‘Isn’t Flick the name of a horse?’ Lucy Lake asked.
‘No, that’s Flicka,’ I told her. ‘ My Friend Flicka .’
‘You have a friend called Flicka?’ Philippa asked, interested.
‘A-hem [or something like that],’ Mrs Macbeth said, ‘Flick had been on the men’s surgical ward only two days and already had clashed twice with the arrogant Dr McCrindle who seemed to think he was God’s gift both to St Vernon’s and to the nurses who worked there.’
‘Was there a St Vernon?’ asked Mrs McCue, who was contriving to knit and eat soup at the same time.
‘Perhaps you’re thinking of the football pools,’ Mrs Macbeth offered.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Philippa said dismissively, ‘it’s fiction.’
‘“So, Dr McCrindle,” Flick said, only too aware of the effect she was having on him. “What is your diagnosis?”
He smiled wolfishly at her—’
‘I don’t think wolves can actually smile,’ Maisie interrupted, but just then Mrs Macbeth began to splutter and cough, and started to turn as pink as the salmon. Her eyes began to water and her mouth formed a surprised oval as she fought for breath. Philippa barked out, ‘Heimlich!’ and grabbed her from behind and yanked at her tiny body until Mrs Macbeth spat out a wad of words – smouldering, aching, throbbing – along with a large fish bone.
‘That was close,’ Mrs Macbeth said hoarsely, sinking back into her seat – as if a brush with death was part of her daily routine. She examined the fish bone. ‘A fish bone,’ she said, shaking her head in a mystified way. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘A fish?’ Lucy Lake (a sarcastic child) offered. The salmon was saying nothing. Mrs McCue gave Mrs Macbeth a cigarette to aid her recovery and lit one herself. ‘I’m saving for a Philips toaster,’ she said, ‘that’s a lot of cigarettes to smoke.’
A door closed and I heard water running upstairs. I wondered if this signalled the presence of Ferdinand somewhere in the house. I made my excuses and tip-toed up the litter-laden stairs. Sadly, the bathroom was empty of Ferdinand, although it did contain an unusual smell of male cleanliness – toothpaste, shaving foam and Lifebuoy soap – as if someone more used to regular institutional habits than the rest of the McCues had just vacated it. Beneath the smells of personal hygiene I could detect faint traces of Ferdinand’s own animal scent and if I listened closely I could almost hear the fading echo of his heartbeat.
The bathroom was a paean to sixties’ taste, from the sickly primrose yellow suite with transparent acrylic taps to the herringbone pine panelling which extended even to the ceiling where recessed lights glimmered darkly. There were mats of soapy hair in the plugholes and a deposit of slimy grey in the tub and another one of crusty brown in the toilet bowl, and an anaemic spider plant struggled for life on the windowsill, its leaves weighed down by a coating of talcum powder. The assorted reading matter of the different McCues was piled randomly on top of the cistern – Rubber Monthly , the Beano , and back issues of the Philosophical Quarterly .
Of Ferdinand himself, however, there was no sign. I looked in the upstairs rooms, hoped for his sleeping form in the spare bedroom where I had first encountered it, but could find nothing, only Mrs Macbeth’s old dog, Janet, asleep on the bed. She was snoring noisily, her breath rumbling loosely in her chest, but woke up when I sat on the bed and pushed her dry black nose into my hand. (‘Aye, she’s a wee bittie wabbit,’ Mrs Macbeth said mysteriously.)
I heard voices in the hall and peering over the banisters caught a glimpse of Ferdinand. Awake, he seemed more feral, with a hungry look about him as if he could happily eat raw meat and snap the spines of small animals if necessary. Unfortunately, he was just leaving the house, kissing Mrs McCue on the cheek and saying, ‘Bye, Gran.’
~ Where do you suppose he’s going? Nora asks.
‘I don’t know.’ Who knows where characters go when they’re not needed? Into some kind of limbo, I suppose. Like death or dreaming. Perhaps he was with the yellow dog which had slipped off the page with such ease.
~ Where could they be? Nora asks, keen on this idea. St Andrews, on the beach? That would be nice.
‘What, like – “The yellow dog ran ahead of the man who was walking along the empty stretch of beach, his collar up against the biting wind, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his leather jacket” – that kind of thing?’
~ Better weather.
‘“The yellow dog frolicked in the waves ahead of a man strolling along the beach. His naked feet revelled in the warmth of the sand and the seawater, his face soaking up the summer sun.” How about that?’