The Circus

Dogs and alligators love me.

This was never more clear than when we lived in southern Portugal, just a little inland, high on a hill overlooking the sea. I seldom think of those years but perhaps other people's talk of holidays recently reminds me of our seven years of sunshine. Also I am at the moment pining for a dog. It must be the right dog. The perfect dog for all of us and that will take time...or maybe I shall leave it to the fates who are good at choosing for us. And so I go back in time...

We ignored the good advice of more sophisticated friends - 'you are just encouraging them in their cruelty to animals and they feed the lions on half-dead donkeys' - and go to the circus. These regularly tour Portugal and are varied in their origins. One of our favourites featured a Chinaman on his water organ. Appropriately at the climax of the show we were plunged into darkness and he struck up a note on his huge organ and as the music rose so, too, did coloured cascades of water. It was much more impressive than son et lumière at Karnack, and much funnier. Though if I'm being picky I have to say it was perhaps three quarters of an hour too long.
 
Do not confuse the circus in Portugal with the sad and sanitised remnants that we see in England. Do not confuse it either with my experience of David Copperfield's evening of magic at Earls Court in London some years ago. We had been promised that the highlight of the evening would be the display of flying. Mr Copperfield would select a person from the audience and, by magic, would enable them to fly. It was on this basis that I parted with more than two hundred pounds for two tickets. Convinced that I would be the Chosen One I wore a simple outfit of close-fitting top and pedal pushers. I was slimmer then. We were aghast when we were shown to our seats. We must have been a mile from the stage and Mr. Copperfield would indeed have needed magical eyesight even to spot me at that distance. For us to see him there were television screens dotted about the stadium begging the question 'why had we wasted so much money'. As predicted when it came to choosing the flyer I was transported back to school and for the first time understood the shame of being the one who was last to be chosen for the netball team. I was bitterly disappointed. At the end of the show we hastened off for a drink at an all night cafe in the Earls Court Road. We felt a little out of place among such a lovely, and heavily pierced throng of colourful men. They looked at us kindly, however, and I heard 'Oh, look, Dirk, heterosexuals.'
The circus in Portugal by contrast represents brilliant value for money. The audience is small - we guess fewer than 30 people - and almost all Portuguese. How can the circus make a living? We are a little flash and shell out nearly eight pounds for two of the best ringside seats. And by ringside I mean right in the action. The first act was the lions and tigers. Wonderful creatures in prime condition. All those half dead donkeys, I suppose. Caged – inadequately I felt -but inches from our faces. Racing round, covering us in sawdust, snarling and showing us their tonsils. Controlled by a buxom girl barely contained by a gold lame body suit. She is totally in control, the child's plastic gun at her belt giving her confidence or the knowledge that compared with a half dead donkey she would represent little more than a snack. Acrobats. High wire act. No health and safety here. Clowns who seem to find me engaging so that I become part of their act. By the interval we are more than ready for a rest, particularly as here everything starts at ten but runs late and it is already nearly one in the morning. We buy coke and popcorn and a magic wand that changes colours, when it works which isn't often, and realise that six people who simply change costumes man the whole show. The lion tamer looked far less fearsome when she sold us our tickets and is now selling hot dogs. After the interval we are initially a little disappointed by the reptile act. Perhaps we were unreasonable to expect it to live up to the first half. A man and his assistant, the lovely lion tamer, bring out box after box and disgorge snakes and crocodiles within feet of where we are seated. Size, it seems, does not impress us. We are nearly as bored as the 12-foot alligator lying there before us. Who can say what changed all that? From being a sleeping hulk of taxidermists delight it suddenly wakes and runs. And for such a large creature it can really move. Its little legs are a blur and it is coming towards me.
 
We are seated next to a large Portuguese family. Three or four generations of well dressed, beautifully behaved people having a lovely night out. Not a trace of cynicism in their enjoyment, just wonderment in all their eyes. But suddenly this lively bunch is spellbound. There is complete silence. The alligator is just a foot away from me. It has a gleam in its eye. It looks at me and I turn to my neighbour who is the Portuguese Granny and we both scream. She flings her arms round me and we cling together certain that we are to die together. The reptile 'trainer' spots the drama and rushes across, picks up the alligator by its tail and swings it round. It misses Granny. But its face brushes me and I can smell and feel its breath and hunger on my cheek. I have alligator spittle on my face. We are left a sobbing lump of terror. The Portuguese family finds this very funny and are hysterical with laughter. Granny and I hold hands for the rest of the show and kiss and hug warmly at the end. It was a close one.
 
So we have proof that animals are drawn to me.
 
The following day we woke after a wonderful nights sleep and had a stroll in the garden. That is always exciting. Will our potted pansies be all right for the garden club summer show later this week? Are our agapanthus going to be blue or white? Is the plural of agapanthus agapanthuses? They are nearly open and the tension is mounting. Has that bloody cat been round David's vegetables again? It is a nasty piece of work. A couple of days ago it actually dug up one of David's prize lettuces and had the cheek to deposit a poo in the resulting hole. Hence David carrying a brick with him at all times. But we are so happy that David looks out from the terrace and cries those fateful words 'I am so happy and feel in control of things for once.’ Never tempt fate.
 
At that moment a car drew up on the quiet lane near our house. The driver got out of the car, went to the back, opened the door and let out a little dog. A tall big man, blond, in a horrible flowered shirt. The dog looked excited. The man got back in the car and sped off at high speed. The dog tried to follow thinking it was some kind of game but the car vanished into the distance. All three of us, man, woman and dog are amazed. Perhaps we have misunderstood what we have seen. Perhaps it is a foreigner’s way of exercising a dog. Race you back to Tavira. Last one home does the washing up. But no, what we saw was a dog dumping. Just then Marie, our gardener, arrived and she and the dog came up the drive.
 
We stand about looking at the dog for clues. Why would anyone dump a dog in this way? Marie checks - we are too reserved to look at someone's private parts so soon after meeting but Marie, beautiful, full of life, slim and toned and just soooo sexy, has no such inhibitions - and the dog is a girl. Somehow this makes it worse. She is beautiful. Small, about knee high, young, little more than a puppy and the colour of ripe wheat, my colour, in fact, but in her case natural. She has a look around our garden. She doesn't bound or scrabble. Just sensible looking, though she does push her nose into a potted flower and Marie, who is smitten, says, 'Ooh look, she's picking you a flower.' We give her water. David says I must not under any circumstances give her food. So I slip her a chocolate Bath Oliver that I happen to have about my person. She takes it gently and fastidiously. We have to go out so we leave her and Marie to work in the garden. We have made a decision not to make a decision. We have a lot of jobs to do but somehow we can't settle. We go to San Bras and stop for a coffee. We are sitting in the avenida at a pavement cafe stuffing ourselves with cake which shows we are really stressed out when I say 'What we really need is a sensible person to advise us.'
 
At that moment we have proof that there is a god and it is he who has thrown this dilemma at us. We look up and there before us is The Most Sensible Person in the World. It seems that she seldom comes to San Bras - despite it being Richard Whiteley's favourite holiday destination - and there she is just when we need her. The Most Sensible Person in the World has come to Portugal from England via many years in Kenya. The people who have farmed in Africa adapt best to life here. They know the climate and they are used to make do and mend. The Most Sensible Person in the World's husband showed me a cold frame he had made for plant cuttings from an old fridge. He might as well have broken into Swahili for all I understand about recycling being a person whose every need can be met by Harvey Nichols but I can see the value especially here of such an approach. So we run it by her. Dog. Dumping. Dilemma. She urges caution and a veterinary inspection.
 
We go to the supermarket. We are in a bit of a daze. For once there is so much unspoken between us. But somehow a large bag of dog food gets into the trolley and David says that he might have to take up designing dog bedding, as the covers are so garish. Finally we gauge that we can go home without much loss of face and with relief dash home. Marie and the dog have gone. I phone Marie. She is upset. When she left the dog seemed quite settled and Marie had done some preliminary training so that the dog could ingratiate herself with us. 'She's very quick,' says Marie ' another half hour and I'd have had her putting the kettle on for you.'

We mooch about staying close to the house and sighing. By teatime we have given up. We cannot see how she would survive in the wild. She is a gentle, fastidious little soul. It would be quite beyond her to forage with the wild dogs, hanging around rubbish bins isn't her style at all. What have we done wrong? When she looked round the house and garden she couldn't fail to be impressed. Humans say it is lovely.
 
I ask David if I can put down some water and a few biscuits 'just in case'. I know he feels like I do when he doesn't object when I fill the antique china dish that was given to him in the fifties by a girlfriend who went on to become a famous artist and put it on the terrace. We drink our tea in silence and it might just as well be arsenic. We feel responsible for that dog. Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those people who see herself responsible if a hundred Chinese die in a rail crash but this terrible thing happened to this dog on our doorstep and we feel guilty for being part of the human race that did this. We owe that dog.
 
Just then a snuffle and the darling appears on the terrace, silently sidling up and tasting the biscuits. The Prodigal Son got a low-key reception by comparison. We love her. She rolls on her back and we rub her tummy. She is immaculate. We are gentle with her but already we know that there is not a malicious bone in her body. She wants to be loved. I scurry about putting out food, more water, and I find a duvet, used only once by humans and then from the Home Counties. Her behaviour is perfect. She eats her food, hungry but not greedy, with impeccable manners, she sips her water, she lies on the duvet. Then we have an unwelcome visitor. A huge bulldog appears at the gate. David goes down and sees him off with a sharp call in best British 'Go away, you aren't welcome here.' The dog and I watch from the safety of the terrace. As the horrible male dog is seen off she looks up at me approvingly much as to say 'Didn't Daddy do a good job.' Later she and I go for a little walk on our higher rough land. She is cautious about the prickles and weeds confirming that this girl has innate breeding, though she is clearly of mixed background. She does a neat little poo just where we would like. She goes back to the duvet and settles down for the night.
 
You will notice that we have taken great trouble over the naming. Or to be more exact, the not naming. Once she has a name then there is no turning back. And we are still trying to be Sensible. But that doesn't stop us from thinking about it. Just then the unlikely person God has chosen to be our local Chaplain, telephones. (I did suggest to him that when he heard The Calling he may have misheard.) I haven't time for him. I have a dog that needs watching. But I ask him if there is anyone in the Bible who gets thrown out and unfairly treated and he says 'Yes, Jezebel.' So there is the hand of God again. Belle. The perfect name. A lovely name for a beautiful dog. David agrees. He has been a bit worried because we don't know her background - 'we know enough' I say - but it is quite clear that genetically she takes after his side of the family rather than mine. She is beautiful, cultured, gentle, refined and loving - and would probably have a bit of a struggle getting through doggy 11-plus. So Belle Brain it is. It won't take her long to get to learn her name although we wonder if her first language was Dutch or German. 'Try saying Heil Hitler to her,' says the Most Sensible Person in the World but I think that a bit crude and in any case in this muddled political world that could make her French or from Burnley.
 
At last we all settle to sleep. A decision has been made. Belle has chosen us and the least we can do for her is our very best. We will take her to the vet in the morning to have her checked and injected. Then it’s a collar and lead and a little round name tag.
 
It is a restless night. I get up several times to check her. We have left a night light so that she won't be frightened and I can see her all nice and warm and snug in the duvet hardly moving. 'Is she all right?' asks David. A newborn baby would be less worry.
In the morning Belle has gone. We have not seen her since and we are devastated.

There is a postscript to this memory. It is about Marie, our English gardener in Portugal. She was in her twenties, married with two little boys. A slip of a girl but strong and lithe and, as I say, so sexy. She paid David the great compliment of flirting with him as they worked together on garden projects, flinging what few clothes she wore aside in the heat. We had a river running through our land and once she asked him to go with her under the bridge for what purpose I can only guess and David fantasize. 'How different it might have turned out if I had gone with her,' David was to say later as we wept together at her funeral. I don't think I have ever seen anything so sad as when her two little white haired lads, her living image, were brought into the church to stand by their mother's coffin. Marie had had a foolish affair with a loutish married estate agent which had gone the way that anyone who she should have talked with would have told her...and she died 5 weeks after drinking a bottle of weed killer.