Page 115 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘There’s no such thing as heaven,’ Eve informs me. ‘He’s just dust now and his dog ghost lives in the hills and will gallop around and sleep in the bushes scaring the squirrels.’
‘Alright then,’ says Danny. ‘I am going to say, it were a pleasure to have you as our dog, Mr T, and thank you for all the walks and the licks and the laughs… We ready to do this then?’
This was not my idea. It was Tess’. She’s not handled Mr T’s passing very well. It’s her first taste of loss and so we needed some ceremony for her to be able to grieve. We have Mr T’s ashes in a Tupperware and the idea is for us to throw them here over Gummer’s How, his favourite walking place, and say our official goodbyes. Danny keeps looking out over the clouds. He was forged in these Lakes so is very good at smelling out the slightest whiff of rain. Polly is strapped to his back and from what I can see has a very good view of old anorak and Danny’s hairline. He is keen to get the show moving.
‘Polly hasn’t said anything yet?’
Danny and I look at each other, faking smiles. Polly’s lexicon contains about twenty words, none of which she can string together as a sentence. We have to do this, don’t we? Danny bends down and Tess walks up to her.
‘Polly, do you have anything to say about Mr T?’
‘Biscuit?’
‘She knew Mr T liked biscuits,’ says Eve.
‘That’s because she’s a genius baby,’ I add.
A group of people walk past.
‘Ey Up,’ greets Danny. They are obviously tourists as they have no way to respond and one of them is wearing bog standard Reebok Classics. I stand there clutching the Tupperware to my chest. We wait until they are out of earshot.
‘OK then…Here’s to Mr T. Farewell.’
I open the Tupperware and the plan is just to tip it out but the breeze picks up the ashes in the style of a frenzied hurricane and dusts my face gently. Danny sniggers. Christ, I have dead dog on my lips. I brush my face frantically. Tess takes the Tupperware from me and rolls her eyes.
‘Maybe stand due East with your back to the wind?’ she tells me.
‘Alright then, Bear Grylls.’
She creases her eyes at me then tips the contents of the container over the rocks. The remnants skip over the air and chase those tourists down the hill. I put my hands to her shoulders and she sighs.
‘Can we come back here every year and talk to him?’
‘Whatever you want, Dimples,’ says Danny. She smiles, grabbing her sister’s hand to go explore the neighbouring bushes and pathways.
Danny turns to me. ‘Tea? Should raise a cup to the pooch – I put some whisky in it.’
‘Hell, why not.’
Polly’s done with the ceremony for now and is having herself a nap, leaving a slug-like trail of saliva across Danny’s back. Danny pours the tea out and we clink mugs. He brushes his thumb across my nose.
‘Still got Mr T on yer.’
I shudder. ‘Did you hear Eve on the way up? She asked why Captain Mintcake couldn’t save Mr T,’ I inform Danny.
‘He’s not that sort of hero.’
‘Exactly what I said.’
He smiles. You couldn’t escape that name recently. Captain Mintcake had caught on in The Lakes, naturally, but his first hardback book of pictures was also a bestseller inTheSunday Timesand he had recently popped up onWiredmagazine as being one of the most influential Instagrammers of the year. Beaten by the Obamas, a few YouTubers, and a girl on a raw diet who likes a bit of pastel tableware and a yoga trouser. Yet people were none the wiser. The Captain started conversations. He was a very rude Banksy. Was he a man? Was he a woman? Was he even real? Maybe he was a virtual invention created by a flagging publishing industry? Either way, he’d started some sort of storm in sex, in art, in social media.
In our house, the Captain had allowed us to purchase a new fridge freezer, that monster barbecue for the garden and paid for a holiday to Disney World which naturally Danny was less excited about as we made him pose with mouse ears. Like the sensible man he is, Danny set aside money for his girls to go to university and buy their first houses. He invested a lot of it in the mill, buying new machinery and setting up pension schemes for his staff. Like the romantic he was, he bought me a new car. It had cup holders, he told me, and heated seating. For all those times we want to go have sex in country lanes again and get caught by the coppers.
We perch ourselves on a rock nearby and take in the view, the breeze biting at my cheeks, and I’m all too conscious that I will need to have a wee with all this tea. It’s something I’ll never tire of here: these chocolate box vistas of swooping hills and valleys, infinite skies and bracing breezes. I think to a painting that Danny has just auctioned. It’s similar to this but the hills are boobs, the wisps of clouds are trails of cum. It’s very tastefully done all things considered and currently on exhibition at the Tate Modern. Has anything really changed? I don’t know. There’s the money that we could have used to take a helicopter up here and closed off the lanes to all tourists. Yet I am wearing old boots that I like because they’re sturdy and reliable. I know Danny’s biggest extravagance was an outdoor coat that cost three hundred pounds. We bought the cat a new bed. We don’t sweat the small stuff.
The girls know nothing. They see their father more which is probably the best thing. Danny works three days a week at the Mill, Stu works the other two. He balances the routine of the nine to five with debauched long weekends in Europe with the lads from the factory. We still haven’t told Danny’s mum and dad either. Danny just said we’d finally got lucky on the Premium Bonds. They didn’t query it but congratulated themselves on being the ones who bought them for us in the first place. My family simply commented that for once I seemed to have splurged on decent gift wrap and wine at Christmas. We’ve moved into fifteen pound a bottle territory.
‘We getting a new dog then?’ I ask.
