hall cupboard and patted Freddie cheerfully on the head, William felt his spirits sagging. He had made a dreadful mistake, he felt. It was like marrying somebody one did not want to marry and being unable to get out of it. He did not want to hurt Marcia—he liked her, and he found himself liking her even more after experiencing all the support she had given him that evening. She was generous; she was a character; she was easy company … but he was not in love with her. And, for William, that precluded anything but a platonic relationship. One did not enter into an affair unless one loved the other person—it was a minimum requirement of decency. It was as simple as that; or at least it was as simple as that when you were in your fif—late forties and above.
Freddie de la Hay seemed relieved to be home. Free of his leash, he rushed around the flat, careering into each room and then bursting out again, barking joyously. And when he had completed his tour of inspection, he bounded over to William and enthusiastically licked such portions of his master as he could find: hands, shoes, and, standing on his hind legs in a brief moment of exhilaration, William’s face.
Marcia went into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. Freddie’s steak was cooked first—a choice cut which sizzled delectably in the frying pan. When it was done, she cut it into squares and put them on the dog’s plate. Freddie, sitting obediently as he had been trained to do before tackling his dinner, stared at the plate for a few moments before he stepped forward, on Marcia’s invitation, and sniffed at the steak.
“You can eat it, Freddie,” said Marcia. “It’s all right.”
Freddie looked up at William, as if to seek confirmation. “Go ahead, my boy,” said William. “Nice steak. Nice Freddie.”
Freddie began to eat the steak—slowly at first and then very quickly, wolfing down the small squares of meat.
“See?” said Marcia. “So much for Freddie being a vegetarian.”
William nodded. Freddie had indeed tackled the steak with enthusiasm, but now he had taken a few steps back from the plate and was sitting with his head sunk, his gaze focused on the floor.
“Guilt,” said William. “He feels guilty.”
“Nonsense,” said Marcia. “Dogs don’t feel guilt.”
William disagreed. He had only owned Freddie for a short time, but he knew that the dog had a broad cupboard of emotions and that it was perfectly possible that he was now feeling guilt and remorse.
“Dogs feel these things,” he said. “They really do. They have emotional centres in their brains, same as we do.”
“But surely not one for guilt?” said Marcia.
“Why not? When a dog does something that he knows he should not, he often looks unhappy. He puts his tail between his legs. He skulks around.”
Marcia nodded. “But that’s only because they fear our displeasure. They think we’re going to beat them or shout at them. It’s just a reaction. They don’t feel guilt deep down—not like we do.” She paused. Freddie de la Hay was looking up at her with mournful eyes. “And there’s no reason for Freddie to think that we’re going to disapprove of him for eating steak. After all, we gave it to him and encouraged him.”
William was sure that there was a flaw in Marcia’s argument—as there often was. “He may not fear consequences from us—but that doesn’t mean that he won’t be afraid of somebody else. Somebody from his past. That Manfred character, for instance.”
Freddie growled.
“You see?” said William. “Freddie recognised the name. He’s still frightened of Manfred.”
Freddie now whimpered, looking furtively over his shoulder, as if he expected the famous columnist to enter the room and remonstrate with him. Noticing this, William bent down to comfort him, putting an arm around the dog and whispering into his ear.
“Don’t you worry, Freddie, old boy,” he said. “Daddy won’t let that man browbeat you any more.” It slipped out, and he thought, Our animals make fools of us—infantilise us just as we infantilise them. No, Freddie de la Hay, I’m not your real dad …
“And neither will Mummy,” added Marcia.
William caught his breath. He was going to have to talk to Marcia; he really was. And he would have to do it this evening, before things went any further.
79. Marcia Understands
“COQUILLES ST. JACQUES,” Marcia called from the kitchen. “How about that? And then …”
“Perfect,” William replied from the living room. “I love anything with cheese.”
“Sometimes I think that