Martha, My Dear

Paul knew things weren’t going well with Lorraine. That was just life, or married life in particular. Life wasn’t some romance novel, not some rom-com film. In real life your partner drove you crazy, you argued, then made up, and then got on with things. 

He and Lorraine had been doing more arguing than usual over the past few weeks, the past few months actually. Things weren’t great with them at the moment, but they would get there. They both just had to ride things out. 

When he arrived home from work one Tuesday evening, he found Lorraine lugging a suitcase down the stairs. He knew what was happening. She was leaving him.

‘Hello, love. Going somewhere nice?’ He asked, not attempting to hide the sarcasm in his tone.

‘Don’t start, Paul.’ Lorraine said.

He followed her into the living room.

Lorraine grabbed the last few bits she needed and tucked them into her handbag. Paul looked on, shocked that things had actually gone this far, that it had actually come to this.

‘So, that’s it then? We’re done?’ He said.

‘I’m staying with Chloe from work. She’s got a flat in town. She’s putting me up until I get myself sorted. I’ll be in touch to sort everything out.’

‘What about that?’ Paul asked, pointing to the dog curled up in the basket.

Martha looked up from her dog basket in the corner of the room. Martha was a mongrel, a cross between a Labrador and an Alsatian. 

She had the shape and temperament of a Lab, but the markings and colourings of an Alsatian. Paul was sure there was a ridiculously fancy cross-breed name, but as far as he was concerned she was simply a mongrel.

‘She’ll have to stay with you. There are no dogs allowed in the apartments.’ Lorraine said.

‘You wanted the flamin’ dog in the first place and now I’m stuck with it.’ Paul snapped.

‘And it’s because of attitude like that, that’s why I’m leaving. We’re making each other miserable.’ she said. 

Lorraine zipped up her coat as the dog watched the scene unfolding from her spot on the rug. Lorraine bent down and tickled Martha’s ear, telling her to be a good girl for her daddy.

Paul rolled his eyes. Why did people speak to their pets that way? They were animals, not small children. 

Lorraine turned towards the door, and said that she would be in touch. Paul simply nodded and shrugged, yeah, fair enough.

Once Lorraine had left, closing the door behind her, the house seemed suddenly so empty. There was still him, and the dog, but it felt like the house was a large mansion, and he was here all alone. 

He needed a drink. He went through and poured himself a large whiskey. He took a sip and sighed. Life, he chunnered. 

Martha blocked his way, hovering in the doorway, hoping for some wafer-thin ham from the fridge or at least a dog treat. Paul was in no mood for her shenanigans. It was bad enough that Lorraine had left him, but to be left with the dog, just seemed to be the icing on the cake. Insult to injury, he thought.

 ‘Will you move?’ Paul yelled, ushering the dog out of the way. 

Martha went scurrying into the other room, tail between her legs. 

The next morning, he woke and rolled over in bed. The empty space next to him brought the events of the night before crashing back to him. His wife, his Lorraine had left. He just felt empty, hollow somehow. He didn’t feel devastated or sad, just numb. Maybe he was in shock. He showered and dressed and headed downstairs. 

He went in to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He couldn’t face actually eating anything, his stomach felt like it belonged to someone else. His fragile state was made worse when he noticed the mess on the floor. 

Martha had done her business at the back door. The sight and the smell made him retch. Lorraine had always made sure than Martha went out in the garden before they went to bed. That flaming dog, he cursed. He would have to get into a routine with the dog. 

Trying not to be physically sick, and trying to keep the mess at arm’s length, he set about cleaning up the muck, with kitchen roll and newspaper and several carrier bags. Martha looked on, guiltily, from the doorway. Paul really didn’t have time for all this. As it life wasn’t tough enough as it was, it seemed a hundred times worse with this mutt to take care of. What about him? Who would take care of Paul? 

‘How have I got stuck with you, eh?’ Paul growled. 

The following night, it was lashing down with rain when he arrived home from work. He dashed from the car, fumbling with the keys in the lock, eager to get out of the rain. He unlocked the door to find Martha hovering on the doorstep, waiting, tail wagging. The dog wanted feeding, or a walk or both. Come on, Paul said, let’s get you fed. 

As he slopped out her food into the bowl, he gagged at the smell. Martha was drooling in anticipation. He side stepped away from the bowl. Martha rushed to get stuck in. Paul shook his head and said aloud that he had no idea how she could eat that stuff.

Shortly after being fed, Martha stretched and padded across to the front door. She looked from the door, to Paul and back again. The message was clear. Martha wanted to go for a walk. 

Paul sighed, he hadn’t even changed out of his work clothes. He really wasn’t up for trekking out into the rain. Martha whined. Paul rolled his eyes.

‘Fine, come on then, but don’t complain when we’re both drenched.’ He said, hooking the lead to Martha’s collar. The rain was still falling heavily. It was cold and dark, and pouring down. These were the evenings to stay inside, not to take the dog for a walk. 

A car came speeding down the street, straight through the puddle in the road. A wave of water splashed up across the pavement, covering Paul and Martha. While Martha shook the excess water off her thick coat, Paul wiped his face with his sleeve. Brilliant, he sighed, just brilliant.

He trudged on, his wet trousers sticking to his legs, and his sodden shoes squelching. Martha was oblivious, happily sniffing at lamp-posts as they went.

Back home, the water was running off them like they’d just stepped out of the shower. Paul hung his sopping coat on the living room door and dried Martha off with her towel. 

One evening, a few weeks later, things were getting to him. Life in general was getting him down. Work was awful as ever, and things with Lorraine were still very patchy. He didn’t hold out much hope for rekindling their relationship. 

Everything just seemed to be a hurdle, each day a struggle.

He hurriedly scooped out the food into the dog’s bowl. He poured himself a large whiskey and flopped on the sofa. He was so fed up, he could cry. He had no wife, no friends he felt he could call and unload on. It was like his drowning, or sinking in quicksand.

As Paul was sitting there, the dog crossed the room, padding towards him. Paul tutted, what do you want now? He scolded. You’ve been fed, you’ve had a walk. We’re all done.

The dog climbed up on the sofa next to him. He was about to shoo the dog off the furniture, to remind the hound that she wasn’t allowed on the furniture, when she lay down beside him, and placed his head gently in his lap.

‘Go on then, just this once.’ Paul said softly.

He tickled her ears as the dog shifted and made herself comfortable.

The next night, he wanted to get out of the house. It would do him good to get out for a while. He decided to go for a few pints in his local pub. He switched the TV off and grabbed his coat. As he was standing on the doorstep, locking the front door, he could hear Martha whining from inside. Oh shut up!, he said, I’ll be back in an hour. Eager for a pint in the pub, he jogged down the front path. 

Paul spent the rest of the evening at a table in the corner of the pub. He downed a few pints of beer, with whiskey chasers. While he was still technically in his own company, it was good to be out, seeing life, even if he wasn’t actually involved.  

The following night, he decided to head to the pub again. As he was zipping up his coat, he heard the sound of paws on the wooden flooring. Martha was standing beside him, eyes hopeful of another walk. He was about to shoo her away when a thought occurred to him. Dogs were allowed in the pub. He shrugged, why not take her along with him? 

‘Fancy a pint?’ He asked the dog.

Martha simply titled her head in confusion. Her tail wagged in excitement as he reached for her lead.

Come on then, he said. Let’s go for a pint. 

He was sitting at the table, drinking his beer, with Martha lying at his feet. He noticed a few of the punters glancing over admiringly at Martha. The barmaid passed by, collecting empty glasses. She had pinkish dyed hair and a student air about her. She pointed to the dog.

‘She’s gorgeous. What’s her name?’ She asked.

‘Martha.’ Paul said.

‘Hello, Martha.’ She said, fussing over the dog. 

Martha sat up, enjoying the attention. The barmaid crouched and stroked her. Martha’s tail thumped against the table.

‘There’s a jar of dog treats at the end of the bar.’ She said.

The next time he went to the bar, he paused to grab a handful of dog treats for Martha. He plonked himself down on the chair, took a sip of his pint of beer, and offered Martha a treat. That quickly became their new routine. Paul would go to the bar for a pint for himself and some treats for her. Martha would sit bolt-upright, like a school kid who knew the right answer, waiting her dog biscuits. 

If Paul forgot the treats, Martha would stare in shock and disapproval. It was almost as if she was saying, you’re having another drink, I deserve a treat. Fair’s fair. He would always retreat back to the bar to get the dog her biscuits.

Paul and Martha became regulars at the pub. The bar staff and other regulars would greet the pair as though they were old friends.

Hello, you two! Has Martha dragged you to the pub again?

Paul laughed and joked that he thought she had a drink problem. People would pause and chat to Paul, fussing over Martha, exchanging tales of the dogs they owned. 

At the weekend, Paul would rise early and take Martha out for a long walk in the nearby countryside. He would hike across the paths, through fields, Martha loving life, sniffing every blade of grass. Other dog walkers would stop and chat, talking about everything from the weather to the price of vets’ bills. Through Martha, Paul had inadvertently become part of a community. He knew all the dog owners and their pets in the surrounding areas.

He would wave to Sarah and her plodding black Labrador, and to Vicki and David, as their Golden Retriever bounced away down the street. 

He found that Martha was also company at home. With Martha in the house with him, he didn’t feel as though he was living alone. She would follow him around the house, especially to the kitchen, where she would sit by the fridge and wait for slices of wafer-thin ham to be thrown.

And then they would chill out on the sofa, side by side, and watch television. Paul would sometimes have to turn the volume up on the TV, to drown own the snoring hound on the sofa next to him. He was deadly serious, when he told people in the pub, that Martha was his best mate. 

She listens to all my problems, he would say with a grin, and she never interrupts.

One evening he arrived home as usual. Martha greeted him excitedly as usual. Such a warm, waggy, welcome. He made a fuss of her, before letting her out in the back garden to relieve herself. That was their routine. She would go in the garden, then Paul would feed her, before taking her for a walk and a pint later on.

Having changed out of his work clothes, Paul came downstairs and called her in from the garden. Normally Martha came rushing in. Not tonight. He poked his head out the back door and called her name. 

The garden was empty, no dog sniffing around, and the back gate was wide open. He reeled as though he had been struck. Panic gripped him. The window cleaner had been round that morning, he must have left the gate open. Paul had told him about that before. 

He swore, where was the dog? He raced out the back gate, calling out her name over and over. His heart was pounding, what if Martha was lost or worse? He tried not to think about that.

From his back gate there was an L-shape narrow alley that lead out back around, out onto the street. He called her name again, urgency and fear in his voice. He looked up and down the street. No sign of her. 

He ran back down the alleyway and into the house. He grabbed his coat, and locked the back door. He opened the front door, to start the search in earnest. He would knock on for his neighbours and ask them to help the search. 

There she was! Martha was sitting on the front doorstep.

He looked down at the dog waiting patiently on the doorstep and laughed, tears of relief in his eyes. She must have got out the back gate, and tried to get in the front door instead. 

Martha looked up at him, her gaze asking, are we going for a walk then?

‘Fancy a pint?’ He asked.

Martha wagged her tail in reply.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom