A Dog's Life (2 page)

Jane is a successful literary agent, who represents the kind of authors I seldom read. She is red-haired, and of a fiery disposition. I trembled with fear on those occasions when she marched over to a brutish-looking individual with a large Alsatian or a Staffordshire bull terrier, trumpeting ‘I have a spare bag if you need it.’ The dog was invariably shitting on the open grass, where children played and grown-ups sunbathed. The offender would often accept the bag Jane was holding out to him with varying degrees of reluctant or embarrassed gratitude. She waited until he had picked up the turds, pointing to those he had missed or overlooked. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ she’d say when the spot was relatively clean again. ‘Don’t forget to bring your own bags next time.’

There was one spring day, not to be forgotten, when the sky turned green for a few moments. We looked up to see a flock of parakeets, and wondered if we were experiencing an optical illusion of a particularly unusual kind. But no, they were definitely parakeets, as their squawking reminded us. Where had they come from? Not far, probably. I learned in due course that a pair of these exotic creatures, male and female, had flown out of captivity as long ago as the 1920s. They had built their nest in the grounds of Chiswick House, the exquisite folly modelled on Palladio’s Villa Rotonda at Vicenza by the third Earl of Burlington between 1725 and 1729. Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift, John Gay and Handel were among its earliest visitors. The discriminating birds had chosen this beautiful setting in which to breed. Their descendants must have migrated during the cold, foggy London winters, since it’s impossible to imagine them surviving otherwise. Anyway, there they were, en route to Chiswick, perhaps – a free, happy, voluble family.

It was in a restaurant in a small town in Wiltshire that Jane Grigson introduced me to Jeremy Round, the first food writer and restaurant critic for the then fledgling newspaper, the
Independent
. I liked him instantly, because he talked as he wrote – with wit and verve and a sense of mischief. I was amused, as were many others, by the aptness of his name. His girth was Falstaffian, and became even more so during our sadly brief friendship. He addressed me as ‘Doll’ on that first encounter, and ‘Doll’ I remained.

He came to my flat with his partner – another Jeremy, whom he had met when they were students at Hull University. The two Jeremys were disconcerted to find out on arrival that I shared my life with an energetic dog. She welcomed them with a frenzy of barking. I had to assure them that the deafening racket was her way of demonstrating that they were acceptable to her – as, indeed, was true. Jeremy Trevathan was happier to be a sock-thrower than was Jeremy Round, who quickly tired of the game.

At the time, I was writing a monthly restaurant column for the
Daily Telegraph
, and the three of us often ate at the same places. I recall a Sunday spent in Worcester, where we dined in a newly opened bistro, staffed by enthusiastic teenagers. The boy who waited on us was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked. Halfway through the meal, Jeremy Round signalled him over to the table. ‘Could we have another bottle of water, darling?’ he asked, whereupon the pink cheeks reddened. The boy ran down the stairs to the bar. We heard sniggers from below. He was standing in the middle of a group of boys and girls pointing up at Jeremy and exclaiming, ‘That man called me “darling”. That man called me “darling”.’ Jeremy beamed.

At the end of dinner, Jeremy insisted on paying the bill. He handed the waiter a credit card, and when the youth returned with the chit, Jeremy put a couple of ten-pound notes on the plate with the words ‘That’s for you, darling.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ Darling spluttered. A phalanx of grinning waiters and waitresses watched as we left the premises.

On a hot summer morning, Jeremy and I drove to a town in Sussex to investigate a new restaurant. The car’s roof was down, and we were enjoying the sunshine. There were roadworks in progress along several stretches of the route. Many of the labourers were stripped to the waist, and we eyed them appreciatively. Whenever the lights turned green Jeremy waved to the men, calling out, ‘Goodbye, boys’. Some waved back, and one shouted ‘Saucy’ after us.

There were no leftovers when Jeremy came to dinner. It was an honour and pleasure to cook for him. I don’t think I have ever met anyone with an appetite to match his. He wasn’t a glutton, for his was a discerning palate. He knew exactly what he was eating, down to the minutest ingredient.

He exuded optimism, a sense that life was a series of exciting surprises, each one to be savoured to the full. He was restless when I knew him, anxious to be on the move. He often talked of the years he had spent in Turkey. He had learnt Turkish and mastered the cuisine. Now, in 1989, he was tired of England and bored at the prospect of being condemned to write solely about food. It was his intention to move to America, to drive across the entire continent, to make his name there. He had ambitions to be a poet and, perhaps, a novelist. He made this announcement for the future early in the year. Jeremy Trevathan would accompany him, share the adventure. I was saddened at the thought of losing such lively, entertaining company.

Along with a hundred others, I was to be saddened more seriously in August. I had been invited to attend a congress for food writers in Hong Kong, but declined for reasons of work. Jeremy went, and then travelled on to Macao. It was there that he died, in a hotel bathroom, of a brain haemorrhage. He had enjoyed his meal that evening. His last known words were: ‘What time’s breakfast?’ His body was found in the morning, and the news relayed to his editor at the
Independent
in London. His parents, on a caravan holiday in France, were difficult to contact, and it was some days before they heard of their terrible loss. Jeremy was thirty-two.

Jeremy Trevathan flew to Macao to identify his friend, and to bring him back to England.

Jane Grigson and Elizabeth David were among the admirers who paid generous and heartfelt tributes to him. Elizabeth, with whom I was now friends, was especially devastated. She had always fought against the idea of having a biography written about her, but she changed her mind after reading, and subsequently meeting, Jeremy. Over lunch one day, she more or less appointed him her official biographer, taking pains to stress the reservations she had on the subject of biographical writing. That book would have been the greatest challenge yet for the young Jeremy, who was prepared to meet it. The cantankerous Elizabeth died in 1992, and two biographies – the first lively, but fanciful and inaccurate; the second worthily accurate but dull – have been published already. I can record with confidence that she would have loathed them.

Jeremy Round is the author of a solitary work.
The Independent Cook
is typically quirky and idiosyncratic, containing recipes from Turkey, the American South and North Africa, as well as France, Italy and Britain. He would have gone on to write even better books.

Some months after Jeremy’s death, Jeremy Trevathan and I decided to live together. It was a sensible decision, and ten years of shared happiness and domestic contentment ensued. Jeremy exercised Circe at weekends, and the dog was pleased to have two masters.

Jeremy’s calmness and common sense are qualities he has earned and worked at over many years. His parents divorced when he was six, and his childhood was spent in London, in Athens, in Puerto Rico and, partly, in his native America. People are startled to learn that he is American, because his voice – with its oddly appropriate Cornish burr – couldn’t be less transatlantic.

Jeremy’s stability is the more remarkable when one considers his itinerant upbringing. Yet I know of men and women who were raised in loving settled families who lack his steely strength of character in a crisis.

He basked in the light of Jeremy Round’s brilliance. As so often happens, only a handful of Round’s friends kept in touch with him. Today he is a respected publisher, casting his own light for others to bask in.

We live apart now – in the flesh, at any rate. Our love has changed its course, but has not been diminished.

On a blustery morning in March 1985, I went to the market to buy a new sieve for the kitchen. But before I could fulfil this perfectly ordinary domestic task I became a changed man, almost in an instant. I should have walked past the pet shop, gone to the hardware store and returned home. I didn’t, though. The sight of a solitary puppy compelled me to stop. I reminded myself that I was not, and never had been, a dog lover. Yet I continued to look at the pretty little honey-coloured collie in the window. I realized I was in danger of succumbing to its beauty.

I walked on. I bought the sieve. I enjoyed my favourite daily spectacle in Shepherd’s Bush market – that of a group of Arab women, draped in black from head to toe, with only their eyes visible, buying countless pairs of knee-length underwear, of the kind that were once called ‘passion killers’. These particular ‘passion killers’ were in garish, even violent, colours – red, blue, green – and made of a material that crackled to the touch. I imagined rather esoteric orgies taking place at the embassy, as the women piled into the waiting, chauffeur-driven Bentley with their neon-lit knickers. ‘Those girls keep me in business,’ remarked the stallholder with a wink. ‘Ours not to reason, mate.’

I stopped once more outside the pet shop. I admired the puppy for the last time. It would soon have an owner, I

reasoned. Others would find it irresistible. I left it to its happy – I hoped – fate.

Two hours later, I entered the market, praying that the pet shop window would be empty. The puppy was asleep on its bed of straw and torn-up newspaper. I knew, now, that I was lost. I knew that I was irretrievably lost when I heard myself asking the price of the collie.

‘She’s not a thoroughbred,’ the old Irishman who ran the shop told me. ‘You can have her for forty pounds.’

I got out my cheque book.

‘I prefer cash. It’s safer.’

I explained that I had to go to the bank and would be gone for a while.

‘She’s yours. Don’t worry. She’ll be here for you.’

As I set off for the bank, I considered the possibility of not returning to the shop, of being released from the madness I was experiencing, of coming to my senses. I had neither the time nor the energy to care for a dog. I was in the middle of writing a long novel,
Gabriel’s Lament
, and I was living with a partner who was in poor health. I had the means of escape. I was in thrall to a bundle of fur with bright brown eyes. I was behaving like a besotted fool. I listed all the reasons why I shouldn’t part with forty pounds.

I heeded none of them. I handed over the money. I took the dog in my arms and soon she was licking my face, my ears, my neck. I was drenched in her pee as I carried her home, wondering what reception I might expect when I told David the obvious truth that I had fallen in love with a puppy.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a dog.’

‘I can see it’s a dog. What are you doing with it?’

‘I bought her.’

‘Take her back.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t bear to.’

‘You have a book to write, you idiot.’

He was silent and morose for hours. He glowered at the dog as she peed and shat on the newspapers I had put down for her.

The silence continued through dinner and well into the evening. It was nearly midnight when David spoke.

‘You can keep her under one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That you call her Circe. It’s the right name for her. I hate to say it but she’s an enchantress. And the flat smells absolutely disgusting.’

‘You bought her. You clean up after her. She’s your responsibility.’

In those first weeks following my momentous decision to buy Circe there was a great deal of cleaning up to do. Every floor in the flat was covered in newspapers, to accommodate the various messes she was making. She wanted to eat everything, even – I discovered to my horror – the contents of the cat’s litter tray. I got her a wicker basket to sleep in, and the taste and flavour of the wicker obviously appealed to her, for it was soon reduced to shreds.