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Authors: Jonathan Coe
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suppose that could be said of him at least. If Ivy herself was not present, he could be guaranteed to scamper around in a kind of directionless frenzy, always chasing imaginary objects, in a perpetual state of neurotic excitement. It was exhausting trying to keep him on a lead. But indoors, with Ivy for company, he only ever wanted to sit at her feet or, preferably, on her lap. He would lie there for hours, staring up at her with the glaze of unconditional love in his little round eyes. Ivy would stroke his hair and feed him little favours from her box of Cadbury’s chocolates (of which she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply, even during wartime).
Now Beatrix, by and large, kept well away from this animal. It was not that she wanted nothing to do with him, but that he wanted nothing to do with her. She would have liked nothing more than to pet him, I imagine, if only because it would have made her feel closer to her mother and might have won her approval. But Bonaparte, perhaps in imitation of his beloved mistress, treated Beatrix with utter disdain. The only exceptions to this rule were at meal times, when he would occasionally deign to interest himself in some little titbit that she might offer him from her plate. The incident that I am thinking of took place, I believe, in the spring of 1942, towards the end of my stay at Warden Farm. The whole family was having dinner in the kitchen. The cook had roasted two large chickens, and Beatrix broke off a piece of one wing and tossed it to Bonaparte, who as usual was crouched beneath the table, his tongue hanging out greedily. Well, after chewing on the wing for a few seconds, he began to make the most horrific noises: a kind of anguished cough, from somewhere deep in his body, accompanied at the same time by a fearsome whine. It was obvious that a small bone had become lodged in his throat and he was choking. For a few seconds everyone just stared at him in horror. Then Aunt Ivy began to wail, her voice rising to a scream, to a pitch I had never heard before and would never have believed her capable of; no words were emerging and she was not doing anything as practical as asking someone to intervene, but all the same, Beatrix leaped forward, threw herself at Bonaparte, who was squatting in the middle of the room by now, and seized him by the jaw, attempting to force his mouth open. This didn’t seem to do any good at all. In fact, Bonaparte’s coughing and whining became even more distressed, until Ivy recovered her power of speech and screeched at her daughter something that sounded like, ‘Stop that, you fool! You’re strangling him, you’re strangling him!’, at which point Raymond (inevitably) leaped to his feet, grabbed the wretched creature from Beatrix’s arms, and did… something, I don’t know exactly what – something that involved an almighty slap on the back – the canine equivalent of the Heimlich manoeuvre, I suppose – so that the little bone shot out of the dog’s mouth and landed on the other side of the kitchen floor.
The crisis had passed. Momentarily. Bonaparte was perfectly all right, of course. It was Ivy who had to be carried upstairs (I’m not exaggerating – Raymond and Owen took one end each) and was not seen afterwards for about two days, except by Beatrix. Yes, the poor girl received a maternal summons the next day. We were playing in the caravan together, at the time, and together we trooped into the house and up the stairs to Ivy’s bedroom, but Beatrix went in alone, while I lurked outside, my ear at the door. What I heard was very disturbing. It was not the words that disturbed me so much – indeed, I could hardly hear any of them – but Ivy’s tone of voice. She didn’t raise it, not at all. If she had, it might have been less upsetting. Throughout the five minutes or so that Beatrix was inside, she spoke in a low monotone which I can only describe – trying to choose my words carefully, here, without exaggeration –
Now Beatrix, by and large, kept well away from this animal. It was not that she wanted nothing to do with him, but that he wanted nothing to do with her. She would have liked nothing more than to pet him, I imagine, if only because it would have made her feel closer to her mother and might have won her approval. But Bonaparte, perhaps in imitation of his beloved mistress, treated Beatrix with utter disdain. The only exceptions to this rule were at meal times, when he would occasionally deign to interest himself in some little titbit that she might offer him from her plate. The incident that I am thinking of took place, I believe, in the spring of 1942, towards the end of my stay at Warden Farm. The whole family was having dinner in the kitchen. The cook had roasted two large chickens, and Beatrix broke off a piece of one wing and tossed it to Bonaparte, who as usual was crouched beneath the table, his tongue hanging out greedily. Well, after chewing on the wing for a few seconds, he began to make the most horrific noises: a kind of anguished cough, from somewhere deep in his body, accompanied at the same time by a fearsome whine. It was obvious that a small bone had become lodged in his throat and he was choking. For a few seconds everyone just stared at him in horror. Then Aunt Ivy began to wail, her voice rising to a scream, to a pitch I had never heard before and would never have believed her capable of; no words were emerging and she was not doing anything as practical as asking someone to intervene, but all the same, Beatrix leaped forward, threw herself at Bonaparte, who was squatting in the middle of the room by now, and seized him by the jaw, attempting to force his mouth open. This didn’t seem to do any good at all. In fact, Bonaparte’s coughing and whining became even more distressed, until Ivy recovered her power of speech and screeched at her daughter something that sounded like, ‘Stop that, you fool! You’re strangling him, you’re strangling him!’, at which point Raymond (inevitably) leaped to his feet, grabbed the wretched creature from Beatrix’s arms, and did… something, I don’t know exactly what – something that involved an almighty slap on the back – the canine equivalent of the Heimlich manoeuvre, I suppose – so that the little bone shot out of the dog’s mouth and landed on the other side of the kitchen floor.
The crisis had passed. Momentarily. Bonaparte was perfectly all right, of course. It was Ivy who had to be carried upstairs (I’m not exaggerating – Raymond and Owen took one end each) and was not seen afterwards for about two days, except by Beatrix. Yes, the poor girl received a maternal summons the next day. We were playing in the caravan together, at the time, and together we trooped into the house and up the stairs to Ivy’s bedroom, but Beatrix went in alone, while I lurked outside, my ear at the door. What I heard was very disturbing. It was not the words that disturbed me so much – indeed, I could hardly hear any of them – but Ivy’s tone of voice. She didn’t raise it, not at all. If she had, it might have been less upsetting. Throughout the five minutes or so that Beatrix was inside, she spoke in a low monotone which I can only describe – trying to choose my words carefully, here, without exaggeration –
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