Free A is for Angelica by Iain Broome

put the kettle on.
    We called him Kipling after he ate too many cakes and threw up on our duvet. Before that he was called Bobby, but we’d only had him a month and Georgina wanted to change
it. She said Bobby was boring. Too human-sounding. So Bobby became Kipling. Later, Georgina called him Super Kipling. He had a blue and yellow jumper with a red ‘K’ knitted into the
front. It was given to him by the wife of the man he saved from drowning. We were out walking by the reservoir. The man had been fishing and lost his balance casting. He was struggling to keep his
head above water. His wife stood on the bank, holding a sandwich and shouting. Georgina let go of my hand and started running towards them, but she was overtaken by Kipling. He leapt into the water
and dragged the man back to shore.
    Howard and Beverley Mainwairing, they were called. Georgina made me take them both to casualty. I had to walk back home and get the car. It turned out Georgina and Howard had been at school
together when they were kids. A fortnight later they came to the house with a bottle of wine and Kipling’s jumper. Georgina loved it. She made him wear it when she took him out for a walk,
even in summer. He used to come back panting. ‘He’s red hot,’ I used to tell her. ‘That jumper’s going to kill him’. But it made no difference, she made him wear
it anyway. She was so proud. I remember the look he used to give me when he saw it coming out of the drawer. He wished he’d let poor Howard drown.
    Kipling hasn’t been the same since Georgina’s first stroke. He always knew that something was wrong. When Georgina was at her worst, he spent most of his time with
Don. They did everything together. Biscuits, walks and bath times. Don said it saved on water. Like when he uses Fairy Liquid instead of bubble bath, soap and shampoo. Three in one. Everyone knows
when Don’s had a bath. A huge cloud of suds and foam runs from his drain to the pavement and into the street. Kipling loved living there. He liked the peace and quiet. He got sick of all the
people coming to our house. The strangers with their briefcases and their cups of tea in the kitchen. He’d often make a break for it. Or at least he did before he got ill. I’d be in the
garden with the front door open. He’d creep slowly up the path, through the gate and over to Don’s house. I’d let him think that I hadn’t noticed, go and fetch him at the
end of the day. ‘How’s he been?’ I’d say to Don. ‘No problem, Gordon. No bother at all. Just let me know if there’s anything else that I can do.’
    The truth is, I never did let Don know when something needed doing, because I didn’t have to. He was always there regardless. Always available and always willing to help. He’d wash
my car and cut the lawn. He’d do odd jobs around the house. Anything to keep himself busy and make my life easier. The one thing that he didn’t do was help me care for Georgina. Not
directly. He never offered either, because he knew I’d never let him. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Don would wait until she’d gone to bed and then he’d come over. We’d spend
the rest of the evening together. Georgina would be exhausted by half past seven. Worn out by her exercises and the need to keep going, the struggle to adjust to our new way of living. When she was
ready, I’d help her upstairs and into her pyjamas. We’d stand at the bathroom sink and clean her teeth together, my hand round hers to help her hold the toothbrush. Then I’d tuck
her into bed, kiss her goodnight and wait for Don to arrive.
    ‘Evening Gordon.’ He’d step into the house, take off his coat and hang it over the radiator in the hall. ‘Warm it up for the return journey,’ he’d say.
    ‘Tea, Don?’
    ‘Yes please.’
    ‘How many sugars?’
    ‘What day is it? Tuesday. Just the one thank you.’
    ‘Pickled onion?’
    ‘Yes please.’
    ‘I’ll bring it through when it’s ready. Sit yourself down