by Fiona Gibson
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘what’re you doing up?’
‘Nothing,’ he replies. ‘But you know my birthday?’
‘Er, yes, I think I’m aware that it’s coming up,’ I tease him.
He crosses his arms and tilts his head. ‘Could I have a dog?’
I splutter and turn to Meg. ‘We go through this every year and he’s been even worse since we met that stray dog on the beach …’
‘And he always says no,’ Arthur retorts, ‘because he works all day and we don’t have a garden—’
‘Which, you have to admit, count as valid reasons,’ I say.
‘Your dad’s right,’ remarks Meg, glancing at the wall clock; she reckons I’m a bit lax about Arthur’s bedtime too. ‘Kids of his age need ten hours’ sleep a night,’ she adds when I’ve ushered him back to his room.
‘Yeah. Well, he probably gets that most nights.’ I try to push away the small niggle I experience whenever she tells me how to parent my own kid. And later still, as we go to bed, I wonder if it’s me who’s being oversensitive, with all the stuff about Dad. I’m not an angry person usually. Arthur exasperates me sometimes but I’m hardly ever properly cross with him. However, ever since it all kicked off on the island I have felt angry – with the people who handled everything so badly and let down Dad, his friends and neighbours; the whole community really.
Paul Leighton and Suzanna Medley. The couple who appeared two years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, and proceeded to destroy a distillery that had been doing brilliantly until then. So yes, I’m angry. But more than that, I just feel so helpless that I can’t make everything all right.
Chapter Six
Suzy
At her dog-nagging peak, Frieda took to gathering facts about their characteristics. For instance, I learnt that your average dog is as smart as a two-year-old child, and that they are more similar to humans than any other animal – so really, it would be just like having another little person in the house. ‘And you know how we have six million smell receptors in our noses?’ she added. In fact, I hadn’t known that. ‘Dogs have 300 million,’ she’d announced, as if that would swing it. ‘Smelling is their way of gathering clues about their habitat.’
‘Amazing,’ I said. But we’re still not getting one, honey.
I watch now as my visitor snuffles his way around the kitchen. ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ I ask him. ‘Are you gathering information for your little doggie brain?’ Already, there are muddy paw prints on the pale green linoleum. ‘Wait here a sec,’ I add. Ignoring my request, he trots after me to the minuscule bathroom as I fetch my own towel in order to dry him off. I don’t feel brave enough to use one of the house towels on a soggy dog who’s not even meant to be here.
Back in the kitchen he stands obediently as I pat down his short coat and wipe his paw prints off the floor. ‘Shona doesn’t allow pets,’ I explain. ‘She emailed me about it. So we’d better not leave any evidence that you’ve been here.’
As we study each other it occurs to me that something peculiar has happened. Instantly, I seem to have slipped into being the kind of person who not only talks to unfamiliar dogs, but does so in a special talking-to-dogs kind of voice. Why has this happened? It’s as if I’m assuming that, if I speak at a certain frequency, he’ll understand mysterious concepts such as ‘Shona’, ‘email’ and ‘evidence’. ‘If you had a tag with a phone number on it,’ I tell him, ‘we could go down to the end of the lane, and I’d stand on that rock, waving my phone about until we got a signal. And I’d call your owner and tell them you’ve been found.’
Even more bizarrely – as if he can follow my ramblings – I’m now worried that in mentioning the lack of identity tag, I’m making him feel worse. If your owner had cared for you properly then we’d be able to get you safely back home. ‘Have you been abandoned?’ I ask, ruffing the top of his head. This strikes me as unlikely. The community here seems to be incredibly close-knit, and I’d imagine that any local dog would be recognised and returned instantly. It’s more probable, I reckon, that he’s strayed from his garden and his owner will come looking for him soon.
‘Let’s get you a drink,’ I tell him, on high alert now for the sound of an approaching vehicle. In the absence of anything more suitable, I fish out a cereal bowl from a cupboard and try not to think how Shona would react as I fill it and place it before him. He laps at it noisily until all the water has gone.
‘Wow, you were thirsty,’ I murmur as I refill it. ‘Bet you’re hungry too.’ He certainly looks terribly thin, but maybe that’s just his breed? Or perhaps these hardy islanders simply don’t overindulge their pets, and what I’m viewing as skinny is actually a healthy weight? He whines pitifully, and for a moment my own bleak situation pales into insignificance compared to the pressing matter of what to give him. At nearly eleven o’clock there’ll be no shop open in town. Even if there was, I’ve downed that bottle of wine so I wouldn’t be driving anywhere. The dog barks sharply as if to emphasise that dinner is required urgently.
I scan the kitchen with its beige tiles patterned with wheat sheaves and milkmaids for something to offer my visitor. Remembering the small block of cheddar in the fridge, I glance at my phone on the worktop. The lack of signal and Wi-Fi is beginning to irritate because there are so many things I need to google:
Can dogs eat cheese?
Can dogs eat paprika Pringles?
Lost dog Sgadansay
Dog rescue Hebrides
Where to report a lost dog
He whines some more but seems to perk up as I take the cheese out of the fridge and cut off a sliver. He guzzles it down. I give him a tiny bit more, then offer him a Pringle. This too is wolfed. Remembering now that Aunty Helen would give Daffy buttered toast just before bed, I make a slice for my guest. He devours it with enthusiasm. Hoping that’ll be enough to keep him going, we head through to the living room.
Here, he sniffs his way around the periphery, paying special attention to the gas fire, which I haven’t dared to ignite for fear that it might explode in my face. There’s intense exploration of the luridly patterned carpet, then it’s onwards to the green corduroy pouffe, where perhaps he detects the whiff of previous guests’ feet; all those couples on romantic breaks, like Paul and me on our first visit to the island two years ago, when I was still deranged enough to be in love with him.
As I watch my new friend it strikes me that perhaps Frieda was right, and that dogs are more similar to humans than I’d realised. For instance, what he’s doing now is pretty much what I do whenever I arrive in a hotel room and need to check things out before I can settle. All this sniffing is his equivalent of investigating the minibar, the cellophane packets of biscuits, the tea sachets and miniature toiletries. On and on he goes, working his way around the sofa, then meandering back to the pouffe where he—
‘No, no, don’t do that!’ I cry out. We absolutely do not cock our legs against the pouffe when checking out our accommodation!
Of course he doesn’t halt on command. He just carries on peeing, the minutes seeming to stretch as I watch helplessly, too scared to try to manhandle him away from it – and where would I manhandle him to? He’d just carry on piddling a stream across the carpet and that wouldn’t help things at all.
Christ, how much urine can a small animal actually contain? Rather than possessing such a thing as a bladder, it seems to me that this little dog is a hollow vessel entirely filled with wee. On and on it goes, with me trapped watching as if it’s one of those YouTube clips Paul was so fond of: the acrobatic kittens or the lady’s hat being eaten by a giraffe at the zoo. Only now, the laughter factor and thumbs-up emojis are decidedly lacking as the peeing goes on interminably, distorting time and space as I sense myself ageing rapidly, my face wrinkling and sagging until finally … the sprightly flow dwindles to a mere trickle, and then stops.
I stare at the sizeable wet patch. Seemingly unconcerned, the dog wanders off to inspect the bookshelf, where amongst the well-thumbed roma
nces and thrillers I happened to spot a gnarly old copy of Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff.
Oh, I’m sweating it all right. I’m sweating the big and the small stuff, thank you very much, as I grab the washing-up liquid and a spongy wipe from the kitchen and return to scrub at the pouffe. I scrub and scrub, silently testing out the various lies I could tell, in case I’m rumbled: Oh, I’m sorry, Shona! I’ve no idea how your pouffe got wet. Maybe I spilt some tea? Or could there be a leak from the roof?
Realising I’m starting to rub away at the corduroy’s fluffy pile, I fetch my towel and blot away what I can of the wetness and washing-up liquid froth. I sigh loudly and push back my hair from my clammy forehead, now regretting that I hadn’t bought more wine at Mary’s Store. Or gin – yes, gin would be excellent right now. I’m not mad at the dog, though – not really. It was probably my fault, for giving him two bowlfuls of water and not letting him outside to pee it all out. Is that how dogs work? They drink, it literally shoots through their systems and you have to let them out pretty much straight away?
‘I wish I could phone someone,’ I murmur, giving him a reassuring stroke, to show that he’s not in trouble. ‘I’m probably not looking after you very well.’ I think of Frieda, who’s likely to be hanging out with her housemates in Cumbria over a few beers, with music filling their kitchen. They’re a hearty, outdoorsy bunch, not averse to a party but still with the energy to hike up a mountain the following day. And then there’s Isaac, who might well have a history essay due in tomorrow, but probably has a pile of friends round and has most likely decided to finish it ‘later’ (which, for him, usually means working through the night).
Whereas Frieda grafted steadily at school, determined to get on that outdoor leadership course, Isaac, although undoubtedly smart, was more chaotic. Tony and I had long since divorced by the time our kids had reached their mid-teens, and I was living with Paul. However, Tony and I still got along well enough to panic together over what would become of our boy with his exploding biros and illegible notes. We could still lament over the fact that he barely seemed to know when his A-levels were happening, let alone getting it together to revise for them. Incredibly to us, he pulled it out of the bag and gained a place at Liverpool University.
Sometimes – like now – I’m hit with a wave of missing them so much it causes an actual ache in my gut. They both love their student lives, which of course is brilliant for them but in practice it means I hardly ever see them. When I visit, it has to be carefully planned to fit in among their numerous social engagements.
I know this is healthy, and I’d never dream of guilt-tripping my kids by hinting that I’m lonely without them sometimes. But I am, and it’s been happening more often since Paul walked out, leaving only a note and this colossal mess for me to deal with. Without warning, my eyes brim with tears. Oh God, what a soggy heap of self-pity I am these days. I perch on the sofa and rest my head in my hands as the tears pour out. Rain patters at the window, and I’m aware of the gentle nudge of a small snout against my leg.
I sweep my hands back from my wet face and look down. I can’t help smiling at the dog’s expectant expression. He seems to interpret this as an invitation to jump up and join me on the sofa, where he presses his small, warm body close to my leg. After the pouffe incident it hardly seems worth shooing him off. As he snuggles closer I realise it’s highly unlikely that anyone’s going to come looking for him tonight.
Which means he’ll have to stay the night with me.
‘You’re like a little Boy Scout on a night hike,’ I tell him gently, ‘and you’ve lost your pack.’ I sit in silence for a few moments, stroking his soft head. ‘I’ll call you Scout,’ I add. It’s probably not terribly original – but then I’m not terribly sober either (although, admittedly, the pouffe incident straightened me out a bit). Anyway, it’s only a temporary name, and I’ll have to call him something if we’re going to spend the night together.
‘You can stay,’ I tell him, ‘but don’t do anything crazy during the night.’ He blinks at me, then lets out a contented sigh as he rests his chin on my thigh. I look down at him, wondering why he chose to come to this cottage in particular, in the middle of nowhere. Does he know it? Or was it just a random thing? Or, with those 300 million scent receptors did he somehow sniff out my misery and decide to drop by to cheer me up?
His warm, thin body is rising and falling with each breath now. I think he has fallen asleep. I close my eyes, barely daring to breathe in case it disturbs him. Because I’m so honoured that, at the end of this terrible day, this dog has chosen to rest his weary head on my leg.
Milky morning light filters through the thin floral curtains. I lie still for a moment, remembering the events of last night: wine guzzling, Pringle gorging, that noise outside, and the dog—
The dog! I sit bolt upright in bed, remembering now that he hadn’t seemed keen on sleeping out in the hall. And I’d been wary of shutting him out of the bedroom in case he took exception to that (do dogs take exception to things?) and did some protest peeing – or worse. So I’d let him sleep with me on the bed. But where is he now?
‘Scout!’ I call out. ‘Scout? Where are you?’
Never mind that his new name will mean nothing to him. The bedroom door is ajar; did I leave it open last night? I can’t remember. I swivel out of bed and hurry through to the living room – no sign of him there – then into the kitchen where he is standing, tail wagging as he looks up at me with what I can only interpret as delight. A jumper is lying on the floor. He must have pulled it off the sofa and dragged it through.
‘Here you are,’ I exclaim, bobbing down to greet him. ‘I thought you were one of those guys who sneaks off in the night and calls a taxi.’ He licks my face, which I might once have found a bit icky but now seems like an appreciation of my joke.
Pushing away my mother’s warning from forty years ago – ‘Any dog can turn nasty, Suzy!’ – I gather him up in my arms and cradle him. He seems to be quite happy about this. As I stand there, conscious of his beating heart against my chest, it occurs to me that something significant has happened to me. Compared to the achievements of the incredible people whose obituaries I write, welcoming in a lost dog and keeping him safe until morning might not count as much. However, something seems to have shifted since last night. Bright sunlight streams in through the kitchen window, chasing away the gloom. The cottage feels cheerful now – no longer depressingly dated – and befitting those glowing comments I read in the visitors’ book:
Thank you, Shona. We loved our stay in your cosy home!
The perfect holiday house for us – the kids adored it.
Amazing hospitality on our favourite Hebridean island. We’ll definitely be back!
I lower Scout carefully to the floor. ‘Not so bad here, is it?’ I ask him. ‘Shame we’re not going to have longer together.’ I make him a piece of toast and cut him off a sliver of cheese, then stride towards the front door and open it. ‘C’mon,’ I add, ‘we’d better let you out.’
As Scout trots out into the gravelled garden, I stand for a moment and take in the view over the sparkling bay. It’s just gone 7.40 a.m. on this clear, cloudless March morning. Checkout is at eleven o’clock; Shona asked me to leave the key on the table, and to simply close the front door behind me. However, my plan is to pack up and leave way before that, so that Scout and I arrive in the town just as the shops and cafés are opening up. I’m booked on the midday ferry back to the mainland, and the more time we have, the higher our chances of finding somewhere safe to leave him – or, better still, of taking him home.
I’m already thinking of us as ‘we’, I realise as I pick up the navy blue sweater from the floor. It’s actually an old one of Paul’s that I took to wearing for gardening and mucky jobs. I hold it up by the shoulders and study the hole Scout has gnawed in the middle of it. It’s comically large – bigger than a human head – and I can’t help chuckling as I toss it aside.
‘Never mind, Scout,’ I
say. ‘I never liked that sweater much anyway.’
Chapter Seven
Medley Family WhatsApp
Me: Hey, how’s things? Hope all okay!
Frieda: Mum! You’ve got signal :) Yeah all good here. How did the meeting go?
Pretty awful but at least it’s done. Relieved about that.
Frieda: So unfair you having to deal with this.
It’s fine. Don’t worry.
Frieda: Where are you now?
In town sitting on the harbour wall. It’s lovely. Loads of gulls diving for fish. Isaac, are you around? How’s things with you?
Isaac, after several minutes: Hey Mum, was just about to message you.
That’s kind of you, love.
Isaac: Yeah I wanted to ask, is it normal for the microwave to spark like mad when you put something in it?
What?! What did you put in it?
Isaac: Just a burrito from last night.
Why did it spark?
Frieda: Erm, Ize, why are we talking about your burrito when Mum’s got this massively important stuff going on?
Isaac: It wasn’t the burrito that was sparking, it was the foil.
You put foil in the microwave???
Isaac: Yeah it was wrapped up in foil.
Never do that! It’s very dangerous to microwave foil!
Isaac: Yeah Matis said that. Anyway I turned it off.
How did Matis know that and you didn’t?
Isaac: Dunno. Better parenting? ;)
Please don’t do that again, Isaac, that’s all I’m saying.
Isaac: Yeah you already said that.
Frieda: You did A-level physics, Ize!
Isaac: But we never covered that.
Maybe you should have. It’d have been more useful than that thing you teased me about when I didn’t know what it was.
Isaac: Geosynchronous orbit? Yeah you’d never even heard of it!
It’s a wonder I’ve managed to keep myself alive.
Isaac: :D
