There Is No Dog Page 7

  Mrs Laura Davenport had donned her husband’s fly-fishing waders, jacket and oilskin hat to walk the mile from her home to St Christopher’s church. She smiled at her old friend and tilted her head away from the phone conversation, assuming an expression of not listening.

  She’d known Bernard since university and he’d barely changed since then – still slim and lanky, his face full of humour, almost no grey in the dark hair that fell over his eyes like a schoolboy’s. Laura Davenport, although happy enough with her lawyer husband, had married her second choice. She would never acknowledge (least of all to herself) that twenty-five years later this remained a source of regret.

  When at last Bernard put down the phone, her feet were cold and she longed for a nice hot cup of tea. Not that it would be proper to ask, of course. So many parishioners stranded. For her to have a house on a hill, dry furniture and a cup of tea might be considered one blessing too many.

  She kissed his cheek and offered her best sympathetic frown-smile. ‘No support from headquarters, then?’

  Bernard shook his head. ‘None whatsoever. They’re up to their eyes in their own mess. Hail today, have you heard? Hailstones like cricket balls. Big enough to smash windows.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got too many refugees and the Met Office is three forecasts behind. I get the distinct impression that even the Red Cross couldn’t give a stuff about a parish church full of stranded locals.’ He met Laura’s eyes and smiled wearily. ‘Hail. Whatever next?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a sign.’

  ‘Of …?’

  Laura laughed. ‘You tell me. You’re the one with God’s ear.’

  ‘God’s ear?’ He winced. ‘I can barely get the dean to take my calls.’

  ‘I suppose it’s quite appropriate when you think of it. St Christopher’s providing respite for all these weary travellers.’

  ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ said Bernard. ‘I’ve been thinking of tossing a dove out to see what it brings back.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to mention Noah. The papers are full of it.’

  ‘It’s my fault. Not the water, the people. I’ve got a boat, you see.’

  Laura stared. ‘A boat? You have a boat?’

  He nodded happily. ‘A little Zodiac. Worth more than my pension the way things are now. I’ve been sneaking out in it to bring back supplies.’

  ‘And refugees?’

  He shrugged. ‘Only the most desperate. I’m gathering them two by two. Or three.’

  ‘What a dark horse you are, Bernard. I should have known you’d turn up with a boat. But how on earth?’

  ‘I won it in a raffle. Years ago. Kept it in my garage. Nearly forgot I had it. The funny thing is that it works. Lovely little putt-putt engine, just drained some petrol out of the car, mixed it with oil and off we went. Its range is limited by the flood, of course.’

  ‘You are a clever man. Do you mean I might have left Andrew’s fishing boots at home?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She unfastened the clips on her shoulders, stripped the rubber bib down and shimmied her way out of the waist-high rubber suit. ‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘My amphibian days are over.’

  ‘I’m almost sorry to hear that.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ she said sternly. ‘Now, come along, Bernard. You need to find something strenuous for me to accomplish.’

  Bernard peered into the large shopping bag she’d left by the door. ‘This is a good start,’ he said, perusing the contents. There was a box of PG Tips, two packets of rice and six cans of baked beans, but Bernard wasn’t as certain about the rest – chickpeas, gentleman’s relish, mustard, a jar of tomato chutney with a handwritten label, jelly (lemon and raspberry), four bottles of Indian tonic, one large box of novelty teabags (apricot, grapefruit medley and green apple), half a bag of sultanas, an open packet of cream crackers, some icing sugar, organic dried mangoes, salad cream, a Christmas pudding, cans of herrings and smoked oysters.

  ‘I’m sorry there’s not more,’ she said. ‘But we’re getting down to the bottom of the cupboard ourselves.’ She peered at the sad selection of leftovers. ‘It wasn’t easy getting out of the house with this. Andrew loves smoked oysters.’

  ‘How is Andrew?’ Bernard asked, but they both knew the question didn’t require an answer. Andrew was always fine. ‘I don’t like to go on about shortages in front of the parishioners. But I can’t figure out how we’re going to feed them.’

  ‘You’re doing the best you can.’

  ‘No.’ Bernard felt disheartened. Sometimes he was convinced that God only answered the prayers of the young and healthy, the ones who asked for love, or to get what they wanted for Christmas, or to pass their exams. For the disillusioned middle-aged or the elderly, it struck him as just one hopeless petition after another. ‘Please, God, help my husband love me again.’ ‘Cure my wife’s dementia.’ ‘Make the children stop taking drugs.’ Even he didn’t believe that sort of prayer would be answered.

  Laura looked down at the bows of her tidy patent-leather shoes. She wasn’t entirely keen on Bernard’s dejection, preferring him stalwart and rendered cheerful by the Lord. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do for the rabble.’ As she followed him out of the tiny office, her thoughts strayed to a wholly involuntary image of the vicar pushing her back across his desk, her sensible tweed skirt ruched up round her hips. She shook her head to banish it.

  ‘How’s my Lucy?’ asked Bernard, leading her through to the nave.

  ‘Still tending the animals, still a virgin.’

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘Well, it’s very worrying to think one’s daughter might never find a man worthy of her ridiculously high standards.’

  ‘Of course she will. She’s just particular.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but really, Bernard, you should try my job for a week. Mother of daughters.’

  Since childhood, Laura’s younger child had been as religious as her sister was stubbornly secular, always turning the other cheek and maintaining a firm grip on her moral values. Laura had intermittently worried that this was what came of making Bernard Lucy’s godfather.

  Of course there was nothing wrong with a modicum of Christian faith; it could even be considered a good and proper attribute for a young girl to possess. But as to its degree, well, you could understand why Laura and her husband worried. As young as six or seven, Lucy had been prone to visitations by angels, great winged apparitions that came nightly to sit on her bed. Neither parent knew exactly how to react.

  Bernard made it his business to reassure them, explaining that the more powerful imagery of religion often caught the imaginations of small children and hardly ever led to an actual wedding to Christ, but Laura worried. Angels? Whatever next?

  She emerged from her thoughts to find Bernard waiting, hand on the door to the main hall. ‘Coming, Laura?’

  She nodded.

  As he opened the door, the milling crowd of refugees looked up as one.

  Behind him, Laura began unbuttoning her ivory sateen cuffs, folding them up neatly above her elbows in preparation for getting stuck in.

  22

  Bob settled down in bed with a bucket of junk food. He needed to relax, to figure out his next move. He was fading away, dying of love. The mere thought of Lucy was enough to make him feel faint.

  ‘Eck,’ moaned Eck softly in the region of Bob’s left ear, followed by a little probing sweep of his tongue. Sexy.

  Bob smacked him.

  Eck squeaked, but a minute later had installed himself in the crook of Bob’s elbow and was nibbling BBQ wings. Bob stroked him absentmindedly.

  ‘Hello, my darling.’

  Bob looked up, snorted and turned back to his meal. At his side, Eck had moved on to a party-sized bag of cheese balls. He swivelled one beady eye.

  ‘I think what you meant to say was, “Hello, Mother, ho
w wonderful to see you.”’

  ‘Go away.’ Bob flapped a hand in her direction. ‘Why are you here? To gamble away more of my possessions? Marry me off to a shovelful of dark matter? Sell tickets to my nightmares?’

  Mona frowned. ‘That’s no way to talk to your loving mother. You’re getting on now, darling; it’s time you learned a little respect.’ She composed her face into an expression of stern reproach, held it for a long moment, then relaxed and beamed at him. ‘There. All done. You know me, petal, not one to hold a grudge.’

  ‘That makes one of us. Look at poor Eck.’ They both stared down at the little penguiny creature, who obediently switched on his mournful expression. ‘Hasn’t had a moment’s peace since his death sentence.’

  ‘He’s got a reprieve.’

  ‘Oh yes, how could I forget. His reprieve. Lucky, lucky, Eck. How long was it again? Forever? Oh no, wait. Six weeks. Less than five now. Nearly as good.’

  ‘No need for sarcasm.’ Mona frowned, a little peevishly. ‘I know I did wrong, but I was hoping you might find it in your heart to forgive –’

  ‘Please, stop, Mother. I am immune to your repellent displays of emotion.’

  His mother shook her head sadly. ‘Oh, Bob, darlingest boy, how very little you understand the depths of a mother’s love.’

  ‘Blah blah blah.’

  Mona sighed. Was it her imagination, or was everyone on a mission to make her feel guilty all of a sudden? ‘So, he’s not pleased with his reprieve?’

  Bob waved a hand at Eck. ‘What do you think? Not long till …’ He drew a finger along his neck. ‘Din-dins.’

  The Eck’s eyes shot open, wide with terror.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Mona’s eyes slid sideways, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay away from that girl.’

  ‘Speaking of what?’ Bob’s jaw dropped. ‘What’s she got to do with you? Why have I got to?’

  Mona reached for his hand, which he snatched away. ‘Aren’t you being just a teensy bit selfish, my darling?’

  ‘Selfish?’ His eyes widened. ‘I’m selfish? You gamble away my pet’s life in a poker game and you call me selfish?’

  He stood glaring, while Mona’s huge eyes telegraphed reproach. She sighed.

  ‘Darlingest boy, let’s not fight. I know I haven’t been a perfect mother. But right now I simply want you to leave the girl alone. She’s human. It won’t work. And, according to Mr B, you’re halfway to destroying the biosphere.’

  From his place at Bob’s elbow, Eck made kissy noises. Bob whacked him, pouting. ‘I’m in love.’

  ‘But honey-bunch, every time you fall in love, it ends in a firestorm. You lose interest, you ruin some poor girl’s life, Earth erupts in natural disasters, millions die.’ She traced the path of an imaginary tear down one perfect cheek. ‘It saddens me.’

  ‘How do you even know what happens in my life?’

  ‘I read the papers, sweetheart. I keep in touch.’

  ‘Papers? What papers?’

  Mona waved a dismissive hand. ‘People talk.’

  ‘Which people?’ Bob’s head spun with exasperation. ‘Look, why don’t you explain why you’ve suddenly developed an interest in my social life, and then bugger off.’

  ‘Darling. It’s because I’m your mother.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s only …’ She smiled, a sad little smile. ‘It’s just that you’re getting a teensy-weensy bit of a reputation.’

  Bob goggled at her. ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, you know how it is. Mothers always get blamed. It’s not fair, obviously, but … I got you the job so I’m at fault. Ridiculous, obviously, but …’ She shrugged.

  He pressed both hands to his ears. ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing. I’m ruining your reputation?’

  Mona looked mournful. ‘No mother likes to hear bad things said about her children.’

  ‘What bad things? What are you talking about? I’ve done incredibly well! Everyone thinks so!’

  Mona looked away and studied her nails. ‘If you say so, darling.’

  ‘Look.’ He struggled to regain control. ‘If I’m so completely useless, how did I get to be God?’

  Mona blinked, face arranged in an expression of genuine sympathy. ‘Perhaps no one else wanted the job?’

  Bob sat down hard. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

  23

  Estelle was an unusually competent individual, unusually competent even for a goddess, and given that goddesses did not habitually enter human-style professions such as law, medicine or accountancy, an argument might be made for the fact that her fine intelligence and thoughtful sensibility were underexercised.

  Of course Emoto Hed required a great deal of careful management, and as his only child Estelle had nearly a full-time job. Her first few thousand years had been spent in her own quiet campaign to get the measure of her father without inciting his easily incited wrath.

  She had learned a great deal from their relationship. A great deal about sidestepping danger, about subtle manoeuvring and oblique angles. She had learned the uses of persuasion, of silence, of a steady gaze; had learned to hold her nerve and not back down – without presenting herself as a challenge. She had learned, occasionally, to be sneaky.

  If Estelle had been born human, she might have employed these talents as a diplomat or an international negotiator. As a goddess, however, she was jobless, had always been jobless, and could easily remain jobless throughout eternity. There was no need, after all, for her to make a living. Surely the responsibilities of a dutiful child to a dangerously unstable father were occupation enough?

  Estelle might have remained content with this existence had she never attended the fateful poker game, never met Eck, never witnessed Bob’s heartbreaking incompetence as God of Earth. But having done all those things, she had noticed lately that something had changed. She, in fact, had changed.

  For one thing, she had begun to wonder whether there was any point to her existence at all.

  In this state of impatience, she began to travel. She travelled to happy planets, productive planets, gigantic watery planets and tiny dry ones, planets comprised almost exclusively of ice, planets designed by highly intelligent creatures, planets upon which every inhabitant had the imagination of a bath plug or the aesthetic appeal of a pile of dung. Most of the creatures she met could not easily be described in terms an Earth human would understand, for, contrary to common understanding, ‘aliens’ did not possess huge eyes and truncated human limbs, but took the form of vapours, shadows or nanoparticles, of fleeting thoughts, absences or false memories.

  Estelle observed these many new places and nearly fell in love with many of them. But in the end, none needed her, or expressed much in the way of sadness when she left. So her feelings of emptiness persisted, despite the fact that her knowledge of the universe expanded considerably.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’ demanded her father as she prepared for yet another far-flung visit.

  She kissed him. ‘Nowhere in particular, Daddy.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with staying here and making my breakfast?’

  ‘I’ve left instructions for your breakfast while I’m gone.’

  ‘Hmph,’ he growled. ‘You won’t find what you’re looking for, you know. Particularly if you don’t know what it is.’

  Estelle stopped for a moment. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, with a small smile, ‘I’ll recognize it when I see it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ rumbled her father. ‘Tit over arse. Choose a goal. Close in. Conquer.’

  Estelle smiled. ‘Haven’t you heard, Daddy? The journey is the destination.’

  ‘Claptrap,’ thundered Hed. ‘Souvenir tea-towel slogans.’

  But Estelle would not be drawn into argument. ‘When I find what I’m looking for,’ she told him, ‘you’ll be the first to know.�
�� And with that she set off once more, leaving her father grumbling and cross and, frankly, very dangerous indeed.

  Hed hated admitting he missed her, but his numerous card-playing cronies and business associates impatiently anticipated Estelle’s return, for her presence had the effect of water sprinkled on hot coals. And Hed’s quadrant of the universe was gaining a reputation for functioning far less peacefully in her absence.

  24

  It was hard enough keeping a small zoo healthy and solvent without having to worry about which animals could swim. It made Luke wonder whether the victims of all those big Biblical cataclysms had started out like this – with a sense of annoyance and doubt, a general conviction that they were merely going through a strange patch of weather, followed by slowly accelerating disbelief, followed by the terrible realization that they were all going to drown.

  So far, the crisis had remained just this side of manageable, but last night they’d had frost. And yesterday’s hail broke six windows in the café. Luke sighed. Having recorded drought, deluge, equatorial highs, freezing rain and hail, the Met Office had ceased to post predictions online. Phone calls jumped straight to a recorded message: We are experiencing difficulties with our switchboard. Please call back later.

  Just this morning, all the managers had been called together to devise a series of emergency plans. They’d never had to worry about extra heating in June, and then just when they managed to get the system running, the temperature leapt thirty degrees in a single afternoon and everyone felt in danger of being roasted alive.

  At least, Luke thought, the zoo was situated near the highest point of the city and, though subject to the same leaks and blocked drains as the rest of the population, had remained relatively dry.

  Whenever he pictured animals up to their bellies and chins in water, Luke felt sick – so much so, that he found it hard to cope even with the thought of evacuation. How? Where to? Using what vehicles? How had Noah managed to pack rodents in with snakes and predatory birds? Could they expect penguins to waddle calmly up ramps into Land Rovers, like Labradors? Had anyone invented a floating horsebox for dromedaries? What about the caimans and crocodiles? He couldn’t imagine any of it happening smoothly and besides, what would he use for staff? When his keepers failed to show up to work these days, it might be due to floods, melted tarmac, icy roads or any manner of surreal meteorological phenomena in between.