it?

David

David

It was definitely my parents – they gave them to us when we first moved in.  Re the sofa etc, what makes you think I don’t like it?  You’ll be keeping the one in the kitchen, anyway.  By the way, please don’t lay on some big ‘do’ for my leaving at school.  I’d rather slip away unnoticed, given the circumstances.  No doubt people will want to buy me something – get me a M and S voucher and then I can either get something for the flat or clothes.  Literally, no fuss please.

Anna

So there we have it – that’s what our marriage has boiled down to – sharing out the spoils.  In some ways, I would like to leave everything behind and make a completely new start, but I have to be practical and I can’t afford to buy everything new.  

I try to imagine the stuff from our house in the apartment and work out where I will put things.  I realise I’ll have to buy a small table and chairs to stick at the end of the sitting room; the kitchen’s too small for one – hardly room to swing a cat.  Talking of cats, where is Gaz going to base himself?  It’ll have to be the sitting room; the only other places are the rather narrow corridor or my bedroom.  Perhaps I’ll let him choose.

*

As the end of term approaches, I get my removal company to deliver some boxes and I start slowly packing.  This sends Gaz into a highly nervous state and he sits permanently at the front door or at the bottom of the stairs – that way, I can’t escape without him.  His wound has now fully recovered and the trauma of his days at the vet are in the dim and distant past.  I check him out for lumps but as yet, nothing.  Long may it last.  Our walks to the rec are now tinged with sadness as we both know that there won’t be many left. 

How odd it will be to leave this house – our bolt hole, our haven and yes, our love nest, for so many years.

*

Do you remember when we brought Adam home, David?  In those days, they kept me in hospital for four or five days – you’d been at home with Holly, waiting for the big day when I was allowed home with him.  You’d surprised me – you’d painted the little room and hung up a Welcome Home banner across the top of the front door.  The house was full of flowers and cards.