Free Mr. Chartwell by Rebecca Hunt Page B

haggis stuck with shards of coconut bark.
    The teeth were put away, the paw repeating its journey from sink to bath, an invitation to use them. “And if you’re going to be late for work please do carry on. I can take a bath later.”
    Take a bath in her bath? Esther stared at him with disgust. She stood with a shoulder to the tiles and a solution came to her.
    “If you want to wash I’ve got a hose in the garden, I could turn on the hose … wouldn’t you rather—”
    “Pardon?” said Black Pat, pretending at ignorance.
    “With the hose, you know … a wash. With the—”
    “Pardon? You’d suggest this to all your lodgers?”
    Esther was careful with her words. “No, only if they were—”
    Black Pat cut her off with a bitchy slant of his eyes. He did it again, a very unsavoury dismissal. A few beats passed and he spoke, the voice patronising. “Are you going to take a bath now?”
    Esther fidgeted with her bundle of clothes, shifting them around. Black Pat wedged the spoon against his gums. She hadn’t answered, so he said the word “Okay” through shut lips. Through shut lips he said,
“Fine.”
    He walked to the tub and manipulated the taps easily. Thebath plug was fumbled into place and water began to collect. He squirted a string of shampoo into the rolling water and it foamed. Black Pat squashed himself in, lowered into a torpedo, and lunged at the ends of the bath, his front legs flattened, his face thrown over with soap. Colliding with one end, he struggled round and lunged at the other. Water came spilling over the bath sides and collected in lagoons on the floor. Esther refereed silently from above her clothes.
    Black Pat tried to clean his back. He overturned and flailed, mouth flooding, his head knocking against the sides. He stood up, looked round at his back, was unsatisfied, and overturned again. Then he flipped onto his front and made a few more lunges.
    The sight of him there was strangely endearing, working an odd little spell on her. “Do you need any help?” asked Esther.
    “No, just fine,” he replied tartly, eyes buried in soap.
    “I could help you.” Esther put her clothes on the wicker laundry basket and fetched a dustpan brush from the cabinet under the sink.
    “I don’t need any help, thank you,” he snapped, slipping over with a tidal splash.
    “This method of yours is ridiculous. You look ridiculous,” said Esther frankly. “Let me help, for Christ’s sake.”
    Black Pat didn’t answer but Esther noticed his lunging had slowed. Now he was floating around gently, paddling his paws. She moved over and started scrubbing his back. The water turned grey as she worked the dirt loose, the bath grey, the floor pooled grey. She scrubbed harder, pumping her shoulders, the brush gripped with both hands. She had to stop now and then to tug her dressing gown back into place.
    Black Pat let her rinse him using a plastic cup which sheemptied over him in long sweeps. His face looked mournful as a waterfall ran from his great snout, the bristly hair beaten flat against his ribs. He lifted docile paws like a pony for Esther to clean the pads, then shook them neatly.
    The job was done. Esther hung a couple of towels over him, a nice finishing touch. Black Pat stood there, throbbing with the desire to shake his body dry. It was an irresistible urge. His head started turning slowly side to side, lips tight in anticipation.
    Recognising this compulsion, Esther took cover behind the door. There was a second’s pause before he began to shake, then a torrent began. Water flew from his coat and battered against the tiles, the towels hurled across the room. It went on until only a litter of specks. Black Pat wheezed with relief when it was over, his fur in tiny spikes.
    He stepped out of the bath and puddles grew around him. Black Pat didn’t care. He sat down, kneading a saturated ear.
    “You weren’t really supposed to come up here,” said Esther. “I thought we’d agreed that