Armistice Day

“This is a joke, right?”

The courier responded with a blank stare, totally devoid of humour.

“You’re Annabel Catherine Phillips?”

When Annabel affirmed that she was, the man opened a clipboard and thrust it towards her.

“Sign here”, he said, pulling out a pen and making an aggressive cross beside the line that required her name.

“Sorry but I think there has been a mistake,” Annabel said, folding her arms and leaning away from the pen that was now being waved in her face.

The courier gave a huff. “Listen lady, I’m just making a delivery. The estate of Marion Carpenter specifically named you as the recipient of this item — should all be detailed in this letter.” He plopped an envelope on top of the folder.

“You can do what you want with it after I’m gone,” he added snappishly, “but I’ve got other jobs to get to, ok? Just sign the form.”

Annabel looked from the man down to the item in question at his feet — a small scruffy bundle of indeterminant breed, which returned her gaze expectantly.

In an effort to break the stalemate, the courier released the lead he was holding and the dog trotted past Annabel and into her apartment. Seeing her hand had been forced, Annabel scribbled a reluctant signature, snatched the letter and scuttled back inside to hunt down the intruder, booting the door shut behind her to prevent any further interaction with the deliveryman.

Really this was too much. Surely an estranged grandparent could be expected to stump up a little cash at their demise, rather than lumbering you with an unwelcome dependant?

After a brief search of the apartment, she found the offending animal on her bed of all places, scratching its ear with the air of a long-term resident.

“Off!” Annabel snapped, shooing the dog to the floor. “And don’t get comfortable — it’s down to the shelter for you tomorrow.”

She followed the animal into the loungeroom and watched as it sniffed around the perimeter. Given the tiny proportions of the room, this was not a lengthy exercise. Finally, the dog subsided in a corner with a heavy sigh, as though unimpressed with its new lodgings.

Annabel sat down on the lounge. What on earth had possessed the old bat to leave her anything at all, let alone this supercilious furball? After taking no interest whatsoever in her life for all of its 32 years? Maybe if mum had met the right guy, got pregnant at 26 instead of 16, maybe then Annabel would have had a grandmother who had her to stay in the holidays, one who baked cookies and came to the school performances, instead of a shadowy legend who was only ever referred to in her house with curse words attached?

She wondered if she should call her mother. Perhaps she had been left something too? But what had it been — six months? And the last argument had been a doozy; it was hard to pick up as though nothing had happened.

The dog got up and started to circle the room again, and it occurred to Annabel that maybe it was looking for something…

“Oh, wait no — not in here!” she cried, snatching up the lead still attached to its collar and making for the door.

They bolted down the stairs two at a time to the front door and out onto the kerb, where the dog relieved itself copiously on the grass.

“Morning Annabel — where did you get that thing from?” It was Mrs Miranda from unit 401, of course — the custodian of everybody else’s business — returning from her daily trip to the corner store for her diet cola and smokes. How anyone could subsist solely on nicotine and artificial sweetener was a mystery to Annabel.

“Oh, he’s not mine, Mrs Miranda — just looking after him for a friend.”

The old woman pursed her lips and nodded.

“Just as well — you know there’s a no pets policy in the building, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Annabel replied through gritted teeth. One of the many bans at 45 Crittenden Rd, along with maintenance requests, large gatherings and fun in general.

Really, Mrs Miranda and that damn courier would get on like a house on fire. They could start a Surly Curmugeons Club, Annabel thought as she escorted the dog back inside before he drew any more attention.

In the kitchen, Annabel put the kettle on and reached for her phone.

“Says the animal shelter opens at 9 tomorrow, buddy — I’m sure they will find you a nice family there.” Although, looking at the dog again, Annabel wondered whether they would. He didn’t strike her as the sort of pet who was easily placed — certainly the wrong side of his puppy years, with a drab brown coat, bow legs and bulbous eyes that appeared to be trying to see two things at once. She couldn’t imagine anyone’s little darlings exclaiming ‘Mummy this one!” at the sight of him.

As she placed the phone back on the counter, her gaze fell on the letter the courier had supplied, lying where she had tossed it.

Years of resentment for the woman who had made her mother’s life a misery flooded her. Why the hell should Annabel want to know why she had seen fit to saddle her granddaughter with her mongrel dog?

“She never wanted anything to do with you,” she could hear her mother saying. “Said your Daddy was no good, and would never amount to anything. Kicked me out of the house — pregnant and all.”

Annabel ran a finger over the envelope. To be fair, Marion had been right about her father — he hadn’t stuck around long after she was born and only appeared sporadically throughout her childhood. And her own mother could hardly be described as easy to live with. The apple and the tree…

The kettle whistled, breaking her reverie.

Once the tea was brewed, Annabel carried her cup back to the lounge and, almost as an afterthought, snatched up the envelope as she passed. The little brown dog followed at her heels.

She lowered herself onto the faded green couch, placed the letter in her lap and sipped. Then with lips pursed, she placed her tea on a side table and tore open the envelope, drawing out a folded letter and a photograph.

There were three figures in the picture: a woman in her forties, a small girl of perhaps three years old, and between them, a shaggy haired collie dog. The woman was bending down to the little girl, whose hands were buried in the dog’s fur, a broad grin spread across her chubby face. The trio were in a garden or a park, and the afternoon sun illuminated the girl’s blonde fluffy hair and set the red of the dog’s coat glowing like embers. And the face of the woman glowed too, with pride, with joy, with contentment.

Frowning, Annabel set the photo down next to her cup and unfolded the letter.

Dear Annabel,

You probably don’t remember the day that photo was taken with me and Kip at our house in Ashgrove. It was before your mum moved away with you and we lost touch for so long.

It’s easy to say the wrong things in this life, and so hard to take them back, to make up for the hurt you have caused.

But I want you to know I never stopped thinking of you all these years. So many times, I wanted to get in touch, but fear held me back. Fear that you hated me and would slap me away, as your mother did all those years ago. Which was no more than I deserved.

But I remember you on this day, the little girl who loved my collie dog so much, squealing with laughter in the sunshine.

I hope you still love dogs. Billie is no Kip, I know that, but when I knew I didn’t have long left in this world, and I wondered what would become of him when I was gone, the person I thought of who might take care of him was you. However, I have enclosed the number of a wonderful rescue group who have promised to find him a home if you cannot.

My solicitor will also be in touch regarding the rest of my estate.

If this foolish old woman can pass on any wisdom to you now, it is this: life is too short for grudges and family is more important than being right. I’m sorry I have left it so late to tell you these things and to learn these lessons myself.

All my love

Grandma Marion

It was some while later that Annabel realised she was still on the couch, her tea was cold and Billie the dog had curled up beside her.  

She rubbed her face with both hands and picked up the photo again, absently scratching the dog behind its ear as she did so. Looking at her phone, she realised she couldn’t even remember what the last fight with her mum had been about. She would call her tonight. Right after she had been shopping for dog food.

As for Mrs Miranda, Annabel thought she could be persuaded to keep her opinions to herself. After all, smoking in the building was another thing on the banned list.