Free Emma Donoghue Two-Book Bundle by Emma Donoghue Page B

barking.
    ‘Trevor!’
    ‘I said the
W
-word, didn’t I?’ Trevor rebuked himself.
    As he was putting away the bagfuls of Christmas shopping, he said, ‘We’ve bought no presents for them yet.’
    ‘Oh, I know. Do you think – one big one each, or several smalls?’
    ‘Smalls, definitely. They love tearing off the paper.’
    ‘They always like some new squeakies. But remember last year,’ said Louise, ‘when we gave Gide that rubber apple that was too small and I had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre?’
    ‘That was the most terrifying moment of my life,’ said Trevor. ‘Hey, I asked the dean of arts what he’s getting his poodle and he said nothing.’
    ‘You mean he didn’t answer?’
    ‘No, I mean he said,
“Nothing.”
He said, and I quote,
“She doesn’t know it’s Christmas!”
’
    Later on, Trevor was making his weekly call to his parents in Belfast. ‘Not much new, Mum. Except that Proust just gave us the fright of our lives by turning the telly on! With the remote.’
    ‘Is she the fat one?’ asked his mother.
    Trevor felt that familiar wave of irritation. ‘Proust is a he; he’s tiny,’ he reminded her. ‘The one you mean is Gide, but actually he’s been on diet food for three weeks and if you look at him head-on he’s really not—’ A rubber Bart Simpson, wet with drool, squeaked at Trevor’s feet. ‘Not now, Gide, Daddy’s on the phone.’ Proust was scrabbling against Trevor’s leg; they really would have to steel themselves to clip his claws this evening.
    His mother was making some remark about the
pack.
    ‘There’s only three of them,’ he objected. ‘Greta’s got three kids, and you never confuse the boys with the girls!’
    She let out a short laugh. ‘Oh, Trev, it’s hardly the same.’
    He’d given up on breaking his family of the habit of calling him Trev. He chewed his lip, as he picked up the wet toy to bounce it against the far wall. Proust raced after it, but Gide shoved him out of the way. ‘Be nice,’ Trevor warned them. ‘Share your squeaky.’ Then, with false warmth, ‘Tell you what, Mum, maybe they’ll give you a framed photo for Christmas, with their names on.’
    A couple of minutes later he walked into the kitchen, where Louise was frying chicken breasts. ‘Save me a crispy bit,’ he said, to postpone what he had to say.
    ‘Mallarmé likes the crispy bits. You’re getting polenta. So how’s life in Belfast?’
    He let out his breath with the sound of a fast puncture. ‘We were talking about Christmas. I was telling Mum not to worry about bedding for the babies, we’ll all sleep together on our blow-up mattress.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘And she said actually this year, with Greta and Mick and all the kids being over from Sydney, she and Dad were wondering if we could maybe … do something with the dogs.’
    ‘Do something?’ repeated Louise. ‘What does she mean? Do what?’
    Trevor cleared his throat. ‘Not bring them.’
    Her eyes were little dark buttons.
    The last three days of term crawled by; the stack of exam papers deflated. To celebrate the holidays, Louise and Trevor went for a long hike across the Cliffs of Moher. Gide barked fiercely at mountain goats. ‘Do you think Proust’s coat is looking dull?’ she asked.
    ‘Hmm?’ Trevor stared down into his half-zipped jacket, where Proust was curled up. ‘Maybe a wee bit.’
    ‘The vet says you can put vegetable oil in their food to increase shine. We’ll have to take Mallarmé to that grooming place this week; she’s all burrs,’ added Louise, watching the dog lope silently away towards a group of Japanese tourists.
    ‘Yeah, she must have a bit of collie in her, she gets so snag-gled. Mallarmé!’ Trevor tried again, more loudly. ‘Mallarmé, no! Come back!’
    ‘She won’t bite, will she?’ said Louise, breathless as she ran.
    ‘She bit Mrs Quirk last week.’
    ‘Only because she messed with Mallarmé’s ears.’
    ‘Don’t touch her ears,’ Trevor bawled at the