Lying Dead by Aline Templeton Page A

still rigid with tension and Jenna’s heart went out to her spiky, passionate daughter. ‘Mirren,’ she said gently, ‘please try to eat something.’
        The girl’s eyes were bright with tears. ‘I can’t. It would stick, here.’ She touched her thin throat. ‘He mustn’t kill Moss, he mustn’t!’
        Jenna sighed. ‘It’s a working dog. It’s not a pet. And if it can’t work—’
        ‘Moss only can’t work because he ’s useless. When Moss came, he was fine. It’s him that’s the problem. He should be put down, not Moss.’
        When was the last time her daughter had called her father Dad or Daddy, or indeed anything but ‘he’, spoken with contempt? Jenna had been absorbed in her own daily struggle with the brutal demands of restoration work; she hadn’t spared time or energy to attend to more than the basic physical needs of her family and she was long past concern about her own relationship with her husband. Now, looking at the sad child in front of her, she experienced terrible guilt.
        She’d known, of course, that Mirren was something of a loner at school. Well, that was just Mirren. She’d never made friends easily, but she was a self-sufficient child, keen on wildlife and passionate about her Green causes, to the point where she was a pain in the neck about conservation. Jenna had been reduced to smuggling bottles into the bin after Mirren was in bed to reduce the glass mountain in one of the sheds; who had time to drive into Wigtown regularly to recycle them?
        It was only recently that her mother had begun to feel uneasy. She’d heard a programme on the radio which she always had on while she was working. It had caught her attention, because the speaker was someone who lived in Galloway: a woman psychotherapist who wrote for the newspapers and had published a book about problem situations in family life. On this occasion, what she was talking about was the relationship of teenage girls with their fathers and the importance of paternal approval and encouragement to the development of self-confidence.
        That was something Mirren notably lacked, which was another problem that could be laid at Niall’s door, but on the other hand, her own dismissive attitude to her husband, while perfectly understandable, could only have made things worse. She had taken pleasure in cutting him down to size in front of her.
        ‘Mirren,’ Jenna said unhappily, ‘I know how upset you are. But Dad’s had a bad time. He’d set his heart on doing well in the trials.’
        Her daughter’s face was still stony. ‘You see,’ her mother went on, ‘Granddad always made Dad feel a failure because he didn’t win. And I know you find it hard to accept it, but Moss is only a dog—’
        ‘Only a dog? Only a dog ?’ The tears started to spill over, fat tears, splashing down Mirren’s face. ‘There’s nothing special about humans, you know – all they are is nasty animals.’ She stood up. ‘But I’m going to stop him. I don’t care what I have to do.’
        A moment later, Jenna was alone at the table with the plates of uneaten food and her uncomfortable reflections.
     
    The rain had stopped by the time Niall had flung himself out of the house and the first pale stars were beginning to appear between clouds chased along by a stiff breeze. Jolly boating weather, he reflected acidly, as he walked out towards the far end of the marina’s pontoons, beyond the lights and out of sight. It was always quiet there and you could be sure of being alone once sailing was over for the day.
        Around the bay, behind the lit windows the smart set were having dinner parties, no doubt, and on some of the moorings, warm yellow light glowed from the boats’ portholes, showing where some keen sailor was drying out equipment after today’s outing, or preparing for tomorrow’s. From the Yacht Club he could hear the sound of music, voices and laughter.
        He couldn’t