Page 2 of Pyg
SHE ALREADY HAS A NAME
W hen I turned eight and my brother turned five, our mother treated us to an extra-special birthday present. In fact, it was the best present we ever got as kids.
Bernard and I were born exactly three years apart on the second of April. Not quite fools, but little bastards — at least according to our grandmother.
Despite being a pretty bright lad for my age, the penny didn’t drop until the school Biology syllabus arrived at reproduction and the human gestation period. The enlightening lesson led me to conclude that there must be some significant annual event resulting in our shared birthday. Desperate to get to the bottom of my existential puzzle, I embarked on a detective trail, following clues until the answer became “bloody obvious.” Or at least that was how I’d pitched it when presenting the evidence back to Bernard with my chalkboard-pointing ruler in hand.
“Due to the timing, it couldn’t have been Father Christmas. And if it were the Easter Bunny, I reckon we’d look a bit different.” I bucked my teeth and made my fingers into rabbit ears above my head, which made Bernard burst into giggles.
Very few men visited Charcroft House, but one who had left an impression was Bill, the jolly chap who came to sweep the household’s chimneys every July. A filthy job, and thirsty work, and so it seemed that our mother had quenched more than just Bill’s need for a drink.
A jaunty smile never left Bill’s ruddy face, and we liked him because he could magically produce gold-foil-wrapped toffees from thin air.
“Ta-da!” he’d say and present the sweets to us as our mother smiled on, her hazel eyes twinkling as we basked in the warmth of the kind gesture. Bill smelt like soap, but he always looked dirty — no doubt thanks to the chimneys — and he had a round belly that strained the buttons of his shirt — no doubt thanks to the toffees.
Even if it made no difference to our circumstances, at the time we thought we’d worked out where we’d come from. And by my reckoning, if I knew who my father was, it made me less of a bastard. One day I would shake Bill’s hand and thank him for “knocking up my mother… twice” — at least that’s how our grandmother had put it.
Anyway, back to the birthday present. As always, we crept down the stairs, and there, in the centre of the drawing room, stood a large box. Bernard and I looked at each other, our eyes wide, eyebrows raised as we did the maths: one box, two boys.
As if a starting pistol had fired, we clambered through the doorway, elbowing each other out of the way. I, being the older and ever-so-slightly brawnier, arrived at the box first. As I moved my hand to open the lid, a cough came from the doorway, and I spun around.
“George, wait.”
I turned to look at our mother leaning against the doorjamb in her paint-spattered dungarees, her wavy nut-brown hair swept back in a yellow bandanna. She raised a thin roll-up to her rouged lips and took a long draw before she said,
“I need you to understand some things before you open that box, boys. It’s a joint gift for both of you. You have to share.”
Bernard whined.
“Bernard. It’s important you understand you’re not only sharing the joy of this gift, you’ll also be sharing the burden. It comes with responsibilities.”
Bernard frowned so hard his forehead almost twisted into a question mark.
“I want you both to understand how much effort is required to take care of another living thing. I want you to appreciate the sacrifices I make to take care of you.”
I jiggled with impatience. “What’s in the box?”
Mum opened her mouth to speak, but then the box barked.
I looked at Bernard’s glee-filled face, a mirror of my own, and we darted forward, pulling open the lid and peering inside. A black and white bundle of fur stared back at us with eyes bright like shiny black pebbles. A tiny pink tongue flapped from its open mouth.
“A puppy!” squealed Bernard. The puppy barked again and jumped up at the side of the box, its sharp claws tearing into the cardboard.
“What shall we call him?” I asked, already shortlisting names in my head.
“ She already has a name,” said Mum. “She’s called Pyg.”