I drove home, glad of the chance to get away from the noise and smells of school. The lunch menu had looked somewhat institution-like; lumps of pork meat with dry, sticky strands of taglietelle, something called potato strata reminiscent of rock formations in coastal regions and a cardboard rendition of bakewell tart set firmly in place with thick, gluey custard. The road down to my house was damp and grey but with a touch of wintry sun and going uphill opened out a patchy blue horizon. I turned into the drive, stopped the car and got out to the sounds of George, a beautiful pink-grey Egyptian nosed cat. Only George could cry so piteously, although to me he always sounded like Sooty's partner in the Sooty and Sweep soap opera. Sweep's voice was like a bow being pulled across the strings of a violin, tunelessly but very quickly so that immediately you identified the sound it ceased, leaving you with a memory of a thicker, meatier version of a squeak. George waited for me by the front door. Unfortunately before I could open it for him a small parcel caught my eye. It was about the size of two bricks together and was wrapped in opaque, white polythene. I picked it up and noticed the words "Cambridge Pet Crematorium". Even on supposedly safe, secure ground events still conspired to unsettle me. I felt rather sick. What was I holding in my hands? I turned the box over and looked at the address which was correct except for the name. It said "Mrs Walker". I knew that a Mrs Walker lived three doors away. I knew this because I had had the pleasure of teaching her son. I let George in and walked to her house clutching the dead pet encased in plastic wrapping. I looked for the doorbell and remembered the last time I had walked up this drive. It had been one hot summer night a few months before. Her house had been in darkness except for the shrieking of an alarm and the whirling of one of those red lights that signify intruders. Approaching her house, I could hear the snarling and barking of what seemed like a pack of wild, aggressive dogs. I didn't try to venture further, they would have obviously eaten any would-be burglars for dinner and asked for seconds.
I waited for a few moments before I heard footsteps and Mrs Walker stood there with a child at her side. She had startlingly blue luminous eyes and her hair was a shock of browny red. I found her rather intimidating. An analysis was coming on. "I believe this is yours. I found it on my doorstep." I smiled stupidly. It seemed to me that I was in the middle of a farce. There I was coming to see this woman with her pet under my arm. A pet in a box. A dead pet in a box. I was dying to laugh. I could feel it, I couldn't stop. It was coming. The laughter was coming. I tried to shroud it with a smile. O God she knows, she can see me laughing. She can see through me with those piercing blue eyes. Mrs Walker continued to stare at me, her face stony and expressionless. "It's from the Cambridge Pet Cemetery" I said slowly. "Oh yes, it's my dog. He died you see", she said sadly. I smiled back also sadly. "Yes I'm sorry it's such a sad parcel that I had to bring" I said pathetically feeling only guilt and walked back down the drive.
10/11/97 Zofia Dluzewska