dog-on

Da had a routine. He would walk home the five or six miles from Bowling Harbour; Mum would get a red plastic basin from underneath the sink in the kitchen and he’d bang the front door shut shaking the building and come in huffing and puffing through the living room to the kitchen—not because he was tired; he’d never admit to being tired – he turned the chair around from underneath the flap of the kitchen table and he’d take off his boots and sock and plunge his feet into the steaming hot water. After he’d dried his feet he’d carefully dust them and rub talc between his long toes. Then he’d get his dinner. Potatoes would cloud the plate and there’d be some kind of main dish: mince, stew, sausage or sometimes boiled white fish, which I hated the smell of. Only a worm or another fish would eat boiled fish, but Da lapped it up, in the same way he lapped up the murky green cabbage water from the veg, or sour milk left on the window sill that even flies turned their noses up at. He’d eat at the kitchen table with a knife, spooning food into his mouth with the flat side, barely chewing. Other times he’d carry his plate through the living room to his room and eat dinner there. He’d bobble up and down all night to go to the toilet or call out to Mum or my sisters for endless cups of tea, or bits of toast.

This routine was so ingrained the day he came home soaking wet I didn’t question it. The appearance of the rotund and out of breath figure of John McGinley, who lived down the road in Shakespeare Avenue and worked with Da in the yards, to see if ‘Big Dessy was alright’ hinted that there might be some kind of change. But it was just some story about a crane toppling and Da diving into the harbour and then walking home. McGinley made the most of it. He told Mum, ‘he’d have taken them the whole way and wouldn’t have went back to work for at least six months’. Da went back the next morning.

I'm sitting in the living room watching Crackerjack on the telly. The Venetian blinds are tilted to keep out the sunlight and keep in the dust and the earthy smell of vegetables boiling hangs in the air from the kitchen next door,in which Da will use half a loaf of white bread to mop up his soup. I can look out, down the curve of the hill, but no one can look in. Da’s marching up the hill. Behind him, Bod is clapping and trying to play with a black haired dog, with white patches that looks like a collie, but with a longer snout and shorter legs. I stand up as they pass the window and watch them come into the garden. I wait with my mouth hanging open, for what I’m not quite sure. When the door bangs shut I fling myself back into the chair and start watching Crackerjack my eyes squinting towards the living room door. Da comes in and holds the door open and Bod creeps under his arm and follows dog in. My wee brother’s in his element.

Bod is just mental about dogs. He’s always wanted a dog, always bringing home strays and promising, promising that he’ll take care of them, take them walks and feed them biscuits and they won’t be any bother, promise, promise. The only promise he’d ever got from Da was if he’d get a toe up the arse if he didn’t get rid of it pronto. Our Jo would make a joke of it and pat Bod on the head and say instead of having a dog we had you. Bod would get all sad-eyed, but it was for his own good.

The kid-on collie is sad-eyed looking too. It allows Bod to pet his shoulders and it sniffs the air, but it acts as if he isn’t there. When Da goes into the kitchen he slinks down on his stumpy legs and follows him in. Da shuts the door, something he never does, leaving me and Bod outside.

Phyllis is drawn away from the mirror in her room and comes into the living room.

‘We’ve got a new dog.’ Bod’s arms and legs twitch and dance in front of her as if this new doggish glory is working its way through his joints.

She smiles and ruffles his hair, but looks towards me.

‘Havenae.’ I keep my eyes on the telly.

Mum opens the kitchen door. My head jerks round. Da has his feet in the basin. A plate of soup is sitting on the table and his body is twisted at the torso as he spoons soup into his mouth. Sitting by his chair looking up at him with those almond eyes the dog also laps a bowl of soup.

Phyllis’s lips press together and she does that sweeping thing with her hair. ‘I didnae think dogs like soup.’

Bod’s rubbing his hands peeking in.

My lip curls up. ‘They do.’ I look at Phyllis to let her know I know best.

She shrugs and slopes off back to her room. Bod can no longer contain himself. Even though Da’s in the kitchen eating his dinner he’s in patting the dog on the head. He looks up at mum. ‘Can we keep him? Can we? Can we?’

‘No. No. ’ There’s a laugh in Mum’s voice. She shakes her head and her tone makes it sound like don’t be silly. But she looks at Da.

I can only see the back of Da’s curls, but he shakes his head and I know he means no too.

The dog scampers away from Bod and hides, out of view, under the table. Bod crouches down on his hunkers and looks through the legs of the chair and Da’s legs at it.

‘Can we keep it Mum? Can we?’ He’s transfixed.

‘Goin’ in there and behave yourself.’ Da roars, making him jump, making me jump.

Bod rushes from the kitchen through to the living room and squeezes into the seat beside me. He smells as if he’s been rolling around on new cut grass and I put my arm over his shoulder, but he’s squirming to get away, to run with the pack. Da comes out of the kitchen and the dog sneaks behind his heels. It has a way of making itself so low down it looks as if it’s gliding along on castors. He holds the living door open again and the dog follows him into the hall.

Bod and me jump up off the chair almost at the same time and dart through the kitchen. Mum is sitting straight backed in the chair Da vacated, an ashtray is at her elbow and a plume of smoke hangs in the air like an old friend.

‘Where’d he get that dog? I stand beside her chair, so to look at me she’d need to turn sideways

‘Can we keep it?’ Bod puts his hand on her knee and looks up at her.

Mum strokes his cheek and laughs through her nose and turns her head.

‘It followed him all the way back from Bowling.’ She knows that is not enough to satisfy my curiosity so she adds. ‘He tried everything to get rid of it.’

‘Can we keep it? Can we?’

Mum pulls Bod onto her knee and kisses him on the cheek. He squirms to get away, but then settles on her lap. ‘No.’ She shakes her head, but it’s the kinda no that can sometimes mean yes.

‘What we gonna do with it?’

‘Don’t know.’ Mum lifts Bod off her lap and puts him down. She stands up automatically ducking down and avoiding the sleeve of Stephen’s shirt that flaps down from the pulley.

The next morning when I get up and look through into the kitchen Mum at the sink has her back to me, Da is sitting sideway scraping the porridge pot with his spoon and the dog is underneath the table eating a crust of toast. It looks up at me briefly and then slinks down again. When Da gets up the dog gets up. I go and put the telly on and wait for it to warm up. The dog follows Da into the hall. Overnight the house has changed and got a damp fuggy doggy smell. I wander through to the kitchen, my head turning, one last look towards the telly to make sure I've not missed anything.

Mum puts a plate of Cornflakes out for me on the kitchen table. I sit on the seat behind the door. Somehow I find myself whispering. ‘What’s he goin’ to do with the dog?’ I laugh. ‘Max.’ Bod has already named him.

‘You want toast?

‘No.’ I put extra sugar from the blue-glazed bowl on the table on my Cornflakes. Mum never puts on enough. I finish breakfast quickly so I can get the best seat to watch telly.

The front door bangs and through the slat of the blinds I see Da walking down the hill with the dog's feet skipping behind him. Bod is bleary-eyed when he gets up. He’s still got his pyjamas on with little elephants and he squeezes into the seat beside me and yawns morning breath.

‘Where’s Max?’ His head jerks towards the kitchen.

‘Went out a long walk with Da.’ I know it’s a long walk because all the walks we go with Da are long ones.

The call of the telly sweeps us away. Music and movement vibrate in my head in the form of Champion the Wonder Horse. The front door bangs open and shut. Da comes into the living room. Both of us look for the dog and Bod moves his bum forward to jump off the edge of the chair to look for him, but I put a hand on his shoulder keeping him on the chair.

Later, I ask Mum what he did with the dog.

‘He took it down the train station and waited until the doors where shutting and then jumped off. It’s probably half way to Sprinburn by now.’ She took a deep breath and a drag on her fag. ‘It’s for the best.’