Art
Art
Art paused outside the community center to look at the noticeboard. A large poster had been placed aggressively in the middle, surrounded by a patchwork of more reticent faded and peeling notices, and covering up Lydia’s advertisement for the social club.
In the Light of Recent Events, the Council Is Holding a General Meeting to Discuss the Future of Mandel Community Center. All Welcome.
“Have you seen the sign outside from the council?” said Art to the assembled club members, crowded into the half of the room that hadn’t been cordoned off.
“Yes,” said Lydia as she placed a homemade cake on a plate in the center of the table. A Victoria sponge. A classic of its genre. The Dame Maggie Smith of baked goods. It was worth showing up just for that. Even if it meant having to be polite to the whiteboard-wielding witch, who hadn’t yet even looked him in the eye, let alone apologized. Art snuck a hopeful glance at the ceiling above Daphne’s head, but it looked irritatingly sound.
“I can’t believe it,” continued Lydia. “This is the first paid job I’ve had in decades, and it might be over before it’s even properly begun.”
“Well, if we keep on losing members at the rate we’ve been doing so far, there won’t be any of us left to socialize, anyway,” said Anna.
“Yes, what have you got in store for us today, Lydia? Electrocution by dodgy wiring in the kettle? Listeria in the butter icing? Carbon monoxide poisoning from the ancient boiler?” said Daphne, who looked as if she were relishing the prospect of more death.
“It’s not funny,” said Lydia, setting out seven cups and saucers, before going slightly pale, and taking one away again. “We should actually take a moment to remember Pauline, may she rest in peace.”
Art, who was always good at spotting an opportunity, grabbed it.
“Quite right, Lydia,” he said, trying to sound vaguely mournful. “Luckily, I’ve brought a bottle of whiskey, so we can all have a toast to our dear friend.” He suspected he might have laid it on a little thick with the “dear friend”—dialogue improvisation had never been his forte—but he plowed on, pouring a decent shot of whiskey into each of the teacups.
Lydia frowned. “I don’t think Pauline would have approved, at all, of alcohol on a weekday, in the afternoon,” she said. “She made that quite clear, just before she…” Lydia gulped and went silent.
“It’s Friday,” said Ruby. “Which counts as the weekend, doesn’t it?” She put down her knitting and picked up her cup of whiskey. The knitting, sprawled over Ruby’s lap, looked very much like a half-finished bright-red hat, but far too big to fit on any normal-shaped head. Art wondered if he should suggest she use some kind of knitting pattern. She obviously didn’t have a clue what she was doing.
“Thanks, Art,” said William, reaching for a cup. “Anyhow, Pauline liked nothing better than a bit of disapproval. She’ll be loving this.” He raised the cup to the ceiling, and they all looked up, as if expecting to see a spectral Pauline hovering up there, glaring down at them, threatening them with lines and detentions from the hereafter.
“Now, talking of Pauline, I have a favor to ask you,” said Lydia. “It’s about her dog.”
Until that moment, Art hadn’t noticed the dog sitting next to Lydia’s chair. She looked a little depressed. Bereft. Or perhaps she always looked like that. Living with Pauline would have been enough to give anyone a miserable resting face.
“I was wondering whether, given the unfortunate circumstances…” said Lydia, lifting up the dog and putting her on her lap.
“You mean, given Pauline’s sudden death,” said Daphne. “Let’s not speak in euphemisms.”
“…whether anyone might volunteer to help look after Pauline’s dog,” continued Lydia, stroking the dog’s head. The dog didn’t seem to be enjoying the public display of affection much. Art didn’t blame her. She was probably feeling patronized. Perhaps he should warn Lydia that geriatrics generally didn’t like being patted on the head.
“I thought if three of us shared her care, we could each do a couple of days a week, until we can find a more permanent solution,” said Lydia.
“Ha! I can barely look after myself, let alone a dog as well,” said Art. Then he stopped, remembering the conversation he’d had the week before with his agent. A TV talent show. Me and My Dog. A hundred thousand pounds’ prize money. And the visibility.
This, he realized, with a growing sense of excitement, could be the answer to his financial issues and his flatlining career. He squinted at the dog. She didn’t look ideal, obviously. She wasn’t exactly telegenic, but then neither was he any longer. And she did have a real advantage: she was only part-time, and temporary. If he wasn’t able to turn her into a prize-winning performer within a few weeks, he could just give her back!
Art had watched animal wranglers on set many times. It was all just a case of arming yourself with endless dog treats and using the right tone of voice. Honestly, how hard could it be?
“Only joking!” he said, effecting a screeching U-turn with a forced laugh. “I’d be delighted to help.”
“Me too,” said Daphne, the last person he’d have expected to be charitable, but perhaps she and this grumpy, old, antisocial dog would have much in common.
“Oh, that’s so good of you both,” said Lydia, clapping her hands. Art took advantage of her good mood to top up everyone’s cups with another generous slug of whiskey.
“What’s she called?” said Art, reaching over and grabbing the brass tag hanging from the collar of his new sidekick.
“Aarrrghh!” he said, dropping it as if it had scalded him.
“What is it?” said Anna.
“Her name!” said Art. “Look! It says Maggie Thatcher . Who would do that to a dog?”
Daphne laughed so hard that she spilled some of the whiskey she was holding into her saucer. She picked the saucer up and emptied it straight into her mouth. She saw Lydia staring at her. “Might as well cut out the middleman,” she said, with a wink.
“I presume Pauline was a fan of the Iron Lady,” said Lydia.
“That figures!” said Art. “But we can change her name, right? How about Marilyn Monroe?”
“I vote for Helen Mirren,” said Anna. “She’s a fabulous example of how to age gracefully. Very aspirational.”
“Where’s the fun in aging gracefully?” said Daphne. “Personally, I intend to age as disgracefully as possible.”
“Well, you’re making a fabulous start,” said Art, before he could stop himself.
“We can’t change her name just to suit us,” said Lydia. “It’s not fair on the poor thing. She’s already lost her owner; we can’t take her name away from her, too.”
“Women have been made to change their names to suit their husbands for centuries,” said Daphne, glaring at Lydia as if she’d personally invented the patriarchy.
“If you don’t want to use her whole name, just call her Maggie,” said Lydia. “But we need to be consistent, so no calling her by other names or nicknames, OK?”
Art and Daphne both nodded.
“I’ve written down some basic guidelines for Maggie’s care, so it’ll be easy for her to move between homes,” said Lydia, reaching into her handbag and pulling out some sheets of paper. “There’s some details about her daily routine, then some general rules, like not allowing her on the furniture or in your bedrooms. And she must sleep in a proper dog bed, definitely not on your bed. And strictly no human food. It’s not good for her.”
Lydia handed around the papers, while Maggie Thatcher took advantage of the diversion and snaffled a whole slice of Victoria sponge off her plate.
Lydia’s phone, face down on the table, buzzed and skittered a little across the Formica surface. Lydia picked it up and stared at the screen. She frowned and rubbed her eyes, as if trying to erase what she was seeing.
“Are you OK, my dear?” said William.
Art would dearly have loved to know what the message Lydia had just received had said, but Lydia put it straight into her handbag and knocked back her whiskey in one gulp. Her cup rattled against the saucer as she placed it down with a shaking hand.
“I’m fine,” she said, with a tight smile.
Art had seen many unconvincing performances in his day. In fact, he’d given a fair few of them himself. So he knew an act when he saw one.
Lydia was most definitely not fine.