Read Online Monday to Friday Man by Alice Peterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice Peterson
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find myself pushing Ruskin off Trouble’s back. He laughs, saying they’re playing piggyback. I ask him what he’s doing out here on such a miserable afternoon.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ he says before replying, ‘I’m trying to train Trouble, but she’s not interested, as you can see.’
I come into my element, remembering puppy-training school all those years ago. ‘Plenty of treats because bribery works, and I only have to mention the word chicken or squirrels and he’s by my side. Watch.’ I demonstrate and he seems impressed when Ruskin bolts over to me, ears alert.
‘The other day, I didn’t catch your name,’ I say.
‘Guy. How do you do.’ He shakes my hand.
‘Gilly,’ I say, ‘with a “G”. Careful!’ I squeal, grabbing Ruskin’s collar and pulling him close towards me. ‘Get Trouble! You need to watch out for that man,’ I warn him.
‘Where?’
‘Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock!’
Guy turns and locates a man with a grey beard and a figure like Santa Claus, walking combatively round the edge of the park dressed in what looks like a bulletproof jacket and camouflage trousers. Behind him is a large black-and-white dog on a lead that looks more like a prison chain.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Guy whispers, Trouble safe beside him. ‘Is that a dog or a wolf?’
I laugh. ‘Most of the dogs are nice,’ I reassure him, ‘it’s the owners you need to worry about.’
‘I can see that. I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark alleyway.’
‘How old is Trouble?’
‘Nine months. She’s not mine.’
‘Oh?’
‘My girlfriend’s.’
‘Right.’ Why did I imagine he’d be single? No one’s single except for Harvey with his calculator . . . and me.
‘She’s travelling at the moment.’
‘Really? For work?’
‘Holiday,’ he says awkwardly, adjusting his hat. ‘Long story. Anyway,’ he continues, ‘my life’s not worth living if any harm comes to Trouble while she’s away.’
I smile, telling him about my first experience with Ruskin and how paranoid I’d been about letting him off the lead when he was a puppy. The moment I did, he’d headed straight for the pond where a little girl was feeding the pigeons. Ruskin had jumped up at the girl with auburn curls, grabbed the bread from her podgy fingers, her mother screamed at me, I blew my whistle, the little girl wailed, Ruskin merrily chomped on the bread . . . and then Ed intervened.
‘Ed?’ asks Guy, enjoying the story.
‘An old boyfriend. He was my . . .’ No. I reject the idea of telling Guy the miserable tale, which ends in him getting married yesterday. ‘Long story,’ I smile.
It starts to pour with rain and Guy and I sprint across the park and out of the gates.
At the zebra crossing we stall, a car driver beeps his horn. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ we ask at the same time, rain slashing against our clothes.
‘Yes,’ we both reply. ‘Come on,’ Guy says, and we clutch onto one another, running down the pavement with our dogs, laughing as we dodge the puddles.
That evening I drive Ruskin over to see my father with a couple of homemade lasagnes for his freezer. Dad still lives by Regents Park, in our old house along Fitzroy Road. When Mum left us all those years ago, he didn’t remarry.
When I arrive, Dad fixes us both a strong drink, smiling as he says his biggest relationship since our mother has been with the gin bottle.
I sit at the kitchen table as Dad cooks us scrambled eggs. Being here always reminds me of my childhood. In this room I see Dad, all those years ago, cooking eggs for Nick and me on a Sunday night. I was assigned to toast duty, Nick had to lay the table and Dad was in charge of the cooking. I also remember us both getting on with our homework at this table.
I can hear Mum telling us the news about Megan that fateful day when she’d returned from the doctor’s clinic. I sat in this chair, facing the garden window. I recall Dad being so strong for all of us that
‘I could ask the same of you,’ he says before replying, ‘I’m trying to train Trouble, but she’s not interested, as you can see.’
I come into my element, remembering puppy-training school all those years ago. ‘Plenty of treats because bribery works, and I only have to mention the word chicken or squirrels and he’s by my side. Watch.’ I demonstrate and he seems impressed when Ruskin bolts over to me, ears alert.
‘The other day, I didn’t catch your name,’ I say.
‘Guy. How do you do.’ He shakes my hand.
‘Gilly,’ I say, ‘with a “G”. Careful!’ I squeal, grabbing Ruskin’s collar and pulling him close towards me. ‘Get Trouble! You need to watch out for that man,’ I warn him.
‘Where?’
‘Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock!’
Guy turns and locates a man with a grey beard and a figure like Santa Claus, walking combatively round the edge of the park dressed in what looks like a bulletproof jacket and camouflage trousers. Behind him is a large black-and-white dog on a lead that looks more like a prison chain.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Guy whispers, Trouble safe beside him. ‘Is that a dog or a wolf?’
I laugh. ‘Most of the dogs are nice,’ I reassure him, ‘it’s the owners you need to worry about.’
‘I can see that. I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark alleyway.’
‘How old is Trouble?’
‘Nine months. She’s not mine.’
‘Oh?’
‘My girlfriend’s.’
‘Right.’ Why did I imagine he’d be single? No one’s single except for Harvey with his calculator . . . and me.
‘She’s travelling at the moment.’
‘Really? For work?’
‘Holiday,’ he says awkwardly, adjusting his hat. ‘Long story. Anyway,’ he continues, ‘my life’s not worth living if any harm comes to Trouble while she’s away.’
I smile, telling him about my first experience with Ruskin and how paranoid I’d been about letting him off the lead when he was a puppy. The moment I did, he’d headed straight for the pond where a little girl was feeding the pigeons. Ruskin had jumped up at the girl with auburn curls, grabbed the bread from her podgy fingers, her mother screamed at me, I blew my whistle, the little girl wailed, Ruskin merrily chomped on the bread . . . and then Ed intervened.
‘Ed?’ asks Guy, enjoying the story.
‘An old boyfriend. He was my . . .’ No. I reject the idea of telling Guy the miserable tale, which ends in him getting married yesterday. ‘Long story,’ I smile.
It starts to pour with rain and Guy and I sprint across the park and out of the gates.
At the zebra crossing we stall, a car driver beeps his horn. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ we ask at the same time, rain slashing against our clothes.
‘Yes,’ we both reply. ‘Come on,’ Guy says, and we clutch onto one another, running down the pavement with our dogs, laughing as we dodge the puddles.
That evening I drive Ruskin over to see my father with a couple of homemade lasagnes for his freezer. Dad still lives by Regents Park, in our old house along Fitzroy Road. When Mum left us all those years ago, he didn’t remarry.
When I arrive, Dad fixes us both a strong drink, smiling as he says his biggest relationship since our mother has been with the gin bottle.
I sit at the kitchen table as Dad cooks us scrambled eggs. Being here always reminds me of my childhood. In this room I see Dad, all those years ago, cooking eggs for Nick and me on a Sunday night. I was assigned to toast duty, Nick had to lay the table and Dad was in charge of the cooking. I also remember us both getting on with our homework at this table.
I can hear Mum telling us the news about Megan that fateful day when she’d returned from the doctor’s clinic. I sat in this chair, facing the garden window. I recall Dad being so strong for all of us that
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