and bobs of genetically engineered canines. Mongrels, Sydney had explained to her with a smile on his face, because the pedigree ones were worth more than the junk they were defending. Then he told her another one of the Haute House anecdotes which she was to inherit on agreeing to marry him. One night there had been a burglary, but instead of breaking into the house itself, the thieves had come for the dogs. When the household woke up the following morning they found that the poor things had disappeared, the whole lot of them, without so much as a yap.
She was relieved to see that Sydney had not been allowed inside the pen, and had to content himself with stroking Dusty’s nose through the meshing of the fence. Dusty was to be trusted. He was old now, and enjoyed being made a fuss of. But Digger and Ringo needed to be watched. They were nervous beasts, forever going round and round in circles inside the pen, or twitching and shivering as if they had heard some unsettling noise. They made Andrea feel uneasy just by watching them. Ambrose was inside, cleaning up some mess or other, changing the water, whatever it is one does inside a kennel compound. The dogs followed him about as if they expected something from him, some kind of treat, a titbit maybe, or perhaps he was going to let them out? He’d better not.
‘Come away from there, he might bite you.’
Ambrose looked up. He wanted to say that Dusty was safe enough, that he enjoyed the attention, that it was good for Sydney to get to know the dogs, it was much safer that way. But that was not his place, as he well knew. So he just kept on sweeping.
Sydney didn’t move. He never did what his mother told him, at least not at first. They had established that many moons ago, it was their natural relationship.
‘Sydney. Come on. Be careful.’
Nothing. She contemplated him for a few seconds, unsure whether to snatch him away by the arm and drag him back to the house, or to storm off and leave the little brat to it. Her protective fear won the day.
‘Come on, you can play with Dusty later if you are a good boy. If you come now you can take him for a walk in the grounds this afternoon. Is that o.k., Bro?’
Ambrose nodded. Yes, yes, of course.
‘But you have to come now. Stop stroking him and come back into the house. We have to wash your hands now after touching the dog. Come on, you haven’t even brushed your hair yet.’
Sydney looked at his mother suspiciously.
‘I promise. This afternoon. Ask Bro. That’s a promise, isn’t it Ambrose?’
‘If that’s what you want. Yes.’
‘You see. So come on, let’s get ready for when Harvey gets back’.
She took his hand and led him back to the house.
Ambrose finished his tasks and sat down in a corner of the pen. The dogs came to him and lay at his feet. He also thought that dogs were like people. They liked to be loved, they often felt lonely, or bored, or sad. They were loyal to each other and to their masters, noble and intelligent, and would give their lives for the ones they love. Like the rest of us they had feelings. Ambrose adored them, and the feeling was mutual.
‘I promised he could take Dusty for a walk this afternoon.’
Stated tentatively. She did not want to give the impression that, in her opinion, Harvey ought to take his step son through the grounds. Neither did she want him to feel that she was fobbing the boy off on him so that she could be alone. She was simply tossing out an idea, and he could either catch it or let it drop. Whatever. Naturally she hoped that her tolerant, non-committal tone would work, that he would feel obliged to follow her cue and offer to take Sydney for a walk of his own accord. She could see no reason why he should refuse, but....
Harvey was used to these ploys by now and paid no attention whatsoever. He had his own agenda, which may or may not coincide with that of his wife. As it so happened, being with Sydney, being seen to be with Sydney, was now a priority. A walk though the grounds with Dusty. Perfect.
‘Fine. Once I’ve got off those papers, say six o’clock. We’ll give the old dog a run for his money.’
Andrea smiled. It had been a long time coming, but at last a semblance of a family could be discerned.
‘I’ll go and tell him, he’ll be thrilled.’
At the kennels Harvey ordered Ambrose to fetch Dusty. He was comfortable in the old dog’s company, but did not trust Digger’s or Ringo’s intentions. On more than one occasion he had tried to assert his authority over them, but they had always kept their distance and snarled menacingly at him. He did not like them; they were too autistic, too ferocious. But then that was their allotted task; they were not family dogs but guard dogs. Ambrose brought Dusty out on a short lead and handed him over to Harvey.
‘Here, you take him. Hold him firmly, like this, a little nearer, that’s it, and with the other hand... That’s good. And remember that he needs to know who’s boss, so you are in command, o.k.? Let him know that. He is the dog, you are the master. Once he sees that everything will be fine.’
Harvey was unable to contain his desire to control the situation. He had explained all of this to Sydney, to Andrea, even to Bro, a hundred times. It was so basic that it went without saying. But Harvey could not restrain himself; he would give a lesson in dog handling whether you wanted it or not. And it was better to listen and suffer in silence, or he would find an excuse to fly into a rage. Then there would be no walking the dog, no talking, nothing, until he had calmed down again. So Sydney, overjoyed at being able to take Dusty out on his own, albeit with his step-father in tow, decided that prudence was the best councillor.
To prove his point about showing the dogs who was their master, he kicked the wire meshing and growled at the two remaining dogs. They began to bark furiously, threatening to leap at the fence in an attempt to attack Harvey.
‘Down! Down I say!’
The dogs continued to bark and show their teeth, livid with anger. Dusty began to pull at his lead.
‘Hold him tight. Show him who’s boss. Down, down with you!’
He turned away suddenly, with an arrogant gesture, the bullfighter’s disdain for the humiliated beast, and led Sydney off towards the gardens. Behind him Digger and Ringo continued to snarl and bark, pacing the compound like rioting prisoners. Now Ambrose would have to spend time with them, soothing them and talking to them until they realised there was nothing to fear.
Pet, who had been smoking by the side of the garages, strolled past the kennels with a nonchalant air.
‘Well, that showed them who’s the boss, eh?’
Then broke into a half cough half laugh. Ambrose started to laugh too. What a fool that Harvey was at times. What an idiot.
Once in the grounds Harvey could ignore the boy. Dusty was let off the lead and allowed to roam, while little Sydney tried unsuccessfully to gain Harvey’s attention. He fired questions at him at high speed, but soon realised there was not going to be an answer. So he ran after Dusty, keeping up a narrative of his own, every so often calling out to his step father, who stoically refused to be drawn in. Surely he had done enough by offering to walk the grounds with the lad without having to feign interest in his childish banter? He had been seen, the effort had been made and noted, that would have to do.
‘Look, Harvey, look!’
The boy was pointing at something with a stick.
‘What is it, Harvey? What’s that?’
Sydney did not call Harvey ‘dad’, or ‘father’. At first Andrea had suggested that it would be, from a psychological point of view, best for all of them. It would help create the idea of a family, would strengthen the bond between them all. Harvey should perhaps call Sydney ‘son’? After all, to all effects Harvey was indeed now the boy’s father. It could only help, she argued.
Harvey was horrified at the idea, though he managed to control himself and hide this from Andrea. He knew he would never be able to call the little brat ‘son’, and to have him running around calling for ‘daddy’ when his real father was long dead, though unfortunately not forgotten, was too much to demand. Because Harvey d
id not love the child. Not only did he not love him, he did not even like him, or want to be with him, or have to live with him and educate him for the rest of his life. As far as he was concerned the world would be a better place if little Sydney Haute would just disappear. For good. Wishful thinking? Quite likely, but he thought that only then could he concentrate on building his own family with Andrea. Then he would be in complete control.
But he realised that he would need to argue his position, to carefully edit his words. Andrea must never suspect his true feelings towards the boy. He needed her, and the household too, to believe he was at least willing to make an effort. So he explained his position. He felt that it was not good to falsify reality. Sydney should always know who his father was, and be encouraged to cherish that knowledge. It was part of his heritage, and would eventually become part of his character. Sydney should see Harvey as a caring, father-like figure, but should at all times be aware that the real father, the blood father, was the late Sydney Haute. To use terms such as ‘son’ or ‘father’ would only confuse the child. A time would come when he would have to be told the truth, and that could be a dramatic moment if he had been led to believe that Harvey was his father. Adoption agency counsellors recommended the truth from the beginning. It was in the child’s best interests. Despite the temptation to play the role of a father,