The first time she brought it home, I assumed she had found a stray terrier or a particularly mangy cat. She carried it in an opaque wicker hamper, stepping through the front door with the sheepish grin of a woman who knew she was about to test my patience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018What the bloody hell is that, Jane?\u2019 I asked, putting down the broadsheet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018It\u2019s a sort of herring,\u2019 she replied, placing the hamper on the table. \u2018A red one.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Herring… like a fish, you mean?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Not in the literal sense, no,\u2019 she said, unclasping the latch. \u2018Though he smells faintly of brine when he\u2019s nervous.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Out trotted the most extraordinary creature I had ever laid eyes upon. He was roughly the size of a spaniel, shaped like a sleek torpedo, parading a coat of glorious reddish-orange scale armour. He had the distinct glare of a retired naval captain, deeply offended that nobody had offered him a cup of tea yet \u2013 or something stronger, obviously. His eyes were bright, inquisitive and he had no discernible mouth to speak of, yet he possessed four stubby legs that pattered across the hardwood floors with relentless enthusiasm. We soon discovered that he only slept in his fishbowl, where his legs retracted fully into stealth mode for hydrodynamic efficiency.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Where did you get this?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018A chap in Soho was giving them away,\u2019 Jane said, taking off her coat. \u2018Said it was low-maintenance. Keeps you busy.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Busy was an understatement. Within three days, the creature \u2013 which we inevitably named Herry \u2013 had completely disrupted the rhythm of our household.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Herry did not eat biscuits or scraps. He fed entirely on attention, context and misplaced focus. Whenever a serious conversation began, Herry would bolt into the room, perform a bewildering series of somersaults and scamper off towards the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a rainy Sunday evening, I sat down at the kitchen table to tackle our mountain of overdue utility bills. I had calculated our monthly expenditure, sorted the notices into neat piles, and was just about to write a cheque for the gas board when Herry trotted in. He didn\u2019t chew the paper, but sat on the counter and began to emit a soft, melodious whistle that sounded remarkably like a steam train approaching a station.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Jane,\u2019 I called out, rising from my chair. \u2018Did you hear that? The radiator must be leaking pressure. Or perhaps there\u2019s a train line being built under the garden!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For two hours, Jane and I pulled up floorboards in the hallway, searched the cellar with torches and debated whether to call the local council regarding subterranean transit schemes. It was only when I returned to the kitchen, exhausted and covered in cobwebs, that I noticed the gas bill sitting untouched on the desk. Herry was curled up on the rug, fast asleep, purring like a kettle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018He got us,\u2019 Jane whispered, leaning against the doorframe. \u2018That was brilliant.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018It\u2019s infuriating,\u2019 I snapped. \u2018We\u2019ve spent the entire evening investigating a phantom railway while the gas company prepares to cut off our supply.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet, despite the chaos, Herry became an indispensable part of our lives. He possessed an uncanny knack for appearing precisely when one wished to avoid something uncomfortable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When my aunt Agatha visited to inquire, for the fifth time that year, why Jane had not yet sought a proper career in law, Herry suddenly knocked over a vase in the dining room, leading Agatha on a spirited twenty-minute debate regarding the superior craft of Victorian ceramics versus modern porcelain. The lecture on Jane\u2019s lack of ambition was completely forgotten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When our landlord arrived to discuss a modest rent increase, Herry trotted past the doorway carrying one of my old driving shoes. The landlord spent forty-five minutes explaining the subtle differences between calfskin and pigskin leather, drank three cups of Earl Grey and left without ever mentioning the lease.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Herry was a master of misdirection; a living, breathing tangent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course, living with a red herring required a certain degree of discipline. One had to learn how to ignore the shiny objects, the sudden noises and the utterly irrelevant crises that seemed to bloom in his wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A couple of nights ago, as I sat down to finish writing this account, Herry entered the study. He stood on his hind legs, tapped his snout against the bookcase and dropped a small, brass key onto the carpet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I froze. Where had the key come from? Was it for the mysterious wooden chest in the attic or perhaps the long-lost lockbox in the cellar? What secret did it hold?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I reached for my coat, ready to head up to the attic. Then I stopped. I looked at the key. I looked at the clock. Then I looked at Herry, who was watching me with a spark of mischievous delight in his dark eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Nice try, old boy,\u2019 I muttered, settling back into my armchair and picking up my pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Herry gave a quiet, disappointed huff, curled up by the hearth, and let me finish my work.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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