The Memoirs of a Survivor by Doris Lessing

her little hunk of bread, seemed really to see the room we sat in. As for me, I was full of apprehension: I believed her sadness was because she had decided her Hugo could not safely travel with the tribe - I thought her mad even to have considered it - and that she had decided to leave with them, to jettison him.
    After the meal she sat for a long time at the window. She gazed at the scene she was usually a part of. The animal sat, not beside her, but quietly in a corner. You could believe he was weeping, or would, if he knew how. He sorrowed inwardly. His lids lowered themselves as crises of pain gripped him, and he would give a great shiver.
    When Emily went to bed she had to call him several times, and he went at last, slowly, with a quiet, dignified padding. But he was in inner isolation from her: he was protecting himself.
    Next morning she offered to go out and forage for supplies. She had not done this for some time, and again I felt this was sort of token apology because she meant to leave.
    We two sat on quietly in the long room, where the sunlight had left because it was already midday. I was at one side of it, and Hugo lay stretched, head on paws, along the outer wall of the room where he could not be seen from the windows above him.
    We heard footsteps outside which stopped, then became stealthy. We heard voices that had been loud, suddenly soft.
    A young girl’s voice? - no, a boy’s; but it was hard to tell. Two heads appeared at the window, trying to see in the comparative dusk of the room: the light was brilliant outside.
    It’s here,’ said one of the Mehta boys from upstairs.
    ‘I’ve seen him at the window,’ said a black youth. I had observed him often with the others on the pavement, a slim, lithe, likeable boy. A third head appeared between the other two: a white girl, from one of the blocks of flats.
    ‘Stewed dog,’ she said daintily, ‘well I’m not going to eat it.’
    ‘Oh go on,’ said the black boy, ‘I’ve seen what you eat.’
    I heard a rattling sound; it was Hugo. He was trembling, and his claws were rattling on the floorboards.
    Then the girl saw me sitting there, recognized me, and put on the bright uncaring grin the pack allowed outsiders.
    ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We thought…’
    *No,’ I said. ‘I am living here. I haven’t left.’
    The three faces briefly turned towards each other, brown, white, black, as they put on for each other’s benefit we’ve made a mess of it grimaces. They faded outwards, leaving the window empty.
    There was a soft moaning from Hugo.
    ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘They’ve gone.’
    The rattling sound increased. Then the animal heaved himself up and crept away, with an attempt at dignity, towards the door into the open kitchen, which was the farthest he could go from the dangerous window. He did not want me to observe his loss of self-possession. He was ashamed of having lost it. The moaning I had heard was as much shame as because he was afraid.
    When Emily came in, a good girl, daughter-of-the-house, it was evening. She was tired, had had to visit many places to find supplies. But she was pleased with herself. The rations at that time were minimal, because of the winter, just finished: swedes, potatoes, cabbage, onions. That was about it. But she had managed to find a few eggs, a little fish, and even - a prize - a strongly scented, unshrivelled lemon. I told her, when she had finished showing off her booty, what had happened. At once her good spirits went.
    She sat quiet, head lowered, eyes concealed from me by the thick, white, heavily lashed lids. Then, without looking at me, turning herself from me, she went to find her Hugo, to comfort him.
    And then, a little later, out she went to the pavement and stayed there until very late.
    I remember how I sat on and on in the dark. I was putting off the moment of lighting the candles, thinking that the soft square of light, which was how my window looked from across the street, would