The Dog Share

by Fiona Gibson

  THE DOG SHARE

  Fiona Gibson

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  Dublin 4, Ireland

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2021

  Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008385996

  Ebook Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9780008386009

  Version: 2020-12-24

  Dedication

  For Caroline, Ratty and Moth with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Two Years Earlier: Suzy

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three: Now

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five: Ricky

  Chapter Six: Suzy

  Chapter Seven: Medley Family WhatsApp

  Chapter Eight: Ricky

  Chapter Nine: Suzy

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven: Ricky

  Chapter Twelve: Suzy

  Chapter Thirteen: Medley Family WhatsApp

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen: Ricky

  Chapter Sixteen: Suzy

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen: Two Weeks Later: Ricky

  Chapter Twenty: Suzy

  Chapter Twenty-One: Ricky

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Suzy

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Ricky

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Suzy

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Medley Family WhatsApp

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ricky

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Suzy

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One: Ricky

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Suzy

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Ricky

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Suzy

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Ricky

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Suzy

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ricky

  Chapter Forty: Suzy

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two: Ricky

  Chapter Forty-Three: Suzy

  Chapter Forty-Four: Ricky

  Chapter Forty-Five: Two Months Later: Suzy

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Two Weeks Later

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Ricky

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One: Suzy

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Four Months Later: Arthur

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Springtime: Suzy

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  ‘Dad,’ I yell, ‘look at that dog!’

  I’m running across Silver Beach. I know it so well; every rock, the names of all of the shells, the best places to find flat stones for skimming. I know most of the people we see here – and their dogs – at least to say hi to.

  But I’ve never seen this dog before.

  I stop and wait for Dad to catch up. ‘That’s the kind I want,’ I tell him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he says, smiling. ‘Last time we looked, you said you’d have any kind …’

  He means the dog rescue centre websites. I’m always checking them out, seeing which dog I’d adopt if Dad would let me. Not that he will – I realise that. It wouldn’t be fair, I’m out all day, we don’t have a garden, blah-blah-blah. I’ve heard it all a million times. But it doesn’t stop me looking … just in case.

  I like reading about dogs too. I know loads of canine facts, like they only sweat from furless areas (their noses, the pads on their feet). And when they see a dog on TV, they actually recognise it as a dog. Some even have their favourite programmes (my friend Lucas’s whippet likes Match of the Day). Dogs are amazing.

  I grab a piece of driftwood and throw it. The dog tears after it and brings it back to me. We do it again and again as Dad strolls about, looking for more sticks.

  The dog’s mostly brown, with a patch of white on his chest, and he’s a bit scruffy and skinny. He probably wouldn’t win any of those competitions where the dogs are paraded about in front of judges. I don’t really like those competitions, but maybe the dogs don’t mind. Obviously they can’t say, ‘God, this is boring, having to sit nicely and look neat. Can we go out and play now?’

  I like thinking of all those competition dogs sending each other telepathic messages, planning a mass breakout. I mean, they can communicate through sounds, movements and by producing scents – so why not by telepathy too?

  A dog is as intelligent as a two-year-old human, I told Dad recently.

  That’s amazing. But we’re still not getting one, he said with a smile.

  ‘I can’t see anyone about,’ Dad’s saying now. ‘Maybe he’s run away?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ I nod.

  ‘We should take him to the police station,’ he adds.

  ‘Can’t we play a bit more?’

  Dad checks his watch. ‘No, we really should go. We don’t want to miss the ferry, do we?’

  In fact, I wouldn’t mind missing it this time. I don’t really want to go back to Glasgow. And I definitely don’t want to take the dog to the police station. I want to play here all day, like I used to, when it wasn’t just me and Dad who came to the island, but Mum, too.

  Sometimes I feel sad being here without her. It didn’t matter so much when I was little – I’d been busy building sandcastles, filling my bucket with seawater to flood moats, all of that. But I’m not little anymore. I’m ten years old and sometimes the sadness seems to creep in, a bit like the seawater that seeps in through my trainers and wets my feet. And I can’t do anything to stop it.

  I miss her then. But I’m not missing her now that I have this little dog to play with. We run and run, and I pretend not to hear as Dad calls out: ‘I don’t feel good about leaving this dog on the beach by himself. If we hurry up now, we could drop him off at the police station and we’ll still catch the ferry …’

  ‘Aw, Dad!’

  ‘He’s probably run away. And someone’ll be going crazy, looking for him.’ Dad’s looking serious now, properly worried. ‘See if you can catch him. We can use my scarf as a lead …’

  ‘Can’t we take him home?’ I stare at Dad, wanting him to say yes more than anything. ‘Please, Dad. Please!’

  ‘I’m sorry. You know
we can’t do that.’

  ‘But he’s lost! Or maybe he’s been abandoned?’ I look back round, expecting to see the dog sitting there, waiting for our stick game to start up again.

  But he’s not there. And when I scan the whole beach I spot a blur of brown in the far distance, growing smaller and smaller until he runs around the headland, and is gone.

  Chapter One

  Two Years Earlier

  Suzy

  The island had come clearly into view, illuminated by a shaft of silvery light. We stared, transfixed, from the deck of the ferry.

  ‘So, what d’you think?’ Paul asked.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ I murmured. ‘It’s like one of those old religious paintings – like a Michelangelo or something. All it needs are some floating cherubs and a scattering of naked muscular gods …’

  ‘Pervert.’ He laughed and squeezed my hand.

  I glanced at his handsome profile: long, strong nose; full lips; messy, wavy, light brown hair being buffeted by the wind. ‘I’m so excited, Paul,’ I added. ‘Look at those mountains! And those little white cottages dotted along the shore …’

  ‘And I think that’s the whisky distillery over there.’ He pointed towards the end of the town.

  ‘Really? It’s tiny!’ I gazed at the purplish hills that scooped down towards the greener lower pastures. A little way along from the town – the only sizeable settlement on the island – lay a wide crescent of beach. It looked deserted. There would be no resort-style entertainment here, no shops crammed with souvenir keyrings and novelty booze that never seems quite so enticing once you cart it home. My heart soared with the anticipation of a whole week together, separated from the rest of the world.

  My mother had been astounded when she’d first heard about our trip. ‘Belinda said you’re off to some island?’ she’d barked down the phone. So she and my sister had been gossiping about Paul and me. Although I didn’t know where my hackles were exactly, I was sure they were raised.

  ‘Yes, we just thought it’d make a nice change,’ I explained.

  ‘A Scottish island?’ she gasped.

  ‘That’s right, Mum. It’s in the Hebrides.’

  ‘The Hebrides! How on earth will you get there?’

  ‘We’ll drive up to Oban on the west coast and take the ferry from there. It looks amazing,’ I added, to stir her up even further.

  Mum paused, obviously figuring out how to fish for more information in a non-blatant way. ‘Isn’t that a bit … different for you two?’

  Ah, the ‘D’ word, a favourite of Mum’s, as in, ‘Oh, is that a new jacket, Suzy? It’s different!’ I.e., ‘If you’re happy to go out in public wearing such a hideous article, then who am I to stop you?’

  ‘We’ve been up to the Highlands plenty of times,’ I reminded her, ‘since Paul’s dad bought that hotel. You know we love it up there.’

  ‘Yes, but that was in proper Scotland, wasn’t it?’ You’d have thought we were talking the Arctic Circle. But then my parents had spent their whole lives living within a few miles of York – where Paul and I also lived – and rarely ventured out of Yorkshire.

  ‘Erm, it was on the mainland, yes,’ I replied. ‘But the islands are proper Scotland too, Mum.’

  ‘That was in a town, though, with things to do.’ Like we were a couple of kids. ‘And obviously,’ she added, ‘now Paul’s dad has, um …’

  Died was what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say. My boyfriend had lost his father the previous summer. Paul had only been ten when his mum had passed away, and apparently he and his dad had been a real team – inseparable really – as he’d been growing up on their Bradford estate. He’d taken his death extremely hard.

  ‘We are still allowed in Scotland,’ I said lightly, ‘even though Ian’s not there anymore.’

  ‘I know that, love,’ Mum said, in a softer tone. ‘But d’you think Paul will enjoy it? I mean, don’t you normally go to Majorca or Spain—’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ I said firmly.

  ‘But what will he do there?’

  ‘What everyone does on a Scottish island, I’d imagine,’ I said, sensing a throbbing in my temples. ‘Explore and enjoy the incredible scenery …’

  ‘What if it rains?’

  I couldn’t help smiling at that. ‘You’re talking as if he’s a difficult toddler who I wouldn’t consider taking anywhere if there wasn’t going to be a gigantic soft play centre or a petting zoo.’

  ‘I’m sure there aren’t any petting zoos there!’

  Now I was laughing. ‘Mum, he’s a forty-eight-year-old man. He doesn’t need a petting zoo. And if the weather’s terrible I’m sure there’ll be some jigsaws in the cottage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was the jigsaw type,’ she remarked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Let him anywhere near a 2000-piecer and he can’t keep his hands off it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mum paused, then added: ‘It’s not a bucket list thing, is it?’

  ‘What, completing a 2000-piece jigsaw?’

  ‘No! I mean Paul wanting to go to that island—’

  ‘You think he’d only want to visit a designated area of outstanding beauty if he were about to cark it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she blustered. ‘Why are you so defensive? I didn’t mean to upset you, Suzy.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said, impressed by my ability to remain cordial. ‘Anyway, it sounds like there’s plenty to do there. There’s a distillery that does visitor tours, and you know Paul loves whisky …’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Mum never missed an opportunity to imply that my boyfriend was a useless drunk.

  ‘… And then there’s the smokery,’ I added. ‘They do incredible fish, apparently. Buckingham Palace has a regular order for kippers. In fact, the island’s name comes from the Gaelic word for herring – sgadan – so Sgadansay actually means “Isle of herring” …’ A factlet I’m sure you’re fascinated by, I reflected, sensing Mum’s interest dwindling now it had become clear that I would Not Be Riled. ‘And we’re planning to do loads of hiking,’ I breezed on, ‘up and down hills in our anoraks …’

  ‘Do you even have an anorak?’

  ‘I’ll get one. And waterproof trousers. There are these amazing silver sand beaches and we don’t want the weather to hamper us …’ And then there’s shagging, I yearned to add, keen to wrap up our chat now. If it pours down all week – which I fully expect – I’m planning to cram the fridge with wine, draw the curtains and we’ll shag each other senseless, in our anoraks. I might even ask Paul to smack me with one of those artisanal kippers. ‘And there’s probably a church we can visit,’ I added.

  ‘Well, I hope you have fun,’ Mum remarked tartly, and we finished the call.

  In fact, although it pained me to the core, I could understand why she was so perplexed about our trip. As far as Paul was concerned, holiday heaven meant glorious sunshine and music blaring from beach bars – and he always wanted to make friends with everyone. We’d been together six years, and although I’d always enjoyed our jaunts, occasionally I yearned for wide-open spaces and for it just to be the two of us. Frieda, my daughter, had already left home and her brother Isaac would soon be flying the nest too. There was no reason, I kept telling Paul, why we couldn’t have a few days in the country as well as our usual fortnight in the sun.

  However, he’d never really ‘got’ the countryside, and became visibly twitchy if he found himself in it accidentally. We never even went to parks together, unless we were cutting through one to get to somewhere else. And now he’d booked a holiday that would be entirely focused on country walks, and require polo necks?

  I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was completely bizarre. But I was damned if I was going to admit that to Mum.

  Those thoughts soon blew away on the cool breeze as the ferry approached the quayside. We’d have a wonderful time here, I just knew it. It was a beautiful blue-skied April afternoon, and my heart soared like the seagulls squawking
overhead.

  We stayed in a tiny whitewashed cottage close to the shore. Whatever the weather, we’d pack up hearty picnics and set off on hikes along the rugged coastline or up into the hills. Eagles soared above us. We saw red deer who stopped and glanced at us briefly as if to say, ‘So, who are you?’ before scampering away. We rolled up our jeans and paddled in crystal clear streams and fell back, laughing, onto pillows of springy heather.

  Our holiday was certainly revealing a side to Paul that I’d never seen before. But I wasn’t complaining. I loved the glorious beaches where we’d barely see another soul, and the wonderful bakery, the old-fashioned sweet shop and the cosy pubs in the town. As I photographed a terrace of impossibly cute cottages – each one painted a different pastel shade – we joked that they’d probably been natural, unadorned stone until Instagram had come along. Then out had come the paint rollers and the jaunty colours.

  Not once did Paul grumble about the fierce winds or sudden downpours that soaked us to the bones. The local fish and chips were heavenly and seemed to taste even better when we ate them huddled together for warmth in a covered wooden shelter facing the choppy sea. One evening we treated ourselves to a vast seafood platter – everything caught mere hours before we devoured it – at an elegant art deco hotel.

  ‘Is it because of your dad that you wanted to come here?’ I asked that night as we strolled back to the cottage.

  ‘Kind of,’ he said. It made sense that Paul had been drawn to Scotland, which, in turn, had led him to researching the Outer Hebrides for our trip. Ian had been a ducker and diver, owning various ramshackle hotels in Yorkshire before making his final purchase way up north, in Fort William. He’d loved the Heather Glen Hotel so much he’d moved to Scotland permanently and spent his final years living in its annex of leaky attic rooms.

  Like his father, Paul had never had a thought-out career plan. When I’d met him he’d been flogging spicy sausages from a fast food van close to York Minster – but that enterprise hadn’t lasted long and there had been a string of ill-fated schemes since then. ‘When’s Paul going to settle down?’ my sister asked a couple of Christmases ago at her place. She and her marathon runner husband Derek live in a vast modern detached house on the outskirts of Leeds. Their kitchen island probably rivals some of the smaller Scottish isles in terms of square footage. Child-free by choice, and with a law degree and a high-flying job with the civil service, Belinda has always relished her wiser older sister role.