The Pets at Primrose Cottage

by Sheila Norton

  Holly was in an excitable mood and, as it had started to rain, she couldn’t run around in the garden to let off steam so I spent the afternoon helping to keep her occupied, much to Lauren’s relief.

  ‘I’ll be working again the next couple of weeks,’ I said, ‘so it’s nice to spend some time with Holly while I can.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got so many bookings lined up,’ she said. ‘Who is it next week?’

  ‘A couple of house rabbits, for Mary’s next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Oh yes – Jackie. I know her.’ Lauren smiled. ‘And her rabbits. Flopsy and Mopsy, though – not the most original names, are they?’ she giggled.

  I laughed. ‘Mary was quite scathing about the rabbits, actually, when she heard I was going to look after them. She thinks Scrap can smell them, as he’s always sniffing around under Jackie’s hedge. She said he probably thinks it’s a tin of rabbit flavour Pedigree Chum.’

  ‘That’s awful!’ Lauren protested. ‘I’m sure they’re perfectly lovely bunnies – although I never quite understood why she doesn’t just have cats.’

  ‘I suppose rabbits don’t catch birds,’ I pointed out. We’d had a mangled woodpigeon to clear up earlier, after Juliet’s latest hunting expedition, which neither of us had been very happy about. We both agreed that rabbits might have their advantages!

  As it turned out, they were nice rabbits, too. Jackie introduced me to them on my first day, before she left for her holiday.

  ‘They’re both girls,’ she explained, picking one of them up and stroking her silky ears. ‘You can probably imagine, one of each would be asking for trouble unless you want to start your own rabbit club. And two males together is a recipe for aggressive testosterone displays.’

  ‘Typical,’ I commented, and we both laughed.

  ‘Flopsy is the black one with white splodges,’ she said, pointing to the rabbit hopping around her feet. ‘Mopsy’s white with black ears.’

  Black and white cats at home, black and white bunnies here – I should be getting good at telling negative images from each other.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and squatted down to give Mopsy an experimental stroke. She bit me. ‘Ouch!’ I protested, trying not to sound too aggrieved. Jackie laughed, which I found a bit irritating. She could have warned me they might do that.

  ‘It’s only because she’s not used to you,’ she said. ‘Give them an hour or so and they’ll be leaping onto your lap.’

  Three hours after I’d waved Jackie off, Mopsy was still sinking her teeth into my hand at every opportunity. Flopsy didn’t seem to mind me, but there certainly wasn’t any leaping onto my lap, by either of them. I talked to them sweetly, fed them their chopped cauliflower and carrots and their BunnyBits rabbit feed, cleaned out their litter boxes, and made a game out of chasing them into their bedtime cages before I left in the evening. I liked them. They just didn’t seem to like me very much.

  I was disappointed that this didn’t seem to improve much over the next couple of days. Perhaps I was only a dog-whisperer and cat-whisperer after all, not a bunny-whisperer. But everything changed in the middle of the week. Jackie had given me a few pointers about keeping rabbits safe in the house. The electric wiring, for instance, was all encased in heavy-duty conduit so they couldn’t chew it.

  ‘All rabbits love to chew,’ she said. ‘So I leave them bits of old carpet they can work their teeth on to stop them attacking my rugs. And lots of newspaper in their cage – they like to shred it and make bedding with it. Top the newspaper up every day. There’s a stack of it in the kitchen. Keep an eye on them, though. If you catch them chewing anything they shouldn’t, just tell them No. They’re very well-trained.’

  She had no house plants, because so many leaves are toxic for rabbits, and apparently the bunnies had been trained not to chew the legs of Jackie’s furniture. I found it quite amazing that they were so well trained, better than a lot of dogs were, by the sound of it. But there was one thing Jackie had forgotten to mention: the bathroom.

  I was normally in the habit of keeping bathroom doors closed, so this particular danger didn’t become evident until, to my surprise, I was using the toilet on the Wednesday afternoon when I heard my name being called. For a minute I thought Jackie must have come back early. Then I realised the call was coming from the back garden. Flustered, I hurriedly flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and ran through the house, leaving the bathroom door open. I was careful, of course, to make sure neither of the rabbits was following me as I went out of the back door into the garden, and closed the door carefully behind me. Although Flopsy and Mopsy had an outdoor run where they could run and dig to their fluffy little hearts’ content, the weather had been so wet, I hadn’t yet been able to let them out.

  ‘Emma!’ the voice was still calling me and, with a sigh of relief, I realised it was Mary, looking over the top of the fence between her bungalow and Jackie’s. ‘Ah, there you are. I remembered you saying you’d be here this week with the dreaded rabbits.’

  ‘Oh, they’re very sweet, actually. I don’t think they like me, though.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad they’re not outside, making Scrap’s mouth water—’

  ‘Stop it!’ I protested. I shivered. It was chilly and starting to drizzle again. ‘It’s nice to see you, Mary, but we’re going to get wet standing out here. Do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

  ‘No – thanks, but I can’t stop. I just wanted to ask how you’re getting on with Othello?’

  ‘Othello?’ For a moment I thought it must be the name of somebody’s pet. Quite a good one, as it happened. Then I remembered, and felt my face flush with embarrassment and my heart start to race. ‘Oh, Othello,’ I said. ‘Yes, it’s fantastic, isn’t it. I’ve nearly finished it.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it. How about King Lear?’

  ‘Yes, that’s good too. But Othello’s one of his best, I think,’ I invented quickly. ‘Very … um … tragic.’

  ‘Yes, it’s one of my personal favourites. Which was your favourite character?’

  I started to panic. Quite apart from the fact that we were both now getting wet, I really could do without this unexpected Shakespeare test. I obviously hadn’t opened either of the damned books and had no idea who any of the characters were.

  ‘Um … Othello?’ I tried.

  ‘Really? I always thought he was so weak. I could shake him for not trusting Desdemona. All Iago’s fault, of course, but still …’

  ‘Yes, he really should have trusted him, I agree.’

  ‘Her. Desdemona.’

  ‘Yes. Her, too.’ It was time to put a desperate stop to this. ‘Look, sorry, Mary, but I left the rabbits running around in there—’

  ‘Oh, of course – I’m so sorry. It’s pouring with rain now, too. I hardly noticed. I could talk about Shakespeare all day, couldn’t you, Emma?’

  ‘Absolutely. All day, and all night.’

  ‘Well, please do borrow a couple more when you bring back those two, won’t you.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Mary.’ I bolted indoors, grabbing a towel to dry my head and shoulders and cursing myself for not having the guts to admit I hadn’t read either of the bloody Shakespeares. ‘Flopsy!’ I called, looking around for my charges. ‘Mopsy! Where are you, girls?’

  There was a strange, scrabbling noise coming from somewhere on my left. I followed it down the hallway – and into the bathroom, where the first thing I saw was Flopsy on her back legs in the bath, desperately trying to climb out. And the second thing was Mopsy perched on the toilet seat – in my hurry I’d even forgotten the basic common sense of closing the lid – looking down into the water for all the world as if she was about to dive in.

  My heart in my mouth, I crept up behind Mopsy in complete silence. I was terrified of startling her into falling in. With one swift movement I grabbed her firmly around her tummy, lifted her clear of danger and shut the lid. To my surprise, for once she didn’t bite me. I put her down and bent to retrieve her sister
from the bathtub. Thank God there was no water in that. Flopsy seemed to be so relieved to be out of the bath, she lay gently in my arms like a big soppy pussy cat. I carried her out of the bathroom, with Mopsy following, and closed the door behind us.

  ‘Phew,’ I said, collapsing onto the sofa with Flopsy still stretched out in my arms. ‘Oh my God, girls, that was a close shave. And all my stupid fault. Don’t tell your mummy, will you? If anything had happened to either of you, I’d never have forgiven myself.’ I actually felt a tear come to my eye. They were lovely bunnies, and Jackie was right, they were well trained and affectionate. I should have been more on the ball. ‘Sorry, babies,’ I said, and instinctively reached down to stroke Mopsy, who was sitting placidly by my feet. Again, she didn’t bite me, so I decided to risk picking her up. There were only so many fingers I could lose, after all. But she calmly and willingly allowed herself to be lifted and placed on the sofa next to where Flopsy sprawled across my lap.

  ‘Well, look at you two!’ I said, thrilled and amazed. ‘So are we friends now, then?’

  It seemed all it had taken was for them to be rescued from a dangerous situation of my own stupid making, and I’d been accepted as their new favourite human. By the time Jackie came home, they were leaping onto my lap just as she’d predicted.

  ‘Any trouble?’ she asked brightly as she put her suitcase down in the hallway.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘They were great.’

  I could have sworn I saw Flopsy winking at me. But that, of course, was ridiculous.

  When I arrived home, that final evening of looking after the rabbits, Lauren greeted me, looking a little anxious.

  ‘I had a call for you while you were out,’ she said. ‘Your mum.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, staring at her in surprise. My mum had only called me once before, the whole time I’d been in Crickleford, and had sounded so put out at having to leave a voicemail message for me to find when I was somewhere with a signal, she never bothered again. She’d certainly never before used Lauren’s home number – the number I’d asked her to use if ever there was an emergency – so needless to say, I was pretty worried. ‘Is it OK if I call her straight back?’ I asked Lauren.

  ‘Of course.’

  The phone rang and rang, and eventually went to Mum and Dad’s voicemail. I left a message, saying I hoped everything was all right, and asking Mum to call me back and let me know what she wanted. I tried twice more that evening, but again the calls went to voicemail. When I’d still heard nothing by the next morning, I walked into town and tried to call from my mobile, then tried my sister’s number instead. Nothing. Everybody seemed to be out, or refusing to speak to me. I decided that if there really was anything wrong, my sister would have let me know by now, and that Mum would eventually try me again. I didn’t exactly forget about it, but I did put it to the back of my mind. I suppose it’s fair to say that I’d never been a particularly dutiful daughter, and after five years of living on the other side of the Atlantic, I’d got used to not knowing what was going on at home.

  The following week, I was excited to be going back to looking after Sugar the Burmese cat. I was used to cats – more so than rabbits, anyway – and despite her diva-like behaviour it wasn’t Sugar who was the problem. This time around, Rob seemed to be making no pretence whatsoever about his intentions towards me. I was beginning to wonder whether he really had a job at all. He made vague, airy references to the importance of his position but he seemed to spend his entire life ‘working from home’. And when he wasn’t ensconced in his study, he’d be prowling the house, following me around, making little flirtatious comments that were only just short of being actually lewd. I’d be dishing up Sugar’s food and an arm would suddenly come round me from behind, squeezing my waist.

  ‘Just making a coffee,’ he’d excuse himself, as he deliberately brushed too close to me at the sink.

  ‘There you go,’ he’d say as he put a steaming mug down in front of me, stroking my hair or my neck or my shoulder as he did so.

  I always protested and moved away, but I suppose I wasn’t doing it forcefully enough. I knew I should have done, obviously, but … it had been a long time since an attractive man had made advances to me. Looked at me with that look, undressing me with his eyes. Said I looked particularly stunning, on a day when actually I felt like crap. Touched my arm with that lightest but most meaningful of touches, that made my skin tingle with a forgotten kind of anticipation. I knew, too, that part of the attraction was the fact that he was older, and that there was absolutely no semblance of similarity to Shane to put me off. All the things that had drawn me to Shane had been wild and rebellious, free and dangerous and exciting. In comparison, Rob seemed settled, mature, sensible and safe. Which was ridiculous really, when he was behaving so badly.

  I tried to concentrate on Sugar. It was easy enough to block out Rob when I was playing with her, cuddling her, grooming her – she was such a delight, so affectionate and beautiful, and by now we had a lovely rapport. But when she lay dozing in an armchair, her head on her paws, making those soft little grunty noises cats sometimes make in their sleep, and I went out to the kitchen to make my lunch, he always seemed to appear from his study at the same time. Then the arm strokes and waist squeezes seemed to be getting firmer and lasting longer, the flirtatious comments more serious. I knew I had to put a stop to this. He was married and, not only that, he was also my employer’s husband. Nothing could be allowed to happen. No way.

  Despite the fact that nothing did happen, I could hardly look at Vanya when she returned at the end of the week. I was still slightly in awe of her anyway, and I felt guilty even for harbouring any inappropriate thoughts about her husband. But I had harboured them. And when I accepted the next booking for Sugar, I knew I was getting into dangerous territory and I’d have to make sure a line was drawn, very firmly, with Rob Montgomery in future, if I didn’t want to lose my best client.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Easter Saturday, there was no rain for the first time for what felt like weeks. The river had become higher than I’d ever seen it, and I began to understand exactly why local people lived in dread of it bursting its banks – even if it was a rare occurrence. But suddenly now, the weather had turned surprisingly mild, the sun was shining as if it meant it, and I left off all my winter wrappings of thick anorak, warm scarf, gloves and woolly hat to walk up to the Town Square. When I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window in Fore Street, I was momentarily shocked. Was that really me? When had I last paid any attention to the way I looked? I’d got out of the habit of putting on more than the bare minimum of make-up, and my face looked pink from all the fresh air and recent cold winds. I’d put on weight from eating Lauren’s lovely home-cooked meals instead of living on a strict diet of fashionable grains, salad, pumpkin seeds and probiotic yoghurt, like everyone I knew in New York. And worst of all, my hair was beginning to grow back red again.

  I was just about to dash into Superdrug for another pack of DIY Cheeky Chestnut, when I glanced at my reflection again and realised I also needed to have a proper cut. After years of having my hair coloured, cut and styled regularly by one of the top New York hairdressers, I’d now abandoned it to its own cheeky chestnut fate. It was sticking up in places it ought to lie flat, and hanging limply where it used to curl softly around my neck. In short, I looked such a mess that I wondered what was wrong with Rob Montgomery’s eyesight if he really did fancy me.

  ‘I can do you next Thursday at six o’clock. It’s our late evening,’ said the bored-looking stylist in Heads Up – the only hair salon in town.

  ‘Nothing today?’

  She stared at me. ‘It’s Saturday. We were booked up weeks ago.’

  ‘Monday?’

  ‘Bank Holiday.’

  ‘Oh yes. Tuesday, then?’

  ‘We’re closed Tuesdays.’

  I sighed. ‘So what about Wednesday?’

  ‘Pensioners’ day.’ She looked me up and down and
thankfully appeared to decide I didn’t qualify. ‘Thursday’s the best I can do. Well, not me, actually – our apprentice, Jade, will do you. I’m fully booked for the next three months.’

  My hairdresser in New York would have fitted me in at barely a moment’s notice, because even the tip I gave him, every week, was more than twice what I’d be paying Jade the apprentice to ‘do’ me next Thursday. I sighed to myself as I turned to walk home, thinking again about how spoilt I’d been back then. I was beginning to dislike the person I’d been in New York almost as much as I disliked Shane. But it wasn’t all his fault, was it? I’d been eager enough to go off to America with him when he got his first number one hit over there.

  ‘You can’t,’ my mum had said, as soon as I told her. Shane and I had been living together for two years by then. We’d moved out of the grotty bedsit into a proper house – he’d already followed up ‘Baby No Chance’ with another big hit here in the UK and now it looked like worldwide fame was on the cards. ‘They won’t let you in. You’re only nineteen and you haven’t even got a job.’ I’d given up the care-home work, of course. I didn’t need to work now. I played at keeping house for Shane.

  ‘Shane’s sorted it all out,’ I told her. ‘He’s got dual citizenship because his dad’s American.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that doesn’t apply to you,’ my dad said. ‘You’re not related to him.’

  I argued the point, of course, but I was losing my certainty. When I told Shane, he just laughed and said there was nothing he couldn’t fix. And the way he chose to fix it was typical of him – as flamboyant and outrageous as ever. Two days later he took me out to dinner and slid a diamond engagement ring on my finger.

  ‘I’ve checked out the rules,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’ll be allowed to enter the States with me now, as my fiancée.’