A Suitable Vengeance

So she had come on this visit to Chelsea, not exactly knowing what she could accomplish, only knowing that the longer she stayed away, the more difficult a reconciliation with her father would be. What she wanted from Simon, she could not have said.

Through the mist, she saw the kitchen lights come on. Her father passed the window. He went to the stove, then to the table where he disappeared from her view. She followed the flagstone path across the garden and descended the stairs.

Alaska met her at the door as if, with that preternatural sensitivity inherent to felines, he’d known she’d be arriving. He twitched one ear and began a stately crisscrossing through her legs, his tail waving majestically.

“Where’s Peach?” she asked the cat as she rubbed his head. His back arched appreciatively. He began to purr.

Footsteps came out of the kitchen into the foyer. “Deb!”

She straightened. “Hello, Dad.”

She saw him looking for signs that she’d come home—a suitcase, a carton, an easily movable item like a lamp. But he said nothing other than, “Had your dinner, girl?” and returned to the kitchen where the rich smell of roasting meat was scenting the air.

She followed him. “Yes. At the flat.” She saw that he was working at the table, that he’d lined up four pairs of shoes to be polished. She noted the heaviness of their construction, necessary so that the crosspiece of his brace could fit through the left heel. For some reason, the sight effected a blackness in her. She looked away.

“How’s work?” Cotter asked her.

“Fine. I’ve been using my old cameras, the Nikon and the Hasselblad. They’re working for me well. They make me rely on myself more, on knowledge and technique. I find I like that.”

Cotter nodded, applied two fingertips of polish to the top of a shoe. He was nobody’s fool. “It’s forgotten, Deb,” he answered. “All of it, girl. You do what’s best for you.”

She felt a rush of gratitude. She looked round the room at the white brick walls, the old stove with three covered pots sitting on it, the worn work tops, the glass-fronted cabinets, the uneven tile floor. A small basket near the stove legs sat empty.

“Where’s Peach?” she asked.

“Mr. St. James ’s taken ’er out for a walk.” Cotter gave a glance to the wall clock. “Absent-minded, ’e is. Dinner’s been ready these last fifteen minutes.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“The embankment, I expect.”

“Shall I fetch him?”

His reply was perfectly noncommittal. “If you fancy a walk. If you don’t, it’s fine. Dinner’ll keep a bit.”

She said, “I’ll see if I can find him.” She went back to the foyer but turned at the kitchen door. Her father was giving his complete attention to the shoes. “I’ve not come home, Dad. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know what I know,” was Cotter’s answer as she left the house.

The mist was encircling each streetlamp with an amber corona, and a breeze was beginning to blow off the Thames. Deborah turned up the collar of her coat as she walked. Inside houses, people were sitting down to their evening meals while at the King’s Head and Eight Bells at the corner of Cheyne Row, others gathered at the bar for conversation and refreshment. Deborah smiled fondly when she saw this latter group. She knew most of them by name. They’d been nightly patrons of the pub for years. The sight of them filled her with unaccountable nostalgia which she dismissed as nonsensical and pushed on to Cheyne Walk.

Traffic was light. She crossed quickly to the river and saw him some distance away, elbows resting on the embankment wall, studying the charming whimsicality of Albert Bridge. In the summers of her childhood they had frequently wandered across it to Battersea Park. She wondered if he remembered that. What a gawky little companion she’d been to him then. How patient and kind his friendship had been in return.

She stopped for a moment to observe him unnoticed. He scanned the bridge. A smile played on his lips. And all the while at his feet, Peach sat placidly chewing on her lead. As Deborah watched the two of them, Peach caught sight of her and began pulling away from St. James. She turned a quick circle, got tangled in the lead, fell in a heap, and gave a happy yelp.

Distracted from his admiration of one of London’s most capricious structures, St. James looked down at the little dachshund and then back up as if to locate the cause of her desire for escape. When he saw Deborah, he released his grip on the lead and let the dog run to her, which Peach did, ears flopping wildly, rear legs nearly overtaking the rest of her body. She was a frenzy of joy. She threw herself upon Deborah, barking ecstatically, wagging her tail.

Deborah laughed, hugged the dog, allowed herself to be licked on the nose. She thought about how it was so simple with animals. They gave their hearts without question or fear. They had no expectations. They were so easy to love. If people could only be like that, no one would ever be hurt, she thought. No one would ever need to learn how to forgive.