grave was dug. Ben was exhausted, though Helen had dug the greater part of it. She was worn out too, flushed and sweating. ‘Like a pig. Bloody Abbos!’ She threw down the pick.
‘Shall I fetch Oscar?’ Ben asked.
‘No, I’ll do it.’ She turned abruptly and walked grimly back towards the house.
Ben followed her. He mounted the wooden steps to the verandah behind her. She walked up to Oscar, and stared down at the blanketed mound. Then she suddenly brought her hands to her face and burst into sobs.
Ben looked at her uncomfortably. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. She was half a head taller than him. She sobbed and sobbed into her hands. ‘Oh Oscar …’
Ben squeezed her once. Then he got down on to one knee to pick up the body.
‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘Thank you, but I want to do it.’ He stood up and she turned, eyes wet. ‘Please go inside and let me do this.’
‘He’ll be heavy.’
Helen closed her eyes in exasperation. ‘Please …’
Ben went into the house, walked down the passage and turned right into the living-room.
It had a miscellany of worn furniture, none of it matching. A carpet of rosebud persuasion, a lounge suite with zebra stripes, pale pink walls. Ceramic ducks, a gleaming artist’s impression of Jesus Christ, prints of Scottish lochs. Assorted ferns and bookshelves, an old record-player, a big television set. An array of family and school photographs in frames. An elaborate two-way radio.
He ran his eye over the photographs. He picked up one frame, then another, and studied them for a minute. Then he turned and looked out of the window.
Helen was staggering across the dried-up lawn towards the grave, Oscar in her arms. The blanket trailed over the ground on either side, threatening to tangle with her feet, and Oscar’s rigid legs poked up on both sides of her head. She struggled to the edge of the grave. Then she slumped down on to her knees, and carefully lowered Oscar to the ground.
Ben watched her from the back. First she appeared to pray, the corks dangling around her bowed head. For some minutes she held her face, and he saw her shoulders jerk a little. Then she got to her feet and began to inter Oscar.
She hefted him up and struggled forward, legs astride over the grave. She bent, and lowered him to the hole. But, evidently, she ran into difficulties; she crouched, her blue-jeaned buttocks up, head and Oscar down. The dog’s rigid legs made him too wide for the grave. It was impossible to bury him lying on his side.
Helen remained still, wrestling with this problem; then she edged backwards and laid Oscar down on the ground again. She got his fore and hind paws in each hand, heaved him up, staggered over the grave again, and lowered him on to his spine.
From the living-room, it appeared to Ben to be the only solution. He could see Oscar’s paws sticking up, but they were below ground level. But Helen did not seem satisfied. She stood there, looking down at Oscar’s undignified posture; then she put both knuckles to her eyes between her dangling corks for an exasperated moment. Then she grabbed the legs again and heaved him up out of the grave.
She struggled backwards, put him down, and he collapsed stiffly on to his side. She crouched and got her hands under his chest and heaved him up on to his feet. With a hand on each side of his ribcage, she manoeuvred him back over the grave. She lowered him.
Oscar stood in his grave, his head twelve inches below ground level. Helen cautiously let him go, and put both knuckles to her eyes again. For a minute she stood motionless, evidently praying again. Then she scrambled backwards hurriedly, snatched up the spade and began to shovel the stony earth over him.
Ben turned from the window and went down the passage to the kitchen. He felt as if he had been eavesdropping. He went into the pantry and found the brandy bottle and two glasses.
Five minutes later Helen came in, sweating, her hands earthy. Ben was sitting on the kitchen table. She looked at him, her eyes brimming, then she blurted:
‘I had to bury him standing up …’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘But I prefer it like that! He was such a stand-up dog!’
She burst into tears. Ben’s heart went out to her and he slid off the table. He put both arms around her. ‘There, there …’ She dropped her forehead on to his shoulder, and sobbed and sobbed.
Ben held her gently. ‘There, there …’ She leant against him, arms hanging, crying her grief out. ‘There, there …’ he murmured again: and, oh, the wonderful female feeling of her in his arms, her sweaty warmth, the earthy smell of her. And with all his compassionate heart he ached to clutch her tight against him. Her sobs stopped suddenly. With a tearful sigh she moved to turn out of his arms, but he held on to her.
For a moment neither of them breathed. They stood against each other, pressed close. And for a wild moment he thought she was going to put her arms around him. Then she turned firmly and he dropped his arms.
She walked towards the sink. She spun the tap, cupped her hands and splashed water up on to her face vigorously.
Ben stood there, wanting to apologize – but for what? He had done nothing that couldn’t have an innocent interpretation. And it almost was innocent. He said:
‘Can I pour you a drink?’
She reached for a kitchen towel and thrust it to her dripping face. ‘No, thanks,’ she said into the towel.
He wasn’t sure if she was annoyed. ‘You deserve it, you’ve had a harrowing time.’
‘Yes.’ She tossed the towel on to the sink; she stood looking at it. Then: ‘Yes, dammit – I will have a drink.’
He poured some brandy into a glass. He held it out to her. She accepted it without looking at him.
‘Thanks.’ She took a swallow, and shuddered at the burn. ‘Oh boy,’ she said, eyes closed.
He pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘Sit down.’
She turned and slumped down on to it. He sat down in the other chair, across the table from her. She stared across the room at nothing.
He said tentatively: ‘Well, I’ve fixed the washing-machine – it works fine.’
‘Oh. Oh, thanks very much, that’s wonderful.’ She gave him a bleak, mechanical smile.
‘You must remember to clean out the filter basket every now and again.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. I usually do. But thank you.’
She offered to make him some lunch, but he would not hear of it.
‘You’ve had a rough day, and I’ve got plenty of food in my saddle-bags – can I make you something?’
She said: ‘No, I think I’ll have a little lie-down. I hardly slept last night.’
‘Sure, you do that. I’d take you to lunch in town, if there was a town. I’ll finish slapping my bike back together. Then this afternoon I’ll be on my way.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Then she added: ‘How long will it take to fix your bike?’
‘A couple of hours. But I won’t leave until you’ve finished your rest. Give me a shout when you’re up.’
‘Okay.’
He walked back to the cottage, feeling he’d smoothed over that momentary lapse when she was in his arms. Her annoyance that he’d held on to her – if annoyance it was – seemed to have dissipated after the brandy.
He finished repairing his motor cycle, climbed astride it and kicked the starter. It roared sweetly to