The Black Dog In A Conservatory

It’s Friday night. That means fight night. Normally that means that either Martin will disappear for the evening, leaving me to watch what I want, or Richard will come over to ours and he and his dad will join in battle against the gaming community, against the world. Except that this isn’t normally. This is lockdown, and Martin can no more go over to Richard’s house any more than Richard can come to ours. But the gaming is online, so for a few hours they join virtually and let off steam.

Gears 5 is the favourite at the moment. This means expletives, cries of cheats (I got him six f£&*!?^ times and he’s taken no f£&*!?^ damage whatsoever) and generally letting go of inhibitions in an attempt to capture and hold the ring in King Of The Hill. Or some such thing. 

Richard and I came to an agreement when he was a teenager. Well, more of a case of me laying down the rules with some leeway; he didn’t do conversation much in those days. He could swear when he was with his mates, he could swear at home if he really wanted (but not directly at me or his dad), but he did not swear at teachers. He had grunted and scowled, which was the best I could hope for. So the language I have learned to ignore. It’s the norm these days, it seems.

My place in all this? I can sit with them, content in their company, contributing to any conversation that strays towards cats, snooker or the day’s news.  Sometimes I might ask sceptically why they insist on playing the game when other players are always cheats. Because it’s fun, they insist, though I don’t see it myself. And they’re sometimes on the winning side, at which time cheats are fine. If I don’t want to sit with them, I can always go upstairs to watch TV or a DVD. 

Tonight, I do neither. Because today I have felt fragile. Today I managed to fall upstairs (thankfully not down) and I bruised my thigh, my knee, my finger, my ribs. 

The pains are of varying degrees, with the thigh hurting hardly at all (though I know the bruise will be largest, the blackest), while the finger makes the right hand useless and the ribs make it difficult to draw breath. The knee doesn’t feel too bad, but there will be no crawling round the floor with my grandson for a time. Not that I’ll be seeing him any time soon. Or his mum and dad, Louise and my other son Joseph. We did facetime today, and young Jacob kissed the phone three times. Bless.  But these were dry kisses.

I just know that at my age the ribs will be weeks before they feel normal again, but at least by tomorrow they will begin to ease, and I will be able to do something. Today I’ve just sat and read, and my feeling of uselessness amid a world that seems to be useful has allowed the black dog to circle. It does this sometimes when it sniffs out any weakness. It salivates as it waits to see what scraps I can offer it, and it’s been one of those weeks with lots of scraps.

I cannot bear to sit listening to profanities as the cheats master the game, and there’s nothing inspiring on TV. I need some quiet time. Martin understands my need for quiet; he should do by now; we’ve been married long enough. Or maybe he’s so caught up in his game he doesn’t notice as I slip outside to spend the evening in the dark conservatory. 

Why is it dark? It was ordered last November when the window company had a deal on. They expected work to commence sometime in April, but the company managed to slot them in before that, commencing the base in February, and the build in March. But now they aren’t allowed to complete the job, so the floor is not tiled, and the electrical work is not complete. Hence a conservatory with no heat, no light, but still usable on warm days. A pair of sun loungers and a spare coffee table have been installed for now; homely will have to wait.

With no light I cannot read, but I have a tablet so I browse, and when I tire of that, there’s always Candy Crush to help blank out the stench of the circling beast.

As I sit, I glance up. There’s no moon tonight, but I can see something, someone. Venus. Goddess of love. Really? With an atmosphere consisting mainly of carbon dioxide, a kiss from her would be the kiss of death, not of love. Those brilliant clouds that make her so visible, those clouds that dazzle with their beauty, are made up of sulphuric acid. Not the soft and comforting pillows we imagine our clouds to be at all. The temperature is hotter than Mercury, so they say, hotter than a planet closer to the sun. And the days. One Venusian day is longer than a Venusian year. Hah, and we think our days are endless at the moment.

It feels like she’s watching, like she’s waiting for something. Yes, yes, says the dog. Move, stand up, shout. I can almost feel its excited tail brushing my shins as it wags its malice. Come on, move. But I don’t move. I stay where I am, wary of any sudden move, not wanting to be noticed.

What will she do if she does notice me? I can feel her eyes scanning the landscape, searching. For what? They say the moon brings madness, but what if she brings it as well?  The dog continues to tug at my reason, beckoning me to shout, to attract attention to myself. But I resist. I know his game; I’ve played it often enough over the years. I know that it’s just a planet up there, an inhospitable planet, but a familiar one all the same. It’s not something that’s waiting for me to move, that will target me and me alone if I draw attention to myself. It’s not going to beam me up Scotty to its inhospitable surface, no matter how much dancing and shouting I do. So I sit with my tablet in the dark. But I keep a wary eye out. Just in case.

The cat comes into the conservatory, probably wondering if it’s supper time yet. It jumps on my knee and I feel a stab of impatience. Go on, urges the dog, push it off, slap it, kick it. I raise my hand, but then no, I’ll not do what the dog wants. This is the cat’s home, not his. Instead I bring my hand down gently and stroke the cat. He pushes up against my hand with his head, with his body as my hand moves down. He circles, once, twice, three times, then settles on my lap, realising that he’s not going to get supper quite yet.

As the night draws on, she moves away, casting her eye further west. After midnight, she will be gone. The noise from Gears 5 continues behind the door, behind the curtain, and I watch her retreat. There she goes. Tomorrow the new moon will come to keep her company for a while, to keep her in check. Tomorrow I will feel a little less fragile, a little more useful. Tomorrow, the black dog will be if not gone, then snivelling in some corner.

There will be a tomorrow when all this is over, when I will see my sons again, when my grandson’s kisses will be wet. Until then, I will make small plans to get through each day.

I sigh as I look up. As she makes her way to the horizon, I watch the other stars. Tonight she threatened me, her and the dog. But these distant suns are no threat. At least not today.