wasn't my dog, but hers. No matter where she was working, if it occurred to her that I might need anything she would instantly drop whatever she was doing, and relax only when she was satisfied that I wanted for nothing; at which point she would rush off again. Every evening she prepared dishes she knew I would enjoy, and she appeared with other things as well, gifts that were both unexpected and undeserved.
Then one day they organised a general clearance of household junk in our district. Emerence systematically scoured the streets, picking up everything that was either of interest or designed for some unusual purpose. She washed her booty carefully, repaired it and smuggled it into our home. This was before the wave of nostalgia hit the nation; but Emerence, with the surest of touches, was going about collecting items which later came to be considered of value. One morning I found in the library: a painting in a damaged frame, later discovered to be of some worth; one half of a pair of patent-leather boots; a stuffed falcon clinging to a branch; a pot for heating water adorned with a ducal coronet; and the make-up box of a former actress — we'd been woken by the heavy perfume emanating from it. It was a traumatic start to the day. Viola was howling — he had done the rounds rummaging with Emerence and had a good sniff of everything, but when they'd got back he'd been shut up in my mother's room so he wouldn't be a nuisance while the collection, planned as a surprise, was prepared, cleaned yet again, and put in place. It also included a garden gnome and the somewhat tattered statue of a brown dog. It was Viola's restlessness that finally got us out of bed that morning. What made the scene really explosive was that it was my husband, and not me, who was first out of the bedroom. The dog was yelping outside the door, wanting to come in. Emerence, with her well-bred delicacy over the giving of gifts, had laid out the treasures and disappeared. My husband had an absolute fit when he went into his study (which was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling) and found the garden gnome, next to the single boot, leering at him from the rug in front of his collection of English classics. Emerence had pushed
Ulysses
back on the shelf to make way for the crowned water heater, which she had filled with plastic flowers. The falcon was perched over the fireplace.
Hearing his (for once) unmodulated tones, I rushed in. Never before had I heard my husband express himself with such force, or realised what blind fury lay hibernating beneath his habitual calm. He did not confine himself to an analysis of what might reasonably wake a man in his own house. The argument assumed a wider philosophical scope. What was the point of living if such things were possible — if a godless garden gnome could take over his rug, next to half of a pair of cavalry boots with spurs shaped like eagle's wings? In his rage he leaped from one topic to another. It was a dreadful morning. I didn't know what to do. I tried in vain to explain to him that the old woman expressed herself through means determined by her own interests. Everything there — he had to accept — was motivated by love. This was her peculiar way of demonstrating her feelings. Her choices were an expression of her individual point of view. There was no need to jump around from topic to topic, and no need to shout! It was horrible to listen to. I would sort it all out myself.
My husband dashed out of the house. In truth, I felt sorry for him. I had never before, not once, seen him quite so upset, or so entirely at a loss. Later, when he was at last able to make nervous jokes about it, he told me that Emerence had been outside, sweeping the street. She greeted him, and as he shot past her, she smiled at him as if he were a badly brought-up child who, at his age, ought to know how to say hello nicely, but if he didn't, well, so be it. One had to remember that he would learn in time.
Then one day they organised a general clearance of household junk in our district. Emerence systematically scoured the streets, picking up everything that was either of interest or designed for some unusual purpose. She washed her booty carefully, repaired it and smuggled it into our home. This was before the wave of nostalgia hit the nation; but Emerence, with the surest of touches, was going about collecting items which later came to be considered of value. One morning I found in the library: a painting in a damaged frame, later discovered to be of some worth; one half of a pair of patent-leather boots; a stuffed falcon clinging to a branch; a pot for heating water adorned with a ducal coronet; and the make-up box of a former actress — we'd been woken by the heavy perfume emanating from it. It was a traumatic start to the day. Viola was howling — he had done the rounds rummaging with Emerence and had a good sniff of everything, but when they'd got back he'd been shut up in my mother's room so he wouldn't be a nuisance while the collection, planned as a surprise, was prepared, cleaned yet again, and put in place. It also included a garden gnome and the somewhat tattered statue of a brown dog. It was Viola's restlessness that finally got us out of bed that morning. What made the scene really explosive was that it was my husband, and not me, who was first out of the bedroom. The dog was yelping outside the door, wanting to come in. Emerence, with her well-bred delicacy over the giving of gifts, had laid out the treasures and disappeared. My husband had an absolute fit when he went into his study (which was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling) and found the garden gnome, next to the single boot, leering at him from the rug in front of his collection of English classics. Emerence had pushed
Ulysses
back on the shelf to make way for the crowned water heater, which she had filled with plastic flowers. The falcon was perched over the fireplace.
Hearing his (for once) unmodulated tones, I rushed in. Never before had I heard my husband express himself with such force, or realised what blind fury lay hibernating beneath his habitual calm. He did not confine himself to an analysis of what might reasonably wake a man in his own house. The argument assumed a wider philosophical scope. What was the point of living if such things were possible — if a godless garden gnome could take over his rug, next to half of a pair of cavalry boots with spurs shaped like eagle's wings? In his rage he leaped from one topic to another. It was a dreadful morning. I didn't know what to do. I tried in vain to explain to him that the old woman expressed herself through means determined by her own interests. Everything there — he had to accept — was motivated by love. This was her peculiar way of demonstrating her feelings. Her choices were an expression of her individual point of view. There was no need to jump around from topic to topic, and no need to shout! It was horrible to listen to. I would sort it all out myself.
My husband dashed out of the house. In truth, I felt sorry for him. I had never before, not once, seen him quite so upset, or so entirely at a loss. Later, when he was at last able to make nervous jokes about it, he told me that Emerence had been outside, sweeping the street. She greeted him, and as he shot past her, she smiled at him as if he were a badly brought-up child who, at his age, ought to know how to say hello nicely, but if he didn't, well, so be it. One had to remember that he would learn in time.
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