Angus Fitzpaws & His Sorry Dory

By H.B. Wilding

If life's a perspective then Theodora Dickinson's was rubbish. She didn't think herself much, not through any eyes—especially her own. Yes, yes, much of it wasn't her fault. Theodora, didn't exactly help, though: if you hear anything long enough you become it, and Dory had heard it all from Mother. 

 

Her daughter was "tubby" and "mousy". She lacked "verve" and "nerve". Her Mother resented her for not being like her: a would-be social climber who could only land a vicar. Mrs. Vicar still climbed though, all the way to Grand Dame of the parish and no one, not her daughter or that "black mongrel" would stop her.

 

To survive, Dory (Sorry Dory if you must) made two friends. One which existed, only, in her head and the other her browbeaten dad. They played together, they dreamed together and they survived Mother together. But this mother would never stop, not until Sorry Dory became Dory again and she—and Dad—stood up to her.

 

She needed help. She knew it and her overburdened psyche did as well. So did the Universe, God, the Buddha or whomever had sent the annoying, intrusive and mysterious, Angus Fitzpaws. But Angus was only one mystical, debonair terrier and his Dory had many issues. 

 

Like her job. Theodora didn't work, she laboured. She was a receptionist at a prestigious London law firm and hated it. Like any den of wig-wearing snakes, scheming abounded. Some schemed to get ahead, like the viper on stilettos, Valerie Gloucester. Others did so to do good: David, Dory's outspoken, yet real, friend. However, Higginson, the head of the firm, schemed for a change. 

 

Dory also lacked a love life, but Angus would see to that. "All bitches deserve love and pups—if they want of course," he once said. To help make that possible, future litter a possibility Angus used all his intrusiveness and guile to set up a chance meeting with Dory's perfect dog—much to her chagrin.

 

Angus' biggest issue though was Dory herself. Somehow in her pitiful state she still found the stubbornness to keep digging her own hole. Try as he may, and he did many times, Dory refused to fight for herself. She refused to do the work, to heal, because she didn't want to. But Angus isn't the surrendering kind. The mystical him refused. One way or another he would get his Sorry Dory sorted. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.B. Wilding
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223757061

Book preview

Sorry Dory

Okay, Sorry Dory just a few more steps.

That's right. Relax, don't make eye contact and KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN.

You stop that! It's strange enough that I talk to myself but answering! That's positively bonkers.

Only trying to help.

How? By proving them, I pointed to the world outside my head, right?

Ever thought that—just like me—this 'Sorry Dory ain’t worthy' shite is only in your head?

Bollocks!

You're right, more like 'I think that they think that I'm rubbish.' We both know they don’t. Like with most people, they don’t think of us at all!

Tell that to Mother.

I'd love to, but you won't let me.

Mental this is, I muttered then told my head, leave her out of this.

You brought her up.

I most certainly did not, I indignantly and stupidly retorted at my batty psyche. Yeah right.

Would you just leave me to my skulking?

Why are we sneaking about anyway? Don't think our stalker would be here.

Don't say THAT word! And I don't like people, remember?

Ah, Gloucester, my mind remarked in some deep revelation. But it always is Gloucester! I defended. Or Mother. The words reeked of cheek, smugness and truth. Shut it! For one bloody second. Please! My psyche zipped its metaphorical mouth and I resumed my tiptoeing.

Now, where was I? I'm invisible. I'm an invisible slouching mass.

Mass? Really? We think highly of ourself don't we?

I'm not listening! Now, straighten that back, girl. Yes, that’s it and look intimidating!

We couldn’t intimidate our shadow.

"What’s wrong with you today? Stalkers? Shades? Really? I chastised then straightened my back.

That's better—and wholly unpleasant.

I'd say so, we haven't used those muscles—ever.

One, two, three, four, now left. Thank God, I exclaimed in a whisper. There's no one about.

Grateful aren't we?

Very! To be fair, not many—well most—don't want to talk to us anyway.

Happens when you're a little off. A little strange; a little 'too loony for Bedlam.'

Good Samaritans of Samaria, I'm a nutter!

We, darling, we're insane. Don’t talk like I’m not real. I ignored her loaded words—I mean my words. Blimey! I ignored it all and continued to stumble to my desk.

Almost there, just pass the copier, the cubicles and the entire office. Why did they put the kitchen way in the back?

Why do we need to have control over everything? Can't we just walk normally like everyone else?

It keeps me from going mental.

'Going?' Darling we've already arrived and made it back again.

Ow! Brickety! Damn it! My toe! Look what you did?

Me? You do that everyday! Everyday for ten years! How? Really? Just how useless can we be, Dory?

Well it's not all my fault—bloody Gloucester. Happens every time I pass her office. My nerves, you know—really hate that woman.

Move then! Before she sees us.

Ow! The same toe got purpled some more. See what happens when you rush me?

Just leg it, would you?

Thankfully no Gloucester had appeared. I leaned against the corner I’d just turned and breathed gratefully. Terse breaths they were, though, with a stinging tightness right at my centre. I gripped my chest and gagged on my anxiety. Shh, shh, shh, my psyche dutifully cooed. Hush girl. I’m here. Breathe slowly. —Now deeply. —There you go. That’s why you created me: to help when it’s kicking off.   It’s always kicking off, I wheezed as my heart slowed. It really is, my psyche commented quite thoughtfully. A heavy silence followed then birthed the necessary words. We need to get you sorted, girl. I nodded, still gripping my chest. How?  Fuck if I know! Jiggery-pokery? I chuckled and felt strong enough to continue my fumbling. That’s a lot of jiggery-pokery, though.   Best get started then. Maybe dad’s god can help? I didn’t share the optimism. You know I haven’t believed in years.    Belief is not such a bad thing, you know. .  I’m not going to start going to church.

Belief in us, dearie—yourself.  I sighed and continued.      

I was nearly there but Life still wanted to remind me that I don’t—possibly can’t—exist alone. No, no! Feet! Who’s that? My eyes refused to look up. Grey Italian leather loafers. Not Gloucester then. I thought with relief. Matthews maybe?

No, he likes suede.

Bugger! It's Higginson.

Don't lift your eyes, Dory. We don't exist.

Too late! Argh! What do I do now? Smile? Nod? Wave?

Just be normal!

What's that then?

No! Don't do all of them!

Uh, good-hello-noon, Mr. Higginson, I stuttered, waved and smiled stupidly at my boss. Higginson, though, chuckled heartily, greeted me warmly then continued on his way.

Damn it, girl.

Don't. Just don't.

Nice man though.

So that mess of nerves and neurosis is me, Theodora Elizabeth Dickinson. Joke if you like. I've heard them all, from the uninspired and sexist, 'Theo' to the overtly graphic 'Dick-suck-son.' 'Dicky' is most oblivious though. My teachers thought it endearing—it wasn't. Not if the entire school suddenly followed their 'excellent' example and started rhyming, Dicky got a hickey from the wicky (it's a cricket thing).

Call me Dory or Sorry Dory to my pitying friends. Only have one of those, Dave, but my enemies abound. Those who have wronged me throughout my existence on this uncaring rock. Are they enemies when they know nothing about the feud? More like oblivious, lifelong tormentors who haunt my restless nights and fitful dreams. Anyway these would include the bullies from school I have boiled in oil all too often in my mind, like Tara Middlehurst—stuck up, pigtailed twig. I was born with this donkey face and I was not, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, Mr. Smith, the gym teacher, but she definitely was. Although I suspect she was doing more than that little miss nine month bump.

A more recent addition to the list would be the Right Honourable Valerie Gloucester, my boss, who has been pancaked by a bus—satisfyingly I might add—all too often. That does make me grin like a lunatic, but I'm only a psycho in my head. Everywhere else, really, I'm a coward.

You probably would like a mental picture but I'm sure from context you've already sketched me quite aptly. You know: dumpy, frumpy, chronically afraid of everything, including my shadow, especially humans. Which isn't a problem considering I live and work in London—that's sarcasm, you can expect a lot of that—but I have to, the alternative is far too frightening: the vicarage and Mother.

They have a name for my condition: anthropophobia, honestly there's nothing wrong with me. You're the diseased ones with all the touching, talking and wanting your existence acknowledged—needy buggers. I'm also thirty-four, a chronic mumbler and unloved, except by Dad, Dave, my creditors and Mother because, what would the village say? if she didn't. Then there's my mop of flaccid, dark hair and a growth on my neck which was once my twin sister. Only joking, but would that really be surprising?

To keep the vicarage, Dad's the vicar, but specifically Mother from ever being forced upon my timid person again I live in a dingy flat on the outskirts of the city which I can barely afford. From there I have to commute on a metal tube filled with personal-space-violating bipeds in order to come to a job I loathe. Worth it though, Mother remember?

My typical day consists of waking up, usually around four, dripping with sweat. Here I lament my existence for some fifteen minutes, then grab my first cup of tea of the day—the high point, honestly. I gripe some more before getting dressed. An uneventful task, draping anything drab and voluminous over my overextended flabby bits. Dave says that's not true but he's married (just burst your bubble didn't I?) to that svelte foreigner so he must be lying. Then I'm ready for my umpteenth panic attack at the front door. I hyperventilate and sob some more until I'm positive there's no plodding outside. I fling open the door and soldier down the road to the tube station making sure my eyes are firmly affixed to the pavement—always liked grey.

Lately though I've been getting a queer tingle down my spine during my morning and afternoon trudge. I'm sure you're familiar, you know, the type you get when you're being watched. It's quite disconcerting anyway but for someone like me! Well, that's why I always have a paper bag handy. I don't ever dare look naturally. I mean what if this person wants to talk to me? The very thought. But it's the nature of this stalker, or thing, which is truly bizarre. I can't really explain it—probably because I don't want to check—but I swear to the god Dad believes in that it doesn't seem human. Sometimes I hear padding, like tiny paws and even—when I listen very carefully—some light panting. But humans don't do that, do they? Forgive my ignorance. I'm not that experienced when it comes to my own kind or any other for that matter.

Right! That's it, I said one morning. I simply couldn't endure it anymore. If you want to mug me please go ahead. Still looking down I extended my handbag-holding arm. I just let it hang there, both hoping that it would and would not be taken. Nothing happened but the padding and panting did come closer. I cringed everywhere. Lord, no! I dropped the bag and ran. What was I supposed to do? Well you're braver than I am and when you're done giggling at my expense I'd like to tell you the strangest bit: I got it back. That's right when I got to my desk that very morning there it was on my chair with not a thing missing. Why or how I couldn't explain. Queer that, but I was still telling you about my average panic-ridden commute and day.

When I reach the station, after my stalking, I keep to the shadows and crevices mostly, trying to avoid my fellow commuters. I'm a little rude I have to say, not on purpose, but I do push anyone, including tsk-tsk-ing old ladies, out of the way to get the best and least panic-attack-inducing cranny on the train. That's it strangers, part before the crazy, future-cat lady like the Red Sea did before Moses, I always mumble, psychopathically, to hurry my disembarkation at Ludgate Circus on Fleet Street.

I'm not really spiritual but I do find myself complaining to the bloke upstairs a lot (old habits die hard). Not sure He hears me—or He just got really tired of me nagging his ear off. That might be Dad's doing, you know the vicar. He's been phoning it in though for the last 35 years or so or to be precise. Exactly as long as he's been married to Mother. Mother, now there's a thing. Oh yes, thing is very apt. Hard to think of her as human.

That finally leads me, after plenty more encouraging mumbling, to the offices of Higginson, Matthews and Gloucester. Solicitors if you haven't guessed, where I am the receptionist of all things. Yes there's no irony there, considering my fear of you lot, but one makes do to stay away from Mother.

The firm mostly handles the legal needs of our upmarket clientele. From million pound deed transfers to equally impressive high profile divorce settlements which often includes paying stipends to mistresses and illegitimate offspring. There's also a charitable side which does a few cases pro-bono every year. To help give the firm's unsavoury self-centred nougaty centre that sweet, down-to-earth, homey wrapper the 'decent' world requires.

That's about it for now; you're all caught up and might as well get back to me bumbling my way to the reception desk. Seven steps, now look up to see Dave smirking at my discomfort. Arse.

Arse? That's our only friend.

Friend? Who needs enemies—

When we have a friend like him. I know, know. Bless him though for putting up with us.

Okay, give the perfunctory 'hiya' to the over-friendly guard. Goodness! That's frightening.

Only because we fancy him.

I do not!

You're right. We prefer the postman.

I most certainly do not!

Why do we like the plump ones?

What?

They are nice, aren't they? Like Dad.

WHAT? Don't distract me! Do you want me to bleed? Gloucester would have a cow!

And he does have a friendly smile.

Well, it's not bad. I finally relented. Maybe he likes us too?

He does not, the moment had passed, no one likes me like that, and doubting Dory was back.

Almost there, oh sweet Elizabeth Windsor, my comfy chair with the all too evident cheek indentations.

How do we not have bed sores?  Sanctuary! My cocoon, my plastic wheeled faux-leather womb, how I needed you.

Steady on, it's just a chair.  Now tea! My warm leafy wench, soothe my stoic, grumpy Mona Lisa-esque cake hole. Caress my overtly tattered nerves.

Good grief, we're melodramatic.

Give my cholesterol-ridden cells a reason to keep respirating.

No! Pillock, Theodora. The tea! My milky Earl Grey, where are you? Why didn't you remind me?

How? I'm you! We're the same idiot, Idiot.  That's fine I can do without it. Oh Saint George's Dragon, who am I kidding? I'm English! I'm coming for you my darling. Mummy will save you.  Mummy? Where did that come from?

Damn maternal instinct.

Do we even have one?

Certainly didn't inherit it from Mother.

Too right, she was never much of anything, except selfish.

Exactly. More concerned about gossipping and what the gossips might say about her comely daughter or am I homely?

Well drab and dreary definitely. Boring most assuredly. Also sad—

Dear Tennyson's ghost, would you stop? I get it.

Okay, this isn't a problem. I'm a cowardly adult woman. I can do this.

Of course we can. We'll just navigate Dante's inferno back again, through all nine levels of hell.

Who's being dramatic now? I've been doing it for ten years, I can do it again.

A decade? Dory, we need to sort out of your life girl.

Agreed. Don't we have dreams?

Death?

Now there's an all-too-often intruding idea. No, not yet, I have to outlive Mother.

Quite right, still need to whisper something juicy to her on her deathbed: 'see you in hell, Mother.'

Well that's just sad. Wilde's dry heaving in his grave.

We'll obsess about it in bed tonight.

Should keep our demons occupied for a while.

Now, what other dreams do I have?

Could go and live on that island like we always wanted.

I don't like water and I can't swim.

We, darling. I’m real.

Must you—I mean me!  I.  Yes, I.

Theodora! You're mumbling again.

Oh! Ms. Gloucester, clearly I'd been caught mid-grumble. I was going, uh, to the kitchen—

You're doing it again! Stop muttering like a simpleton. This narrow-hipped, high-nosed, business-suit-wearing partner had a particularly impressive opinion of herself which rivalled even Mother's. You're the first face our clients see and they're treated to your shrivelled, sour countenance.

Most don't see anything, scrawny Crow. They're too obsessed with getting their ill-gotten wealth stashed safely behind shell corporation upon shell corporation in the sunny Caribbean and my head's furrowed like a ploughed field because of you, you emaciated vampire.  There you go again, stop mumbling!

Sorry.

I'm sorry Ms. Gloucester, she reminded me, testily. 'I'm sorry, Ms. Gloucester', I chorused mockingly like a petulant child. Honestly, why does Jonathan put up with you? That would be Jonathan Higginson, founder of the firm. Likes me for some reason. Can't imagine why but I suspect pity once again plays its part. I'm going to have a word with him.

You do that, you hipless twit.

Stop prattling! And be at the staff meeting at eleven. You're taking notes.

I'll mumble if I like, it's a free country, I, bravely, muttered behind her receding back.

Why was it always the skinny ones? Like Gloucester, Tara Middlehurst or random sticks on stilettos in the streets. Of course, there’s Mother as well. Do my lumpy mounds and sagging posture somehow awaken a dormant predatory instinct to weed out the weak ones in the herd? But it was the meeting that was really very disconcerting. "I never take notes.