Barbara and the Dog

“All’s quiet on the Western front,” Barbara whispers softly, as we take in the gentle coastal breeze drifting through the car, from her side to mine. The yachts in front of us bob gently, the only noises a gentle tapping of some metal piece on a mast somewhere, a seabird calling for its mates, and the occasional hum of a motorised dingy charging through the aquamarine landscape.

“Look at him,” I say, pointing to the dingy. “He’s on a rocket to somewhere.”

“Yes, he sure is.” Barbara smiles wistfully. She pauses, before adding “I used to sail”.

I know this.

I respond, “Did you?” I enjoy this story, each iteration as it comes.

“Yes, it was such fun!” Barbara says. I turn to her, and notice her eyes are closed as she sinks into the memory. Her hair, possibly a blonde in years gone by, coils in grey waves about her face, her expression knitted into the joy of the thought, soft knots of skin focussed.

“My husband grew up around boats.” I say conversationally, as I have for the last four sessions. I don’t mind the repetition.

Her eyes snap open. “Did he?” She turns her head, meets my eyes. I notice the red lipstick finessing its way into a few cracks above her lips. She still looks glorious. Her blue eyes meet mine, her lower eyelids drooping slightly, hazed in red. My heart pulls.

I hope I’m this engaging when I’m 95.

“Yes, he did. I’ve been on a few boats since we’ve been together, but I’ve got to say, I’m a much better passenger than I am a sailor! My specialities are staying out of the way, and not getting hit by the boom”.

She laughs. I enjoy telling my joke. We titter together, both facing forward again to peer through my hazy windscreen. I wish I didn’t have to park the car outside at night, underneath the trees, but there is nowhere else. At five foot nothing, and joints that only see the outside of the house for these three hours a week, Barbara can’t get very far. Where she can, it is as she calls it, “at half speed”. I really should wash the car more often, but it seems pointless as the trees soon drop their pollen, frosting it over, the wiper blades and water tank only doing so much.

“My husband built two boats” she says in between breaths. “Oh, I used to love sailing with him. It was just magnificent, being out on the water, and other people were so impressed with the boats. They used to come, knocking on the door, asking if he would make one for them”. She mimes a knocking action.

“And what did he say? Make your own boat, I’m busy?” I say with a laugh.

She grins.

“No, he did a couple of them. He was really very good, but after the first two he didn’t have the passion anymore.”

“He sounds a lovely fellow, and very clever.” I say. “What did he do for work?”

I am being slightly mean, as I’ve asked this on our last two outings, and the responses have ranged from an “international photographer” who died while on assignment in a far-off land, to “a sail maker”, who died in his twenties. Today, he was a solicitor. I wonder to myself what really happened, and whether she remembers and doesn’t care to tell me.

Barbara continues. “He used to ask me what I thought of each client he had.” Her lips curve upward at the memory. “He was always interested in what I thought!”

“Sounds like he was asking the real boss what’s what” I say. She smiles. She has a wonderful smile. We lapse into companionable silence.

“So many yachts out there” Barbara offers, pointing a finger. She counts, “one, two, three…” as I take a long sip of my takeaway coffee. “twenty-four…twenty-five! Oooh! Look at him!” Another dingy has come by, leaving a wake of glitter behind him. We are in just the right position, on just the right day. The sky is open and azure, the mid-morning light pushing in our direction. The lake is quiet, the mash of gorgeous native trees splattered behind, interspersed with little homes in the horizon. For our time and place, we are rewarded with magnificent splashes of light, the wake of the dingy churns up diamonds from within, as if aglow all on its own. As the trail spreads, blending in with the glow of the still water, the lake comes alight.

We both sigh as we drink in the sight. “Look at that!” Barbara whispers, both of us unwilling to break the spell by moving our heads.

As the movement stills, absorbed, a rustle in the trees to my right produces a piece of coffee coloured fluff. As he skips in front of us, his curled coat knotted not unlike Barbara’s hair, he dips a toe into the water with a little yip.

“Oh, isn’t he a pretty little thing!” Barbara says, her voice full of warmth.

The pup hears our voices through the open windows, and tilts his head in our direction. Barbara calls, at the top of her voice, which barely disturbs the trees on our side overhanging the short beach, “Come here, little fellow!”

All at once, the furry latte trots over to her side of the car.

“Shall we open the door, give him a little pat?” I ask, my right hand already on my door handle, my seatbelt unbuckled.

“Oh yes, lets see who we have here”, comes the delighted reply.

As I swing my legs out onto the gravel, I notice a woman appearing from the same trees the little dog shot out from moments ago, wearing stylish activewear and talking on a mobile phone. Our eyes meet, and I offer a grin I can’t hold in anymore. She nods kindly in response, and turns toward the ocean to continue her call. Its ok, we can take our time.

I open the passenger side door, as the little wanna-be teddy bear stares up at me with doe eyes. Barbara’s lower body is bound by the gnarls of old age to her seat, supported by cushions we bring from home, but her torso twists slightly to take in the new companion.

“Aren’t you gorgeous” she whispers, as without waiting for an invitation, the little one hops into the car, and in two swift bounds, onto her lap. Suddenly, they are eye to eye, with two delicate front paws resting on her stomach. She raises her right hand and begins patting him, the pups’ gentle tongue immediately lapping up the attention. At one stage, he gets toothy and is swiftly reprimanded. “Now, now!” she says, her tone bubbly. “Is that any way to behave? You’re our visitor, after all!”

She meets my eyes, the glee emanating from within every pore in her face. I can’t believe I get paid for this. Suddenly, the pups’ body stiffens, nose pointed in the direction of his owner, who’s footsteps have continued along the path in front of us, soon to disappear from view. She turns, waiting for her friend, and as quickly as he arrived, he delicately scarpers off. I offer a raised arm, my open hand at chest height, and the woman acknowledges me with a row full of shiny teeth. I turn back to Barbara, who has four slightly damp patches on the front of her patterned lilac and white t-shirt, panting slightly from the thrill of it all.

“Well, there he goes,” she says contentedly. “Off with his master. Or mistress! I should say.”

As we watch their shadows retreat, I survey the scene in front of us, which has returned to stillness broken only by the tapping of the metal on the masts, and the occasional call of the gulls. A magpie warbles in the distance, the sun giving a gentle ambience to the morning. My gaze lands on Barbara, my hand still on the open car door.

“Well,” I say, meeting her blue eyes again. “Shall we hit the road and see what else there is to see?”

“That would be lovely.” She nods, folding her arms gently in her lap as I close the door softly, pushing the mechanisms to merge, avoiding anything resembling a slam.

As I return to my side of the car and fold myself into the drivers’ seat, I take a breath in to speak, but am beaten to it by Barbara.

“I so love these drives”, she says, her sincerity making my breath catch in my throat. “I wish somebody could write them down for me, so I can remember what we do”.

This is the first time she’s acknowledged to me that her memory isn’t totally, as she would say, “ticketey boo”. I pause, considering the best way to respond, but I don’t need to. My companion has something to say.

“I’ve had a lot of experience at this life.” she says. “Many years of experience. I don’t know when my time will run out, and some of my life,” she rotates her forearms to hold her palms to the sky, “washes away, especially at night… it’s like I don’t know what I did yesterday, or what I’ll do tomorrow. Sometimes I can’t even remember five minutes ago!”. She turns to me, tuning the fullness of her gaze to maximum voltage.

“But – when I’m on these drives, these outings, I’m able to connect with the world again. And I have you to thank for that”. She finishes, touching me lightly on the back of my wrist.

I duck my head slightly at the praise, and flick my line of sight to the bottom of the car before meeting her again.

“Truly, its my pleasure.” I reply slowly, trying to bely the fact that my heart is bursting with pride, and I tap my hand on top of hers. “I look forward to Friday mornings an awful lot, I’ve gotta tell you.”

We exchange a warm smile, eyes crinkled in the joy of the moment. I slowly click the key into ignition until it cues the starter motor, and my little Mazda rumbles to life.

“Now, shall we go see what else we can find?” I say, leaning over to flick the sun visor down on my sidekick’s side.

“Yes, lets.” comes the attentive reply, and as I pull out of the carpark I notice again my windscreen, which I resolve to clean at the very first service station we drive by. It doesn’t matter if the trees drop their debris on it again tonight. The important thing, I muse, is that while we’re together, its clear enough to let the full sun in.