Touchy Subjects (9 page)

Louise turned on him. "That's not a fair question."

"I know, I know, I don't mean it ... divisively."

"They're all really bright in their own ways. Light's changing," she pointed out.

His tires squealed through the puddles. "You think they're all perfect," he accused her fondly.

"No I don't. Well, nearly," she conceded. Nose pressed to the blurred window, her tone sank again. "I wish we were home."

"Twenty minutes."

"Fifteen, if you shift your arse. Gide gets so fractious when it pisses down like this."

"We're living in the wrong climate," he observed, not for the first time. "Not to mention a cultural wasteland."

"Yeah, well next time Barcelona University has simultaneous openings in classics and sociology we must remember to apply."

"Ho ho ho," he chuckled like some grim Santa.

Trevor's favourite moment was always when he put his key in the lock. Eruption, joyous noise, crashes against the other side of the door. Tonight he tried to take his raincoat off, but Gide felled him.

"Sweeties, gorgeous-gorgeousnesses," Louise was crooning, Proust swinging high in her arms. "We're home, yes we are, yes we are."

"Let Daddy get up. No licky face, no licky," Trevor was telling Gide gruffly.

"How's he meant to know not to lick it when you offer it to him like a big jam doughnut?" Louise bent down to kiss her husband under one eye. "Mallarmé doesn't lick faces, does she, lovely girl. Who's a lovely quiet girl?"

"Did you miss us, Mallarmé?" Trevor asked, sleeking her yellow fur. "Were you bored silly? Just another three days till the holidays and then walkies anytime."

Proust writhed in ecstasy in Louise's arms, and Gide began another round of barking.

"Trevor!"

"I said the VP-word, didn't I?" Trevor rebuked himself.

As he was putting away the bagfuls of Christmas shopping, he said, "We've bought no presents for them yet."

"Oh, I know. Do you think—one big one each, or several smalls?"

"Smalls, definitely. They love tearing off the paper."

"They always like some new squeakies. But remember last year," said Louise, "when we gave Gide that rubber apple that was too small and I had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre?"

"That was the most terrifying moment of my life," said Trevor. "Hey, I asked the dean of arts what he's getting his poodle and he said nothing."

"You mean he didn't answer?"

"No, I mean he said, '
Nothing.'
He said, and I quote,
'She doesn't know it's Christmas!'
"

Later on, Trevor was making his weekly call to his parents in Belfast. "Not much new, Mum. Except that Proust just gave us the fright of our lives by turning the telly on! With the remote."

"Is she the fat one?" asked his mother.

Trevor felt that familiar wave of irritation. "Proust is a he; he's tiny," he reminded her. "The one you mean is Gide, but actually he's been on diet food for three weeks and if you look at him head-on he's really not—" A rubber Bart Simpson, wet with drool, squeaked at Trevor's feet. "Not now, Gide, Daddy's on the phone." Proust was scrabbling against Trevor's leg; they really would have to steel themselves to clip his claws this evening.

His mother was making some remark about the
pack.
"There's only three of them," he objected. "Greta's got three kids, and you never confuse the boys with the girls!"

She let out a short laugh. "Oh, Trev, it's hardly the same."

He'd given up on breaking his family of the habit of calling him Trev. He chewed his lip, as he picked up the wet toy to bounce it against the far wall. Proust raced after it, but Gide shoved him out of the way. "Be nice," Trevor warned them. "Share your squeaky." Then, with false warmth, "Tell you what, Mum, maybe they'll give you a framed photo for Christmas, with their names on."

A couple of minutes later he walked into the kitchen, where Louise was frying chicken breasts. "Save me a crispy bit," he said, to postpone what he had to say.

"Mallarmé likes the crispy bits. You're getting polenta. So how's life in Belfast?"

He let out his breath with the sound of a fast puncture. "We were talking about Christmas. I was telling Mum not to worry about bedding for the babies, we'll all sleep together on our blowup mattress."

"Uh-huh."

"And she said actually this year, with Greta and Mick and all the kids being over from Sydney, she and Dad were wondering if we could maybe ... do something with the dogs."

"Do something?" repeated Louise. "What does she mean? Do what?"

Trevor cleared his throat. "Not bring them."

Her eyes were little dark buttons.

The last three days of term crawled by; the stack of exam papers deflated. To celebrate the holidays, Louise and Trevor went for a long hike across the Cliffs of Moher. Gide barked fiercely at mountain goats. "Do you think Proust's coat is looking dull?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Trevor stared down into his half-zipped jacket, where Proust was curled up. "Maybe a wee bit."

"The vet says you can put vegetable oil in their food to increase shine. We'll have to take Mallarmé to that grooming place this week; she's all burrs," added Louise, watching the dog lope silently away towards a group of Japanese tourists.

"Yeah, she must have a bit of collie in her, she gets so snag-gled. Mallarmé!" Trevor tried again, more loudly. "Mallarmé, no! Come back!"

"She won't bite, will she?" said Louise, breathless as she ran.

"She bit Mrs. Quirk last week."

"Only because she messed with Mallarmé's ears."

"Don't touch her ears," Trevor bawled at the tour group.

Afterwards, when Mallarmé was back on her leash, Louise burrowed around in the bag for dog biscuits and Mars bars. "You're brooding about Christmas, aren't you?"

"A bit," admitted Trevor.

"That was a really good phone message you left your parents."

"You think so?"

"Nicely balanced, you know, between warmth and firmness."

"You sound like that trainer." They'd gone on a night course called Good Dog! but dropped out after three weeks.

Louise giggled reminiscently. "Well, handling parents isn't so very different, I suppose."

"Except you know where you are with dogs," said Trevor. "They never claim to love you and then stab you in the back."

"Trevor!" she protested. "Leave it, Gide," she said, suddenly turning. "Drop it, dirty. Gide! Give. Give to Mammy."

He watched her wrestle a Ballygowan bottle out of the dog's jaws. "How can my parents have the gall to say leave them at home, when it's hundreds of miles away and we'll be gone for forty-eight hours!"

"I suppose we could hire a sitter," she volunteered.

"But they'd hate to be away from us at Christmas. I mean," he said, conscious of having strayed into irrationality, "they may not know exactly what it is—in the theological sense—but they can sense it's a special occasion."

"You know," murmured Louise, "there may be class issues involved here."

"Such as?"

"Well, your parents have a fundamentally suspicious attitude towards our lifestyle. Being academics, going to the opera .. . and I suspect they see our dogs as an expensive whim."

Trevor groaned. "It's not like we spent thousands of pounds buying pedigree puppies! We rescued them from the pound."

"Mmm," said Louise, "but remember how they made fun of the plaid coats and shoes? And there was this one time—I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be annoyed—but your dad asked me how much we spent a year on their food and vet bills."

He winced.

"It's understandable; he did grow up on a farm where dogs were just exploited workers," she added. "And your mother's from a tiny terrace where there was barely enough food for the kids."

"That's it," said Trevor, so sharply that Proust started to whimper and worry the zip of his jacket. "It's all about kids. They're trying to punish us for not having any! What my mother's saying at a sort of unconscious level is 'I won't let your pseudo-children under my roof. Lock them up and throw away the key.'"

"Oh, hang on, hon—"

"She is! She's saying, 'Have some real children like your sister, Greta, and then maybe I'll love you!'"

"Come on, Trevor, she does love you; they both do."

"Then what about the proverbial love my dog?"

Louise was scanning the skyline distractedly. "Did you see which way Gide went?"

Trevor jumped to his feet. "
Gide!
"

They both caught sight of him simultaneously, a hundred feet away, as he raced along the edge of the cliff.

That evening, during dinner, Proust left a long red scrape across Louise's collarbone. "Put him down on the floor," Trevor urged her. "Remember, the trainer said to punish him by withdrawing our attention.
Proust, sit!
"

"He's only acting out, poor baba," said Louise, setting him down. "They all are; they always pick up our vibes when we're upset."

"Make a nasty sound...," Trevor dropped a fork on the tiles. Proust stared back at him, unmoved. "Then turn our backs."

They twisted away from him in their chairs. Trevor looked at his half-eaten risotto and felt his appetite drain away. He stood up and adjusted the framed photo of the dogs carrying the flower baskets on Louise and Trevor's wedding day. "How's he reacting?"

"Hang on," breathed Louise, peeking over her shoulder.

"Don't make eye contact," Trevor warned her.

"He's gone."

They found Proust in the living room, watching the blank screen.

"Do you think we've hurt his feelings?" asked Louise.

"Dunno. It's a fine line between gentle discipline and crushing his spirit. Proust?" Trevor crouched to stroke the tiny dog behind the ears. "I don't think he likes the Chopin."

"OK, I'll switch to Mozart."

"Proust? Want to turn the telly on again?"

They didn't check their messages till they were going to bed. There was only one, from Belfast. "Trevor, this is your mother," it began, as always. "Your dad and I have been thinking about it like you asked, and we've decided we really can't have your dogs this Christmas. Sorry about that, but. There's your dad's allergy, and Lucy and Caitrfona are still awful small, and the general chaos and peeing on the rugs. Not to mention the incident last year, I didn't want to have to bring it up, but—"

The voice changed to a gruffer one. "Let me talk to him. Trevor, those creatures are a menace, especially the quiet one. After it bit your mother, I have to tell you, I thought it should have been put down. So let's have no more nonsense—stick them in kennels and let's all of us have a nice peaceful Christmas together, who knows when we'll get the chance again."

At two in the morning Trevor was wide awake in the dark. "Have they ever even seen a kennel? I still feel guilty about that time we went to Athens and left the babies in that, that
concentration camp,
" he said, spitting out the words. "And Dad's always had a runny nose; he's only called it an allergy since he started watching
ER.
Animals get blamed for everything. Remember that part-timer in Spanish who claimed she'd gone to a party where there was a cat and she was wheezing for six months afterwards?"

"Calm down, sweetie." Louise was stroking his arm.

"And as for the so-called incident with Mum—"

"It wasn't a real bite."

"It was a quick reflex snap, that's all. I
told
her not to touch Mallarme's ears."

"Anyway, no skin was broken."

"It's as if they said, 'Don't bring your Negro friends to our house,'" Trevor ranted. "It's a human rights issue. Well, a rights issue."

A silence. Then Louise rolled heavily away from him. "I give up," she said in a small voice. "It's not worth the grief."

"What do you mean?"

"You should go on your own, see your sister and all. And then when you come home on the twenty-seventh, we'll have our own Christmas dinner."

"Oh, but Louise!" He started to sit up. Did she want him to accept gratefully or to say he wouldn't dream of it? "You're wonderful. But you shouldn't have to make the sacrifice."

"Believe me," she said into the pillow, "I couldn't swallow a bite of turkey in that atmosphere."

Christmas Eve in Belfast, and Trevor had escaped into what they used to call the good room to ring Louise. He listened to
Santa's Pop Faves
blaring through the wall from the living room, mingled with the voices of his squabbling nieces, and longed to be back in the house outside Limerick, where Christmas crackers full of doggie treats would be hanging from the tree, and Louise and the babies would probably be curled up watching
Lady and the Tramp.

Before he'd finished dialing, his father's bald head came round the door. "You on the phone, Trev?"

"It's OK," he said, putting it down.

"Carry on, don't mind me," he said, dropping heavily into an armchair.

"Louise is out, actually," Trevor lied, "probably on a walk." Then he felt awkward for having implicitly brought up the dogs; it wasn't as if he wasn't trying his best to make this a cordial visit.

His father blew his nose like an elephant trumpeting.

"How's your allergy?" asked Trevor neutrally.

"Nah, I'm just getting over a cold."

His mother came in and set down a large bowl of toffees. "I've just been mopping up the stairs; poor Lucy got sick."

"Why don't you take the weight off your feet, love?"

"Just for a sec, then. All right, Trev?" she said as she sat down beside him.

"Aye, Mum."

"The kids are wee dotes, with their Aussie accents, aren't they? Oh"—turning to her husband—"you'll have to have a look in the U-bend for me; wee Jasmine dropped my wedding ring down the sink."

His father let out a small sound of exasperadon.

"Oh well, accidents do happen," she said.

The words burst out of Trevor. "That wasn't what you said last year about Proust chewing through the Christmas lights!" There was an awful silence. He tried to regain control. "I just think, Mum, there's rather a double standard operational here. I don't think you're aware how unconsciously biased you are towards Greta."