The Quarry

32

‘Ally?’ Max called. ‘Ally, look at me.’

Max was leaning forward in his armchair in the living room. The little poodle was sitting on Vendela’s knee on the other side of the room, and turned his nose towards the voice.

‘Aloysius? Can you see me?’

Vendela whispered in his ear, ‘Ally, can you see Daddy?’

The dog whimpered faintly and seemed to be sniffing, but in different directions all around the room.

Max sighed. ‘He can’t see me, Vendela. He can hear and he can smell, but he can’t see a thing.’

Vendela stroked the dog’s back. ‘He can,’ she said. ‘He’s much better than he was... he doesn’t bump into the furniture any more.’ She scratched the back of his neck. ‘And he looks at me, he really does. Don’t you, poppet?’

Ally stretched up and licked her throat.

Max shook his head. ‘Eyes don’t heal themselves, I’ve never heard of that happening. I don’t think sight can just come back...’

‘Yes, it can,’ said Vendela. ‘Here it can. Here on the island.’

‘Really?’

Vendela put the poodle down on the stone floor. ‘It’s healthy here,’ she said. ‘I think it’s the water and the earth... There’s so much lime in the ground.’

‘Right,’ said Max, getting up from his chair and heading towards the hallway. ‘I’m going to put the summer tyres on the car. Can you make me a snack to take with me later — some pasta salad?’

Vendela went into the kitchen and put the water on to boil. In a couple of hours she would be alone in the house. She was looking forward to it.

But the Easter weekend had gone well; they had eaten good food, and Vendela had helped Max with the proofreading of his cookery book. Now, on Sunday evening, he was getting ready to leave the island for a five-day promotional tour of southern Sweden; he would be away until Friday. He would talk about his previous self-help books and, of course, would give as much publicity as possible to his forthcoming venture, Good Food to the Max.

‘Anticipation,’ he said. ‘You have to create the anticipation.’

He was stomping around the house, excited one minute and irritated the next, but Vendela knew he was always like that when he was due to go off and meet the public. There was so much that could go wrong; perhaps nobody would turn up, or his microphone might not work, or the organizers might have forgotten to order his books or arrange the venue. He was always more relaxed when he came home from his tours.

In the beginning Vendela had gone with him and they had enjoyed intimate dinners in various city hotels, but now they had an unspoken agreement that she would stay at home.

Once the pasta started boiling she went back into the living room, and stopped dead. There was a milky-white puddle on the dark stone floor. Vendela realized what had happened and hurried off to fetch some kitchen roll before Max saw the puddle, but it was too late.

His call came as she stood by the sink: ‘Vendela!’

She went back, her expression blank. ‘What is it, darling?’

‘Have you seen what he’s done on the floor? Your dog?’

Now he was her dog.

‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’ She hurried in with kitchen paper in both hands. ‘He’s just got a bit of an upset tummy.’

She knelt down. Max stood behind her, his back ramrod straight as he watched her clean up the mess. ‘It’s not the first time.’

‘No. But he does eat grass sometimes, it could be that,’ said Vendela. ‘But he’s been much better this last week.’

Max said nothing, he just turned away. Vendela wiped up the last of the mess and got to her feet. ‘There, all gone!’

The front door slammed; Max had gone out. Ally had crept under the kitchen table and was lying with his paws over his nose as if he were ashamed of himself, and she bent down. ‘Don’t do that again, poppet.’

Max had enjoyed spending time with Ally through all the years he could take the dog for long walks, or throw sticks and balls for him to fetch. But now Ally wasn’t very well, he was obviously worthless.

She would go out to the stone with another coin this very evening. She would stay and pray — not only for Aloysius to get better, but also for Max to start liking the dog as he was, young or old, cute or ugly, healthy or sick. He was their Ally, after all.

‘We’re not finished yet, poppet,’ she said, straining the pasta through a colander. ‘We’ll show him!’