Jacqui Bennett Writers Bureau

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THE WINNER OF THE JBWB AUTUMN 2001 SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Boris

by

Sue Houghton

Email: ADAM@ahoughton12.freeserve.co.uk

"Lovely, you remembered the macaroons," Dad says, beaming as he rummages around in the carrier bags on the kitchen table. Following a hectic day at the office – “You won’t find yourself a man, working those hours, my girl” – I’ve spent the last hour flying round the supermarket, loading a wobbly trolley with items on my dad’s shopping list - do people really need cream of tartar? Then I had to lug it all up two flights of stairs to my flat, passing my new and hugely attractive neighbour on the first floor landing.

    I’d been wondering how to engineer a first meeting with him since he moved in last month. Borrow a cup of sugar/coffee/milk? Invite him over for coffee/beer/meal/foot massage? However we’d meet, I was certain it would be a breathless encounter. I wasn’t wrong. One of us, at least, was breathless - and red-faced, sweating, and cussing loudly about having forgotten flea powder. He couldn’t have looked more startled if I’d lunged at him with a French stick.

    "Paula," my dad’s saying. "What’s this?" He holds up a crinkled cellophane bag artfully tied with raffia. "Was it on my list? Smells like hedge clippings."

    "It’s pot-pourri," I say, river-dancing out of my shoes and slipping my feet into my fluffy tartan slippers. "Jasmine something or other. It’s to make the room smell fresh." Oh no, he’s examining the till receipts now.

    "Five pounds! For a packet of fancy-coloured hedge clippings!" He rummages again. "Did you get the eggs? You didn’t forget the pickled walnuts? Did you pick up a new collar for Boris? Did you remember to get him some fresh mince? What sort of jam did you get?"

    "Yes, no, yes, yes and apricot," I say, pouring the hedge clip…the pot-pourri into a deep bowl and standing it on the dresser, with faint hope that it’d remove the pungent doggy odour that lingers whenever Boris is around. A new collar won’t make the hairy beast look any prettier either. Boris is supposedly a pedigree, but in my opinion, his parentage is dubious. He has long floppy ears, one of which stands at right angles to his head. His tail curls in a spiral over his vast bottom and in moments of excitement it can sweep ornaments off coffee tables with alarming accuracy. Only expensive ornaments mind. He’s failed to topple the three-foot plastic garden gnome my dad’s insisted on placing by the fireplace. "These modern flats have no character, Paula."

    Boris lumbers into the kitchen, sniffing the air in expectant fashion. He’s an overweight, over-indulged, malodorous liability, but Dad loves him to bits so I bite my lip when, catching a claw in my new velour throw, Boris drags it halfway across the floor. Then he does that circular doggy-thing, as if his tail’s caught in his collar. Round and round until he flops in a messy heap, giving a new meaning to the word crushed velour. I groan, whack a couple of pork chops in the oven and begin to prepare dinner.

    Dad hovers over me. "Ah! You cut your string beans like that, do you?" "Are you sure you’ve not got the oven too high, dear?" "No salt, then?" "Don’t you think this packet gravy tastes like furniture polish?" "What’s carpaccio?"

    Much as I love him, I’m counting the days until his new bungalow’s ready to move into. He was supposedly only going to be lodging with me over a long weekend. Then, "Looks like a few weeks, my love," the builder said. Those few weeks have somehow turned into a few months. My desirable girl-about-town apartment has become a cross between Santa’s grotto and one very undesirable dog kennel.

    "I thought we could play Who wants to be a Millionaire tonight," Dad’s saying as he surreptitiously adds salt to the vegetables. "Or there’s an interesting programme about the Bengal tiger on Channel Four." He pokes a finger at a defrosting roulade. "Is this broccoli or spinach?" He takes a spoonful, tastes it, grimaces, and clatters the spoon back in the sink. "Perhaps I’ll bake us some cheese scones later."

    "Why don’t you take the dog for a walk?" I say, resisting the urge to batter him with the saucepan. "You could pop into the corner shop on the way back and pick up a few bottles of beer."

    "Good idea," he says. "And I’ll get some of that stuff that removes lime-scale while I’m at it. It’ll bring your toilet bowl up like new."

    Arrgh! Deep breath, Paula. "Okay," I say. "You do that."

    He’s soon out the door; muffled beneath thick scarf and bobble-hat, Boris beating time by his side. I flop onto the sofa and, after removing a rubber bone from beneath the cushion, I promptly fall asleep. But not for long. I awake to frantic banging on the door and the sound of a key being stabbed unsuccessfully against the lock. Then a shout comes via the letterbox. "Paula, it’s me. I’ve lost Boris. I tied him up to the railings, but when I came out of the shop he’d slipped his collar."

    I calm him down with a mug of sweet tea and a Garibaldi. "Don’t worry. He can’t have gone far. Did you walk through the park or come by the main road?" If Boris has chosen to go through the park, then maybe he’s stopped to chase a rabbit or two.

    "What if he wanders into the road?" says Dad. "You know what he’s like in traffic."

    I shudder, imagining Boris trying to keep pace with the number fourteen bus. He might be getting on a bit, but anything with wheels is still fair game as far as Boris is concerned. He once chased a BT van for almost half a mile. "He’ll be fine." I try to sound encouraging. "You stay here in case he finds his way home. I’ll go and look for him."

    I pull on my coat and, taking the stairs two at a time, head out into the street below. I take the main route first; terrified I’ll find the poor thing injured by the roadside. Dad bought him shortly after my mum died. He’ll take it very badly if anything’s happened. I whistle and shout Boris’s name into the now darkened streets, but apart from a few odd looks from the people in the bus queue, nothing.

    I cross to the park, but the gates are locked. If he’s gone in there, at least he’ll have to stay there until morning. Perhaps he’ll simply find somewhere to sleep, curl into a hairy ball and dream of lady spaniels. I walk back along the main road, calling him every few seconds until I’m back at my flat. I climb the stairs, rehearsing how I’ll best calm the situation with a few well-placed platitudes about animal rescue, the RSPCA and the importance of having him ‘chipped’ when he eventually does return.

    "What took you so long?" says Dad, as I reach my door. "You’ve been gone ages. We were worried."

    "We?"

    "Funny thing," Dad says. "Not five minutes after you’d left, Pete here found him outside on the pavement."

    Pete? Sitting on my sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him is my new neighbour. He smiles up at me, his eyes twinkling from under a dark floppy fringe. "I guessed he belonged here," he says, "so I brought him on up. He’s unharmed. Just a bit hungry and tired, that’s all." Boris is snoring loudly, runny nose pressed up against my rag-rolled cupboards, moulting profusely and sweeping his great hairy tail across my wood parquet.

    "Talking of which," Dad cuts in. "I’ve suggested to Pete that the two of you go out to eat tonight. The dinner’s ruined anyway. I’ll be all right on my own. Besides, I have that toilet bowl to tackle."

    Pete rakes a big hand through his hair. "If that's okay with you."

    My cheeks are hot from my brisk walk around the block, so hopefully he won’t notice the ensuing blush. "Yes, that’d be great."

    Boris gives a yawn and emits an odorous ‘peep’.

    "The old boy’s quite a character," laughs Pete.

    "Dad or Boris?"

    Pete’s eyebrows do a cute Mexican wave and he laughs again. White even teeth, dimpled cheeks and soft kiss-me lips.

    I excuse myself to go change into something more glamorous than my purple fleece and Oh No! The tartan slippers, which in my race to find Boris I’d forgotten I was wearing. Warp speed and, hopefully, I’m transformed from kennel maid to sultry vamp.

    "You two enjoy yourselves," says Dad, kissing the top of my head and giving my hand a squeeze. He winks and I’ve the strangest feeling that he’s stage-managed the whole thing. "Come on, Boris old boy. Let’s see if we can rescue some of this dinner," he says, spooning food onto a plate. Two minutes in the microwave and he declares it, "Not as bad as I first thought, dear, though it could do with a bit of spicing up. I’ll have to give you my recipe."

    "Don’t wait up," I say, blowing him a kiss. I’ll tell the old rogue later that he’s just ladled gravy over a gooseberry roulade.

THE END

 ©2001 Sue Houghton

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