Flowstone: Chapter Seventeen
The autumn air was tinged with the threat of winter before we saw Alex again. Our paddocks, grassed and greened from the rains that had finally set in after the storms, were once more feeding our stock, and the work load was lighter. And we were no longer as resentful of visitors.
Jacques’ mother had stayed with us for a while after his death. It turned out his proper name was Matthew. Matthew Dodd. In his schizophrenia, the awful illness that invaded his mind, bringing disorder to his thinking, he identified with Jacques Chabert, a French speleologist. (I’d been right about the Frenchness of his name!)
Mrs Dodd said such identification meant the person thought he or she was the other someone. Not necessarily all the time but often quite strongly. Jacques Chabert — the real one — once lived in a cave in France, near Nice, for five or six months without seeing daylight. Apparently, when Fox stressed the name “Jacques”, it caused her son to assume that persona and behave fairly rationally.
“Matthew was only a little boy when his hero became news,” Mrs Dodd told us, “and he used to prattle on about living in a cave.”
She was knitting a jumper for one of her grandsons and I was sitting on the back step nearby, drying my hair in the sun. The needles clicked quickly and the garment grew in her hands.
“He wanted to map our caves. But all we saw in his notebook were squiggly lines and strange symbols.” I was being careful not to sound critical, keeping a quiet, sad tone in my voice.
“But, my dear, he was doing a beautiful job. The Speleological Society says his records are a most useful foundation. And they are going to acknowledge his work by naming that complex of caves after him.” She paused in her knitting and looked at me intensely, her eyes the same compelling blue as Jacques’.” am so proud of him, Amy. He had so much to give. And he fought so hard to be normal.”
She talked and talked about him during her stay. And about her other children. He had been special to them all. Her hands were always busy, knitting, sewing, peeling potatoes for Mum. It was like having a grandmother to stay. And she wanted to know every little detail about Jacques that we could give her.
“Harvesting your memories,” she told us, “to store away in mine.”
Nancy, though, was still a pain. Typically, she waltzed into our house one Sunday unannounced.
” just knew you’d be home if I decided to call,” she twittered.
Alex trailed behind, clutching a cardboard box.
“Please excuse Alex’s clothes.” She affected a shudder. “Those worn jeans and faded sloppy shirt make him look like a poor relation.”
“Seems all right to me,” I chimed in before Mum could say anything. Nancy swept her eyes over me, making me know she thought I was a dag. I glared back.
“Here, you two,” Alex said as he shoved the box at us.
The weight in it shifted as we took it. And the box was warm. WE lowered it to the floor and lifted the flaps back.
A small puppy was trying to stand. Round and black, with little brown paws, he whined and wagged his skinny ship of a tail. Fox picked him up.
“It was all Alex’s idea. I told him country people don’t like having dogs chosen for them. But he insisted. He’s becoming very stubborn, as difficult as his father.” Nancy was ranting on but Alex just stood there, watching us, as miserable as ever we had seen him.
I glanced at Fox but the puppy’s bright red tongue was licking at his face. And he wore such a silly grin as he stroked the tossing head, I knew I’d always be that dog’s second best friend.
“He’s lovely,” I said to Alex and his face relaxed into a little smile, his eyes still wary.
“He’s the best kelpie pup I could buy. His pedigree goes back nearly fifty years.”
“Oh!” I had pushed Fox’s hand aside, demanding a turn fondling the pup’s ears, soft and silky in my fingers. Particularly the tawny tips. “Absolutely beautiful!” I was smiling and laughing with excitement. Then I stuck my hand out to Alex. “Thanks a million!” I whooped, as we shook.
“Yeah, thanks,” and Fox, juggling the pup, tried to shake hands too.
Alex was smiling broadly now. “His father is an all-rounder and his mother, great in the yard.”
He was still a smug, know-all City Boy but I didn’t mind. I think I’ve got some pretty nasty traits too.
“And a good eye runs in the family,” Alex added, looking a little nervous. I had a feeling he didn’t understand what he was talking about but let it pass.
“Alex had to pay for the animal himself. Took quite a slice of his savings. I just didn’t approve of his idea of a gift for you so I made him got it alone.” Nancy’s lips were set in a prim line. She would have to be the meanest mother of all time.
Fox kicked the box aside and moved closer so Alex and I could stroke and pat the wriggling pup easily.
“You said, once,” Alex was still a bit nervous, “that you hated dogs. But a working dog was the only present I could think of for you two.”
“Yeah, some dogs. City dogs. Town dogs. Useless dogs.” Fox growled. “They form packs and rampage through the country tearing at and killing sheep. We hate those dogs. Every farmer does.”
“And,” said Dad, who had come to inspect the pup, “we haven’t had the spare cash to buy a quality animal of our own. Havem’t had a dog since old Jess died last winter.”
He took the pup from Fox and set the little fellow down on the floor. Paws skidded, the ridiculous tail, a white tuft on its end, waved wildly and yaps rang round the room. We all laughed.
“This one’ a good ‘un,” Dad declared. “And just what Amy and Basil need.”
City Boy beamed. But Nancy wanted more of the action.
“Of course, I didn’t wish to give you any sort of present,” the mouth thin, words clipped, “after all, my precious son nearly died. And the other boy did die. I won’t forget that in a hurry.”
I felt Dad stiffen; Mum was out of my sightline. I wondered if she had heard.
“It was my fault,” Alex spoke savagely. They had had this argument before, I guessed, by his tone.
“Alex’s injury, his hospitalization, has been a big interruption in my life.”
Nancy did not want to shut up and Mum, dear soft Mum, had had enough.
“It seems to me, Nancy,” she said, sweet as jonquils, “that you’ve always treated Alex as an interruption in your life. That you have no idea what a brave and loyal young man he is.”
Nancy was pink with anger, her painfully arched eyebrows almost disappearing in her hair. Alex shuffled. The pup, having decided which were Fox’s feet, was chewing on his sneaker, mock growling.
I put my hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Y’know Alex, you didn’t have to give us anything. By rights, we owe you.” I was speaking softly, away from adult ears.
“You included me.”
His simple reply brought a flush of shame to my face and I felt the loneliness in his life.
“And we will again,” I found myself promising, sincerely meaning it. I nudged Fox’s attention with my foot.
“Hey! Let’s call the pup ‘Sandy’? After Alex but not so we’ll get them both mixed up when he comes to stay next hols.
“Yeah! ‘Sandy’ would be great!” Fox was on his haunches, grinning, helping the pup chase his own tail. “Okay with you, Al?”
City Boy glowed, bright as a sunset, with happiness.
Fox stood up, relaxed and decisive. “And we’ll get the very best of advice for Sandy’s training. We’ll learn how to manage him properly.”
“You mean there are some things you two have to learn?”
And we three laughed together. Sometimes we like visitors.
The End