Stay Afloat with Me

‘The dream is often occupied with apparently very silly details, thus producing an impression of absurdity […] But when at last we penetrate to its real meaning, we find ourselves deep in the dreamer’s secrets and discover with astonishment that an apparently quite senseless dream is in the highest degree significant, and that in reality it speaks only of important and serious matters.’ – C. G. Jung.

***

It’s a recurrent dream. The setting can change, but there’s always a body of water. This time it’s cold, cristalline mountain water, collecting between two waterfalls, in a still pool. Beau jumps in. You know it’s deep and you know he can’t swim, so you dive in after him. His scrawny legs move no water but he doesn’t struggle. He sinks, but slowly, in graceful circles, as if he’s floating in space, his long tail suspended, immobile. The sunlight dances through the clear pool, dappling on his smooth blond fur. His eyes are closed, as if he’s ready for his longest sleep. You push down, with strong strokes, reclaiming him from the darker depths. He’s heavy, but does not resist as you pull him upwards. You break the surface of the water together. He rides happily on your shoulders to the shore, as if it were all some fun doggy game.

‘The water was particularly beautiful this time,’ you think to yourself when you wake up.

Beau sits in his basket later, waiting for his walk. He never whines, never rushes you, but still you feel a pressure to finish your breakfast faster. He’s another being to look after, with non-negotiable needs, and you’re stuck with him now, even in the absence of the child who wanted him so badly.

You hadn’t needed a dog for yourself. You were a cat person, and still are. You don’t have to rush your breakfast for them. But your son was only six and he had been through so much already, he really did deserve a dog. And besides, he wore you down. Every day he’d remind you, ‘Mummy, I wish I had a dog,’ or pointing to a poodle in the street, ‘I want one like that, Mummy.’ So eventually you caved. You already had a son to look after full time, what difference could a dog make? It could be nice, having a companion to share your lives with. You’d take him everywhere, like a friend. ‘Alright,’ you said to your son. ‘But we’ll rescue a dog from a shelter. Then we’re doing a good thing.’ And that’s how you came by a Spanish greyhound, a dog so scarred by his past that you can’t take him anywhere except the forest.

You drop a sugar cube in your coffee. It floats briefly, then the dark liquid ripples, swallowing the offering. ‘And where is the child now?’ Your spoon moves in slow figures of eight. You can feel Beau watching your turning hand. He’d like it to turn faster, you’re sure of it. When you finally stand to clear away your plate and mug he jumps out of his basket, and his nails tap rhythms on the floorboards; he does ten steps to your one, rubbing himself against your legs as you drag your feet to the hallway.

Little Tommy’s wellies are there, the ones he always wears for dog walks in the forest. This morning they’ll stay on their shelf. He’ll be home soon, and he’ll kiss Beau before he kisses you, asking ‘Mummy, has he been a good boy?’ and you’ll answer that he has, and you won’t tell him that your heart sat so heavy in your chest that the good doggy waited an hour while you sat on the floor and stared at your walking boots.

You try to think of Tommy coming home, instead of sinking into his absence, and you stand, pick up your car keys. ‘Come, Beau.’ But Beau is already at the door.

You follow him through the forest, he trots over the carpet of flame-coloured leaves like a small horse, skipping and pulling then stopping to sniff, raising one ear, staring intently at the space between the trees. You know it should cheer you up to walk in his optimistic wake, but silent tears flow as you walk; your feet weigh on your ankles. You circle back to your car and as Beau hops into the boot you feel a little lighter, as though the forest has retained a part of your load. You pat his head, ‘Well, thanks for taking me for a walk, I guess.’

At home you make tea and settle on the sofa, you’ll be able to see the post van arriving from there with the parcel of books you’ll struggle to focus on. Beau curls up with his head on your thigh, sleepy and satisfied. You’ll take Tommy for a waffle when he gets back, he’ll like that, one with strawberries and cream and ice cream. And you think of his face, as he stood at his father’s door, his cabin size suitcase as high as his hip, millennia of sadness in the deep pools of his eyes. He’ll cut the strawberries into small pieces and lay a little red triangle in each square of the waffle, then look up beaming as the dough softens in the melted ice cream. He’ll like that. A smile is beginning to curl your lips as the post van pulls up. The postman is in a hurry and he rings the bell before you can make it to the door. Beau is up, barking and howling, and howling and barking, his long bony tail whipping in great swooshes. He swipes the tulips off the coffee table and the vase crashes to the floor; he spins around to look. The flowers lie in a puddle, wet petals cradled in pieces of vase. Beau leans down to investigate and the glass slices between his nostrils. Blood drips into the water, and he begins to lap it up, with long, confident strokes of his tongue amongst flower stems and shards of glass. You lurch towards him and grab the scruff of his neck, dragging him to the kitchen. You confine him, dismissing his squealing, and run to the front door to find the postman already departed. Now with your back to the door you let yourself slide to the floor, ‘Oh, Beau. That was my grandma’s vase.’ In the living room you can see the blood and water spreading. The dog is whining, and his nails scrape the kitchen door.

And yet that night you still dive down to save him. It’s a simple swimming pool this time. The water is cloudy and pale blue, with no rays of sunlight to dance on his fur. The chlorine stings your eyes, and you watch him swirling gracefully down to the tiles underneath. Strong, determined, you drag him to the surface where you both pull air into desperate lungs.

But when you wake up, it’s Tommy you think of first. Daylight has firmly established itself outside your bedroom window, and he never lets you sleep past six-thirty. ‘Tommy?’ you call out, before remembering. After so many years of waking up to kisses, or questions, or tears, or complaints, or hugely important announcements, the silence in the house presses on your ears. You think back to how it happened.

‘I’ve looked after him almost full time for seven years,’ you said to your lawyer, ‘His dad only took him a few days here and there. Can he really just take him half the time now, just because he’s decided it’s time for him to have an influence?’

‘Unfortunately he can,’ she answered. ‘Unless you can prove his past neglect of parental duties.'

‘After we separated he accepted a job in Guadeloupe, of all places. It was a three-year project. He said he’d be back every six months or so to see his son. I couldn’t let that happen, Tommy was only two, he needed to know his dad, so I went there too. But he would have left without him if I hadn't done that. That’s a definite lack of involvement, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is. Do you have emails… text messages?’ she asked.

‘No, it was all verbal.’

‘Then you have no proof,’ she shrugged. ‘But the Caribbean, that doesn’t sound so bad. That must have been nice, at least?’

‘My life is here in England. I left my friends and my family. It’s alright for a holiday, but for three years…’ you were talking now, it didn’t matter to whom. ‘And he lied to me, about the bugs. He told me that it’s not like other tropical places, there are no tarantulas, or snakes. He knew I didn’t like those. But he didn’t tell me about the scolopendras.’

‘Scolopendras?’ she was vaguely interested.

‘Yes. Centipedes the size of small snakes, with venomous fangs. And you know what they like? Soft places. They like to nest in your hair while you’re asleep, or in your folded clothes. I found that out the hard way, after I had shipped my belongings over the Atlantic. I had a tent-style mosquito net, with a frame, the most secure type. There was just a small hole in the top, where the poles crossed, and one night I woke to see one crawling through. It let itself drop, and landed in the middle of the bed. So no, it wasn’t nice… And now I can’t prove he would have abandoned his son if I hadn’t gone there.’

She ushered you out soon after that irrelevant outburst of bitterness; other clients waited. You left, with a little less pride and a lot less hope.

You still had a few weeks before you would have to explain to a seven-year-old that a woman called a judge who was not to be argued with had decided he had to live half the time with a man he hardly knew. ‘But I don’t want to go, Mummy,’ he would say, and you would leave him there anyway. ‘It’s only seven days darling, seven sleeps,’ but you know that seven days is a very long time when you’re seven.

But today is not for dwelling. It’s time to get up; Beau is watching you, waiting, unaware of the crusted blood on his nose.

The forest is serene this morning. The sunlight glows lucent green in the moss on the ground between the pine trees, and the oak leaves seem to be celebrating their own demise in deep red, golden yellow, and bright orange. There’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there yesterday, a determination to make the best of things, to be still standing when Tommy gets home. Beau’s tail wags, and his jaunty step invites you to follow, to explore the forest, suggesting a longer walk today, and a more appreciative investigation of the mushrooms that proudly display their shiny heads at intervals along the path.

Back home, you start your day of work by setting your desk straight and brewing a good strong pot of coffee. Beau sits in his basket, watching you type. Emails and articles provide enough distraction until dinner time. Sometimes the emptiness tries to bite again, but ‘we’ll go for a waffle, with strawberries and cream and ice cream. He’ll like that.’

In the evening you eat on the sofa and watch a film. It’s almost a treat, to watch a film for adults, with no interruptions. You almost enjoy it.

As the credits roll your phone pings:

‘You really have succeeded in making him totally dependent on you,’ reads the notification.

A chill spreads across your chest.

‘What do you mean?’ you answer.

‘He’s crying for his mummy again. Like every bedtime. Seven years old, and incapable of spending a few days without his mother. Well done.’

‘Would you let me speak to him?’

‘No. He has to learn to do without you. He’s old enough now. I just wanted to tell you how disappointing it is.’

You sink into bed. Sleep is a long time coming. Tears run hot on your cheeks, into your ears, and onto your pillow. You finally float away, and tropical sea water submerges you. It’s warm and salty, and there are turtles paddling above you, and schools of glistening silver fish gliding by. Strands of bright green seaweed stroke your feet, intertwining with your toes. It’s not such a bad place to melt into. It’s becoming less clear where your body ends and the water begins. Is the water flowing through you, or you through the water? Then you are jolted out of your trance, as something nudges you upwards from below. Wet fur brushes against your back, and scrawny legs paddle firmly to the surface. The sunlight is blinding as you gasp for air. Lean blond shoulders keep you afloat.

You wake, breathing fast, eyes open in the dark. There is soft fur underneath your hand. ‘No dogs in the bed, Beau, that’s the rule,’ you murmur sleepily, before drifting back to sleep, your heart beating to the rhythm of a greyhound’s.