‘In fact, he’ll be trilingual!’ she exclaimed with a giggle.
‘Trilingual?’
‘His first language will be “dog”, of course.’
‘Well, it seems this trilingual dog is yours now.’ Briefly, I explained the circumstances of Alphonse. Emma listened in wonder, stroking the dog’s tummy.
‘Poor Alphonse,’ she mourned. ‘And poor Uncle Henrias well. It must be awful to lose your friends when you’re old.’
‘He seems remarkably cheerful.’
‘Well, that generation do, don’t they? They don’t moan about anything and everything like some of my lot do.’
Not knowing quite how to respond to this surprising observation from someone her age, I instead busied myself filling a pan of water ready for the sprouts. Getting up from her knees, Emma heaved the suitcase onto the table and opened it.
‘Henri will be far less cheerful when my grandmother arrives, I can tell you.’
‘Don’t they like each other?’
‘Not really, but then I don’t think Gran actuallylikesanybody – except for me,’ she added, totally without self-satisfaction. ‘Oh my gosh, this suitcase is full of nothing but boxes of Bonio.’ Extracting one, she opened it and gave a biscuit to the dog. ‘Oh, hang on,’ she continued, rummaging further. ‘There’s a sack of food too and his vaccination certificates.’
‘Good.’
‘So he’s legal. A legal beagle!’
I pointed out whatever breed Alphonse might be, he was certainly not a beagle. Then I looked at Emma. ‘What about you? Do you like her?’
‘Who? Oh, Gran, you mean? Yeah, she’s okay.’ Emma closed the case and paused a second, contemplating the dog, who was now crunching Bonio all over the kitchen floor. ‘Igether, if you know what I mean.’ She looked up at me.
‘Go on.’
‘She’s unhappy,’ Emma said simply. ‘My grandmother’s unhappy, fundamentally and chronically unhappy, and when people are fundamentally and chronically unhappy they don’t really like anything or anybody. And what’s worse is that other people don’t like them much either. They avoid them. It’s impossible to have anything like a proper relationship with someone who’s fundamentally and chronically unhappy.’
Unbidden, Luc popped into my mind. Was he fundamentally and chronically unhappy? Had the death of his wife destroyed Luc Mandeville’s ability to form a proper relationship?
‘Why is your grandmother fundamentally and chronically unhappy?’ I asked, not because I gave a hoot about Susan Mandeville but because I was interested in the theory. ‘I’ve been given to understand she’s quite rich.’
‘Rich? Alix, you know as well as I do that being rich doesn’t make you happy.’ With a sniff, Emma sat down again and patted her lap encouragingly, whereupon Alphonse sprang onto it with an agile leap.
‘I’m not sure I do,’ I countered mildly. ‘But then I’ve never been rich.’
‘Yeah, well, I get what you mean and, yeah, she lives in a nice house and she’s got loads of stuff, and I mean, like,loads. Her house is like an art gallery – no, like somegiftshop. There are these porcelain ornaments everywhere, really expensive and valuable but gross. Every surface is barnacled with them.’
I pointed out – again mildly – that a lot of older people, particularly of our gender, it had to be said, went in for that sort of thing.
‘Yeah, I know, but my grandmother doesn’t derive any pleasure or comfort from them, the fussy little gnomes and trinkets I mean. Yet she just keeps on buying more. They could be a substitute for what’s lacking in her life but they’re not. She’s still lonely and sad and unloved.’
Briefly, I thought of Jess. It was a good thing she wasn’t around to hear this.
‘You aren’t by any chance reading psychology at university?’ I asked, but with a smile in order not to sound sarcastic. There had been some chat yesterday evening over dinner about Emma’s first term at university, which she had just finished, but what she was studying had not been mentioned. In fact, she had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about university at all.
‘No.’ The girl breathed a heavy sigh. ‘But I wish I was. I’m doing history, which I don’t like at all. In fact, I hate it.’ As I sat down opposite her, she looked at me with a kind of panic in her eye. ‘But please don’t tell Dad I said that.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t if you don’t want me to. But why ever not? Haven’t you told him yourself? Lots of people choose the wrong subject at university or find it turns out to be wrong for them. You can always change courses, you know.’
She hesitated and then, burying her face in the dog’s neck, said in a muffled voice, ‘No, I can’t.’
‘What, you mean you’ve asked and the university has refused? That’s very unusual. In fact, I don’t think theycanrefuse—’
