A Sad Loss
by Ralph Alcock
It was still his house he reminded her. And it was still his farm, even if it was, now, the smallest one in the dale.
The house needed modernising, she’d told him.
Can’t expect her to follow the old ways, his son, Robert had said.
Wouldn’t have said that before she came along.
And the farm; fences and buildings needed repair, it needed newer machinery and it was too small - too small to support all of us, she’d said. He liked things the way they were. He hadn’t asked her to move in. But Alice had married Robert and she’d insisted they live at the farm. She wanted changes.
Bloody woman. Over my dead body, he told her; told them both.
The dog was in his chair, in the front kitchen next to the black range. The arms of the chair were singed from the years it had spent close to the coal fire that once burned in the hearth. He could almost feel the heat it used to give, toasting one side of his face pink and scorching the hairs on his arm nearest the fire, while his other hand and his other cheek remained cold and pale. There was no fire there now, of course. There hadn’t been since Jean had died. Angina, the doctor said. She’d been warned to take it easy, but there were always things to be done. She never stopped. Not until she stopped. Not until they buried her. They were all there; glaring at him, accusingly. Worked her to death, they said.
The dog gave him a one eyed glance and slid, serpent like, off the chair and onto the floor. It cowered slowly away, its head low and the white hairs along its back standing, bristle thick. It gave a low growl and its rubbery lip curled briefly exposing a yellow canine. It was her dog, Alice’s. She’d brought the mutt with her. It was almost a collie, apart from the whippet like body and thin legs. Ugliest dog he’d ever seen and no farm dog. Shep she called it. Mutt he called it.
He kicked it, kicked it hard. He prided himself on not swearing, not in public. But in his head he swore. Fucking dog. And when there was no one there he swore. Fucking dog. He lashed out again. Fucking dog! He couldn’t kick her, but he could kick the hell out of her bloody dog. He’d tied it up the other week and beat it with a yard brush after he’d caught it with a dead chicken, blood dripping from its mouth.
She knew something had happened, especially when it ran off whimpering when she’d picked up the yard broom. He’d shown her the chicken with its head dangling, its neck nearly torn in two and its innards hanging like yellow globs of fat.
Had to be taught a lesson, he told her. It’s a working farm. Can’t have a dog killing chickens. He’ll get a taste for it. Might have to tie the dead chicken round its neck and leave it until its rank and crawling with maggots. Put the dog off chickens, he told her with a self-satisfied sneer. Have to be put down if it killed anymore chickens.
He’d heard them arguing. Her thin whining voice leaked under their bedroom door and filled the passageway. 2
Robert – you’ve got to do something. We can’t go on like this. That’s why there’s never any money.
Robert didn’t say much; he never did. Too much like his mother. Too soft for her.
She’d contacted all the bookies, all the ones he had accounts with. All the ones he owed money to. No more tick. No more credit. He could use cash, they all said. We take cash. He didn’t have much. Not enough. Fucking woman! He swung a boot at the dog, catching it in the ribs. The dog howled and collapsed. It was sick on the rug. He grabbed its collar, snapped on its leash, dragged it to the yard and pushed it onto the back seat of his battered Ford Anglia. He’d make her pay.
The dog didn’t want to come out of the car. It was as if he could detect something in Metcalfe’s yard. The cobbled yard was eerily quiet; not a sign of life. But the dog could detect it. Its nose twitched, its eyes looked wild and frightened. The dog strained on the leash, trying to back away from the two men. Metcalf used the gun barrel like a stick, poking and prodding the dog. He let it hover just behind its ear. The sound of the gun ripped through the air, leaking away slowly from the enclosed yard.
Reckon he’ll need another, he told Metcalf, holding up the twitching dog by the collar. Metcalf grunted, pushed the dog over with his foot. Its belly was still heaving.
No point in wasting good cartridges, Metcalf told him. Leave it. It’s as good as dead.
He drove home in the Ford Anglia, pleased with himself. He grabbed two hens from their nesting boxes. They squawked at being lifted from the warmth. They beat their wings ferociously sending feathers over his face as he stretched their long necks and snapped the sinews and nerves. He ripped the dead chickens with a billhook spilling out their guts and crushing their heads. He laid them dead and dripping blood on the wall in front of the kitchen door.
Where’s Shep? she said, expecting him to come bounding to her as soon as she stepped in the house.
Been at the chickens again, he said. Come and see.
What’s up? said Robert, following them through the house. She gasped at the site of the mangled dead chickens. It was gruesome.
Had to have him put down. Was the only thing to do.
What! She shrieked. You did what!
Took him to Metcalf’s, he told her. Robert knew what that meant. He’d had a dog once. His mother had bought it for him. Started worrying the sheep, especially at lambing time. He knew what it meant.
He glared at his father.
You bastard.
I’ll not have language like that, not in my house, he told his son. She was too shocked to say anything. She stood staring at the dead hens. Robert draped an arm round her. 3
Come away, love, he said.
He was pleased with himself. Reckoned he owed Metcalf a pint or two, in addition to the twenty pounds he’d promised him.
He was wearing a clean shirt and had changed his jacket. His thick black hair was slicked with bayrum and brylcream and he sucked rhythmically at his false teeth as he drove his old Ford car into the village. His gums had receded and his teeth didn’t fit very well, but he liked to wear them on special occasions. First stop, the bookies. He spread out his copy of the
Racing Post and made his picks. About time his luck changed. An hour later he headed for the Black Bull. Metcalf was already there, at the table in the corner. There were just a few dregs left in his glass.
Need a refill, Metcalf told him.
It took a few pints, it always did with Metcalf. Not known for his way with words. But he knew about guns and how to use them. He knew how to kill an animal. It was said that he’d even shot an old tramp who used to help himself to things lying around. Metcalf caught him in his yard. The tramp was never seen again. Some said he must have moved on. Others weren’t so sure.
Best rid of a bad dog, Metcalf said.
No loss, that one, he’d replied.
Any other business, let me know, said Metcalf.
There’s another on that farm I’d love to get rid of, he said with a smirk.
Ah well, just let me know, said Metcalf, his face expressionless.
He grinned, sharing the joke. Metcalf wasn’t grinning. He wished he hadn’t said anything. You never knew with Metcalf.
Metcalf wiped the froth off his lips with one swipe of the back of his hand. I’ll be off, he said. I’ll take my money.
He paused. He felt nervous. Haven’t got it just yet, he said. He didn’t like Metcalf’s cold stare fixing on him. When? Said Metcalf.
Saturday, he said. Should have it on Saturday.
Metcalf slammed his hand down on the table. The noise of conversation halted abruptly. Nervous heads glanced across, pretending they hadn’t heard. I want my money tomorrow, shouted Metcalf. Not a day later, else there’ll be trouble. I’ll be round to collect. Metcalf stood up, pulled hard on his cap and strode out.
He sat on in silence, head bent away from the stares.
Robert found his father’s body in the old cow byre. There was blood everywhere; splattered up the grey walls, pooled in the damp blackened straw and spilled over the ribbed concrete floor. Half his head was gone. The gun lay across his legs. 4
Metcalf was arrested. He was the likely suspect. He was the only suspect. Metcalf had threatened him they said. Most didn’t care for him, or for Metcalf. It would be no sad loss for both of them to go. Owed a small fortune to the bookies. And some of them didn’t take kindly to late payers. Metcalf was probably collecting. It’d been rumoured before. Metcalf denied it if course, in his terse, uncooperative manner.
We can have a dog, Robert told Alice. The house seemed brighter, as if it had been given a new coat of paint.
He’ll be a sad loss, the vicar had said.
He’d said enough.