Last night, as the hour moved beyond midnight and I became a year older, I found I couldn’t sleep, but lay awake and watched a gruesome parade of failure limp past my vision. How apologetic I have been about my ambitions, I thought. Is that because I never really believed in them? Have I been this spineless because the minute anyone criticised me, I knew I wouldn’t have the conviction to fight my corner? I’m a fraud, that’s what I am. A fantasist.

I slept in. Usually I’m up two hours earlier than anyone else and writing a thousand words. But I’d set my internal alarm clock to “Oh, what’s the bloody point?” and it knew better than to contradict me.

When I did come down, Mother said: “Oh, happy birthday, Ken, dear.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You just called me Ken.”

“I’m always doing that,” she complained. “Getting you mixed up with the dog. It’s my condition, not me.”

“You’ve never called Ken by my name.”

John was beside her at the kitchen table, eating cereal and watching me nervously. Peony got a “job” the other day so that she could “support” him and was already up and out of the house. The job was part-time and we all expected her to pack it in before the weekend but it was still a little strange to see John unstuck from her side. I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Charlton. He’s the boy’s favourite adult after Peony.

And that, in fact, was when Charlton arrived, dressed and grinning and slapping me on the back.

“Happy birthday, Sis,” he sang.

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

“I’ve got you the best present ever.”

I made myself some coffee.

Go away, go away all of you, I thought. I don’t want to be a year older. I don’t want to fail among you, in public. I want to fail alone and keep it to myself, wallow in it. Why should I still be looking at all your faces at this stage in my life?

“I’m moving out,” he announced. “How’s that for a thoughtful present?”

I turned and pointed the spoon at him.

“You’re moving out as a gift to me?”

“Well, no. I’m moving out and it happens to be your birthday. It occurred to me that my moving out would be better than any frippery I could buy. Am I right?”

Well, yes, of course he was right. I’d been trying to wriggle him out of the pack for months. Was it really going to be this easy? And why did I suddenly feel such a bitch about it?

“Well… you don’t have to.”

John was glaring at me and I saw in the child’s eyes profound resentment. As though this were all my fault. Surely he must see from his vantage point that I have no control over anything in my own house.

“What do you want to do with your day?” pronounced Charlton as though my day were in his gift.

“I want to go on a long country walk,” I said.

Ken Tray’s head arrived in my lap at the very whiff of the word “walk”.

“We’re in the middle of London, Ken dear,” said Mother (to me). “Where are you going to find countryside?”

I just want to get away from you!

But I didn’t say that. I said: “Well, I’ll walk round the cemetery then and count all the people I’ve outlived.”

As I left the kitchen, I heard her say: “Nobody tell her that outliving people doesn’t count as an achievement. She’s always cranky on her birthday.”

*

The cemetery was glorious, actually, and not just because at least I was alive. The air was fresh but heavy with Autumn damp, and the leaves were thick and matted beneath my boots. Ken Tray bounced along at a dainty pace and never once gave the impression that he might run away. (Not that I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.) Though the day was dark and the clouds low, I felt free and unjudged and, as ever, comfortable in my own company. Who needs readers? Surely this is the best outcome for a person like me. Far from fearing obscurity, I should relish it. I can write and write and write and enjoy the purity of it. Charlton’s going, Peony’s working. This is surely the beginning of my new reclusive life.

And we trotted contentedly along a yew walk, Ken and I, admiring the deep gloss of the rain-coated foliage, when we walked smack into a party of young people, recessed in their hooded tops, swearing colourfully at the sight of me.

I wasn’t going to say sorry. They had walked into me.

A young man whose vast nose and tiny, angry eyes were the only features visible within his hood, tutted impatiently at my presence. There were about five of them. They weren’t going to move to let me go past and the last thing I was going to say was “excuse me”.

The young man said: “Look, it’s a f—ing dog, innit. Wooo, I’m scared.”

A girl laughed. I waited.

Someone pointed out: “It’s really thin, that dog.”

The girl laughed again. I didn’t think it was that funny.

The big-nosed boy leaned towards Ken and scowled with angry revulsion. He really looked very unpleasant.

Having inspected Ken for a good minute or so he looked back up at me and offered this pronouncement:

“Is that a greyhound, innit?”

There was a long moment when the birds were the only sound around us. Slowly I expelled some air and looked over the top of my glasses, directly into those tiny, vacant eyes. And wearily I told him:

“No, it’s a sausage dog.”

And I added: “Innit.”

Another long, bird-filled moment.

The young man frowned as he thought about what I’d said, then wheezed: “sausage dog!” and they all laughed and with that simply moved off, the crowd parting around me and repeating “nice one” amongst themselves as they shuffled away.

As I turned to watch them go, I saw my daughter stride cheerily up to me in her long sky-blue work coat that I wish I owned, or could fit into.

She grabbed me round the shoulders and pulled me into a hearty hug.

“Peony, what are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Just walking home. Got sacked. No, laid-off. Let’s say laid-off. Anyway, that’s not important. Mum, you were amazing. I can’t believe how coolly you handled that. I saw that gang poke a guy off his bike with a big stick last week. I wouldn’t mess with ‘em.”

Oh that poor cyclist. How awful.

We set off for home.

“That’s what I love about the characters in your books,” she observed. “They just say what they think. You’ve created this awesome world where there’s total verbal honesty.”

“Have I?” I stuttered. “I didn’t know you read my books.”

“Course I bloody read ‘em,” she guffawed. “We all do. Can’t write enough, I say.”

“Do you really say that?”

“Mum! Don’t be such an idiot. Of course we do.”

“We?”

She shook her head and laughed.

“We?” I persisted.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re always like this on your birthday.”

“I thought I might like to be a recluse,” I told her.

“Recluses live alone, don’t they?” she checked.

“Yes.”

And for the second time within ten minutes, here was a young person laughing at what she perceived to be my perfect joke.

“Nice one,” she said. And then added: “Where’s Ken?”

 

Justine is Peony’s best friend. They went through secondary school together and were comically ill-matched, my daughter a rather jolly, sporty, strong kind of girl, and Justine moribund. Sallow. One of those very internal types.

Justine’s parents are artists – suspiciously wealthy ones – and they live in the conservation area which already pissed me off about them, given that artists should surely be scratching a living. Anyway, they are glamorous and well-connected and their only daughter, also an artist, moves in quite different circles to my more sensible girl.

By all accounts she’s not half bad as an artist. Her medium is grass, which she uses to great effect, I believe. There’s unquestionable talent there. She went to art school on and off and lives in town now in a flat which her parents bought specifically for her.

My Peony did the right thing in going up North to university and I thought that mixing with real people might cure her of that rather strenuous friendship but nothing of the sort happened. She and Justine remained stubbornly devoted to each other and for the life of me I can’t see what bonds them together.

Now here’s the thing I didn’t know and here’s the way I found it out.

Two days ago on a day as beautiful and mellow and golden as this one (though I can’t quite appreciate its beauty at the moment and I think you’ll forgive me for that), I tapped on Peony’s bedroom door and called in that we should take Ken for a walk and make the most of the September warmth. She’d been out all morning and had come home while I was in the garden and I’d only known about her presence when her radio went on and the clapping proceeded. A lot of clapping. I’d never heard her clapping so much. And every now and again she’d sing out: “Cos I’m happy!” or “Ha-ppy, ha-ppy, ha-ppy.”

The door opened at once and her lovely round face appeared at the crack and though her expression seemed weary, she managed to smile.

“Right ho, Mum. Good idea,” she beamed. “Might I just fetch something first?”

I assumed she meant a cardigan.

“You won’t be needing one, darling,” I called and craned my neck to see inside her room.

I can’t go on right now. I’m all overwrought again. Wait a bit, would you.

Oh it wasn’t a cardigan!

“Alright, alright. So Justine’s made a few mistakes in life. Who hasn’t made a few mistakes in life? I know I have.”

And that’s how Peony left it and those are the words ringing in my ears as I contemplate the extraordinary events of the past two days.

I’m far too overwrought to write more now. And Ken Tray’s nose is in my ear which is actually a welcome dose of comradeship, but making it difficult for me to write. Until tomorrow then…

Yesterday morning I switched on my laptop to discover a message headed: “This is not a promotion – you have won a genuine prize.”

You are meant to delete those messages instantly, aren’t you? You’re not even supposed to look at them, because of the inevitable dire consequences. Nine times out of ten, they’re a scam.

So why did I open it? Because I am reckless and, at times, rather dangerous. The crux of it was that I had won a prize draw, for which I had been automatically entered after taking part in a consumer survey. (I dimly remember some months ago the poor, importuning young man who called saying that he needed one more interviewee to finish his quota for the day. And so I had agreed to provide him with my views on toilet cleaners, apple-scented shampoos and daily newspapers). My act of charity two months ago had netted me, I read in the email, a year’s supply of tinned dog food.

I sent the reply: “Is this one of those frauds where you’re going to ask for my bank details to unlock my prize?” and some time later a Justine Pollock, the consumer and communications team co-ordinator, replied with the reassurance: “Please be reassured.”

She went on: “From time to time we are able to reward our participants with prizes, details of which will have been given to you at the time the survey was taken. Have you got a dog?”

I replied: “No.”

Her answer: “I’m afraid we can’t commute the prize details. On some occasions we have other offers of which you could avail yourself but this time it’s dog food. I believe it will prove a significant saving in household expenses. ”

“It would,” I reminded her. “If I had a dog.”

That very afternoon a huge pallet of tinned dog food arrived. It blocked the hall and my arteries.

Peony, who was coming and going that afternoon, reminded me that she had worked at the Home for Retired Greyhounds as a student and that perhaps we could donate the prize to them.

“I’ll take it there myself,” she said breezily. “Nice to see the old place again.”

“Take me, too,” said Mother.

“Yes, take her too,” I insisted.

*

 

Connie called a little while after. She was wondering if she should drop by, being at a loose end.

“Is Charlton there?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Where is he?”

“He’s at a seminar called ‘The Art of Selling Time Share Holidays’.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I have to go, Con,” I told her. “I can hear the front door.”

And there was a final, faint “Oh” as I pressed the button and as the front door was being opened.

“Why is she always going on about Charlton?” I asked Peony but, as I said it, I had the sensation that a gust of wind had blown through the opened door and whirled past my legs and left my skirt flapping against my calves. It was the oddest feeling, like a touch of sea-sickness or perhaps the queasiness that comes of putting on a light and seeing a thousand cockroaches scurry away. (That’s never actually happened to me but I’ve seen it on telly and felt that way, unsettled.)

Mother was just making a performance of stepping over the threshold.

“His name is Ken,” she said and then remembered to pant. “Ken Tray.”

“Come and sit down,” I chided her. “Pointless is about to start.” And then: “Whose name is Ken?”

Peony was bringing back the tins of dog food by the very same bagfuls in which we had taken them out earlier.

She stopped beside me and shook her head. “Daft old mare,” she confided. “His racing name is actually Kent Ray. I’ve told her a thousand times, but it won’t sink in.”

“Ken Tray,” I managed to mutter and then my voice just disappeared on me. I stumbled through the house to the back door, only to see what looked like a malnourished, dark grey antelope running in tight and frenzied circles on the lawn, scattering turf as he went.

Peony came and stood beside me and clapped with indulgent joy at the sight of the idiocy on the lawn.

“You know what it’s like,” she chuckled. “They choose you, not you them.”

God it’s a struggle, isn’t it? It’s a constant struggle trying to remain standing against the tide of other people’s whims and acts of wilfulness. All I ever wanted was to be left alone, for my mother to be splendid in her independence, for my daughter to find her own sphere, for my brother to just go away. I’m the last person in the world who should have so many useless dependents. I don’t want to be responsible for them. I don’t want a bloody dog either!

When my voice returned, it squeaked: “You were meant to be taking them the dog food. Peony, wasn’t that the understanding?”

Peony’s eyes opened wide. “Get this, Mum,” she announced. “Apparently greyhounds can’t eat tinned dog food. They should only eat proper, dry dog meal. And wait for this: apparently, it’s really, really expensive.”

“Expensive,” I repeated and the echo of the word reached the ears of Ken Tray, who stopped finally and grinned at me in a way that I believe only grehounds are  able to do. I really wish they wouldn’t.

 

 

 

 

The girls came round last night for a hand of cards.

Mother was already settled in front of her recording of America’s Got Talent and the lights were low and the air crackling with anticipation.

“I think we’ll play at the garden table tonight,” I announced but both Connie and Lyre were hovering in front of the screen.

Mother leaned into Connie and said: “Talent? You want talent? You know my daughter worked for British Intelligence for many years. Recruited into MI6 from Cambridge. Travelled extensively as an intelligence officer.”

Connie looked a little alarmed. Could it be true?

“Of course, I’ve already said too much and will have to face the music,” said Mother mournfully, visibly anticipating the repercussions of her indiscretion.

My friend looked to me at once and read the exasperation on my face.

“She’s a dark horse, isn’t she, your daughter,” she said with a nudge into thin air.

“She’s insisting on building a hot tub on the patio. I’m not entirely agin it, but one must plan sufficient screening first.”

And that concluded my mother’s pronouncements for the day.

“I wasn’t and I’m not,” I told the girls as I led them into the garden.

“You would say that,” said Lyre. “You’re sworn to silence under the Official Secrets Act.”

“About that hot tub,” began Lyre a bit later, inspecting her hand and frowning.

“She’s a fantasist,” I told them. “I get all my best plots from her. Unmitigated bollocks.”

“Where’s Charlton tonight?” Connie asked.

“Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know. He lives here now doesn’t he?”

“He does. Why?”

Lyre placed her cards on the garden table so that she could give me all her attention.

“I reckon she’s sweet on him.”

Connie said: “Pah.” And then she said: “How…how odd of you to say that.”

“Odd or wrong?” I asked. “Please say wrong.”

“I mean, why would you say that?”

“Say it!” I snarled. “Say it’s wrong.”

And at that point Peony came sauntering up the garden path in a dreamy kind of state. She’d been on her phone for the best part of half an hour and though we hadn’t been able to see her we’d heard her sweet chirrup coming from the shadows every now and again.

She came to a stop behind my chair so that I couldn’t see her but could smell the violent brew of perfumes evaporating off her. (She and her grandmother had been testing scents at the shopping centre this afternoon.)

“Aren’t boys funny,” she said and I felt her grip tighten on the back of my chair.

“Who were you on the phone to?” I enquired, relieved to be abandoning my hand for good.

Connie, who was sitting opposite me and could therefore judge Peony’s expression, helped me out (she’s got a sixth sense that woman and can read my mind. I can’t imagine it’s any use to her at all as a college librarian.)

“Someone nice, dear?”

“The phone?” asked Peony vaguely.

“Oh never mind,” came back Connie. “I wonder where your Uncle Charlton is tonight.”

“Oh he’s at his monthly Orc Swarming,” she replied.

“Well,” said Connie. “Sounds …regular.”

Peony moved from behind my chair and crouched down beside me. In the light of the single storm lamp which stood at the centre of the card-strewn table, I saw that she had a beatific look on her usually cheerful round face. I leant in and kissed her cushiony cheek.

She smiled as she patted me on my head and observed me pityingly.

“Oh I’m so glad you love me, Mum,” she said.

Which is when my blood froze.

“Why?” I asked.

“And isn’t it amazing that a parent’s love is unconditional.”

“Why?”

“I’m learning that lesson every day.”

And she stood and turned on her heel, leaving a nauseous vapour of cheap perfumes behind her….and the limp ring of a final “Why?” from my constricting throat.