*****
The dog nudged at Chris’s leg, after food. He pulled himself up and found a tin in the cupboard, spooned out the meat and put it down. The dog got stuck in.
It was Debbie who had pushed to get a dog. Ann-Marie had been five at the time. Debbie had developed fibroids and the pain and bleeding had become so severe that the consultant recommended a hysterectomy. No more children.
Debbie fretted about Ann-Marie being an only child. ‘I don’t want her spoilt,’ she had said, ‘thinking she’s the be-all and end-all.’
‘She is the be-all and end-all,’ he’d protested.
She dug him in the ribs. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘You don’t want her spoilt but you want to buy her a dog. What’s next, a pony?’
‘Chris!’
‘Debbie, she’s fine. She gets on all right at school, a lot better at sharing than some of them, by all accounts. She sees her cousins. A dog would want walking and vets’ bills and all sorts.’
She let it go then but not for long. Dropping canine hints into the conversation. How a dog would be great for exercise, how so-and-so down the road had got a lovely mongrel from the Dogs’ Home. He feigned disinterest, mentioned hairs everywhere and worming tablets. Meanwhile he’d called on a mate whose wife ran a kennels in Reddish. They knew someone who wanted a good home for a young dog. House trained but they’d discovered the grandson had a bad allergy.
He took Ann-Marie with him; told her they had to collect something for work.
She started at first when the dog came forward and sniffed her hand. She pursed her lips and blinked hard but stood her ground.
‘You can stroke him,’ the owner said. Ann-Marie put her hand on the dog’s neck and rubbed it gently.
‘He’s called Tiger.’
‘What sort is he?’ she asked.
‘He’s liquorice.’
Ann-Marie frowned.
‘All sorts,’ the man said.
Chris laughed but she didn’t get the reference.
She patted the dog’s back.
‘He likes that,’ Chris told her. ‘Shall we take him home?’
She glanced at him, her mind alert to adult teasing. But he nodded.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘To keep?’
Delight bloomed on her face. ‘Yes!’ She clapped her hands and Tiger barked.
He couldn’t cry. There was sand behind his eyes, heavy, hot, dry sand. A desert.
‘Daddy,’ her voice jolted him. Shock sparking through his blood. He looked up sharply, his spine crawling. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her tracksuit trousers on, the ones with the zips and her stripy pink and blue sweater. There was a smudge of biro on one cheek and an orange smear at the corner of her mouth. She must have had beans for lunch, or hoops. ‘It’s a bit messy.’ She frowned at the state of the kitchen.
