The Dog Share

by Fiona Gibson

  He didn’t seem to want to, though. He wolfed his dinner as normal and now, as I work on the beleaguered instruments on the living room floor, he mooches off to his room. I fix a violin’s wobbly tuning peg and turn my attentions to the sticky goo on the neck of a cello. These instruments are cheap and basic but often the only means by which a child can learn to make music.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Arthur has appeared in the doorway. I really need to finish up as Jojo is due to arrive any minute now.

  ‘Just trying to clean this stuff off it,’ I explain. ‘I think it’s marmalade. It’s got a kinda citrussy tang.’

  He smirks. ‘How does marmalade even get on a cello?’

  I grin at him. ‘Maybe it was hit by a piece of flying toast?’

  Arthur sniggers and I try to gauge whether he’s really okay, or just putting on a brave face. ‘Hey, are you sure you’re okay about the holiday?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, and I get up from my cross-legged position and put an arm around him.

  ‘What about Meg coming to Granddad’s with us? D’you feel all right about that?’

  ‘Dad, it’s fine,’ he insists, before pulling away and disappearing off to his room again, leaving me to consider our forthcoming jaunt. It’ll be Meg’s first visit to Sgadansay. The first time she’ll have met my father, and our first holiday with the three of us – Arthur, Meg and me.

  Which, now I come to think about it, is an awful lot of ‘firsts’ for one trip.

  Meg’s favourite restaurant is a casual, modern place with polished concrete floors and cheery, attractive waiting staff. She seems unfazed by the news that it won’t just be the two of us going to Sgadansay.

  ‘Did you honestly think I’d mind?’ she asks, picking at a plateful of tofu, papaya and a sprinkling of seeds.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I reply. ‘It’s just not what we planned, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you could leave him at home by himself,’ she teases.

  I fork in the last of my pad thai and smile. ‘I did think he might be okay with a few packets of those sausages he likes.’

  ‘Ugh, those sausages,’ she says with a shudder. ‘D’you really have to cook something different for him every night?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say, slightly taken aback.

  ‘Well, you do when I’m there. Last time it was sausages. The time before that, fish fingers …’ Christ, has she been keeping a dossier on our meals? ‘Why can’t he just have what we have,’ she adds, ‘and save yourself the trouble?’

  ‘But it isn’t any trouble,’ I reply, trying to keep a note of defensiveness out of my voice. And it’s true; it’s hardly any effort for me to stick Arthur’s favourites under the grill. It’s not as if he’s demanding lobster thermidor or a boar, roasted on a spit. But there it is again: a little dig about my parenting.

  ‘I’m not trying to get at you,’ she remarks.

  ‘I’m not saying you are.’ You are, though, aren’t you? At least, you’re getting at something, I think, wondering now if she does mind about our trip after all. I’m aware that it was a pretty big deal for her to agree to come to Sgadansay in the first place. Apart from it being a little different to her usual, more glamorous holidays, she’s also had to arrange for a fellow alternative therapist – a friend with an ‘ironic’ moustache and a fondness for padded body warmers – to cover her appointments for the week.

  ‘I think it’s pretty normal for a ten-year-old to love fish fingers,’ I add, keen to move on to another topic now.

  She smooths back her fine hair with a hand. ‘They’re so processed, though.’

  ‘I can think of things that are a lot more processed.’ Why am I even getting into this?

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re good for him, Ricky.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, they’re just fish, aren’t they? Cod or whatever, cut into rectangles—’

  ‘Coated with crumbs and colouring and God knows what—’

  ‘That’s why they’re delicious,’ I say with unnecessary vigour.

  ‘Why don’t you have them then?’ she asks sharply.

  Because I wouldn’t fucking dare! At least, not unless Arthur and I were alone, secretly scarfing down our illicit delicacies from the sea. ‘Shall we change the subject?’ I ask.

  ‘I was only saying, Ricky.’ The peculiar mood lingers on as she pokes away at the last of her papaya, but at least she lets the matter drop. ‘So, how d’you think your dad and I will get along?’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I reply firmly. ‘He can be a grumpy old bugger but he’s a decent guy underneath.’

  Meg smiles, and as our plates are whisked away I try to picture her at Dad’s house on the island. In her line of work she specialises in ear candling (which sounds terrifying) and an even more mysterious treatment called ‘rolfing’, which I’d assumed involved making her patients throw up but is actually, she explained, ‘About aligning their energy field with the gravitational pull of the earth.’ I can’t help wondering what Dad will make of that.

  ‘It’s a funny situation, though, isn’t it?’ she remarks.

  ‘The meeting-the-parents thing, you mean?’

  She nods. ‘Yeah. At our age, anyway.’

  ‘Dad’ll love you,’ I say firmly, remembering how apprehensive I’d been when her parents had invited me and Arthur over for dinner (‘Of course they want to meet you!’ she’d insisted). In fact Diane and Simon – a strikingly attractive couple in their early seventies – had been lovely and relaxed and different to any parents-of-a-partner I’d ever met before, not that there had been that many. Their enormous bay-fronted lounge was filled with jazz records, abstract art and poetry books, and Arthur had found the experience fascinating.

  ‘It was like a mansion,’ he murmured later, and I couldn’t disagree.

  Now a young, blonde waitress wearing bright red lipstick appears at our table. ‘Would you like dessert?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ Meg says automatically. On any other night I’d have been tempted by the chocolate pudding but all that fish finger talk seems to have dented my appetite. So I ask for the bill and, as we leave, I suggest stopping off for a drink on the way home. It’s not yet ten o’clock and Jojo isn’t expecting us back until after eleven.

  ‘Actually,’ Meg says, ‘d’you mind if I just go home tonight?’

  ‘Huh?’ I blink at her in the street. It’s full of restaurants and bars, and is bustling tonight, as it always is at the weekends. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘I was looking through tomorrow’s appointments,’ she cuts in, ‘and there’s some prep I need to do tonight. And I should get into work extra early in the morning to make sure I’m all set up—’

  ‘Oh, are you sure?’ I’m used to Meg working Saturdays but in the past year I have never known her to deviate from arriving at her practice at 8.30 a.m. Her life is managed with more precision than that of anyone else I have ever met.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry to be such a bore, darling.’ She looks up and down the street for a cab. I’m wondering now if we’ve had an argument that I’ve failed to notice. Surely this isn’t about the fish fingers? I could try to persuade her, of course, but clearly, her mind is made up. Spotting a taxi, she hails it and kisses me briefly on the cheek.

  ‘See you over the weekend, then?’ I say, still a little bewildered as I can’t remember the last time she didn’t stay at mine after a night out.

  The cab pulls up and she murmurs her street name to the driver. ‘Yeah, of course,’ she says, glancing back. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye, honey.’

  As the taxi drives away I can’t help thinking how weird this is, this sudden change of heart. Clearly, something has annoyed or upset her tonight. Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid and it’s nothing to do with me at all? I start to walk towards the subway, trying to shake off the sense that something’s not right – not just about Dad, and the whole terrible business up on Sgadansay, but closer to ho
me, between Meg and me.

  Something’s wrong and I can’t put my finger on what it is.

  Chapter Twelve

  Suzy

  Oskar at the rescue centre brushes off my apologies for our late arrival. ‘Hey, little man,’ he says, first offering Scout the back of his hand to sniff before murmuring to him gently and tickling his ears. He stands back and seems to appraise him.

  ‘I hope you haven’t had to stay behind just for us,’ I say. ‘I felt so silly missing the earlier ferry.’

  ‘No no, my partner and I live here on site.’ He smiles kindly. He has striking brown eyes, thick dark eyebrows and dense stubble. We’re in the reception area of the ancient stone building just outside town – it’s a former coach house, apparently – and apart from the occasional bark, the premises are quiet.

  ‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ I say.

  Oskar leads me over to a seating area and opens a laptop. ‘It was good of you to bring him to us. So, he seems healthy enough, if a bit underweight. And he obviously has a lovely character …’

  ‘Yes, he’s been brilliant during the short time we’ve been together. The only thing that’s upset him was the ferry journey. He was terrified on the deck, and when I took him into the lounge he lay there, shaking, under the table.’

  ‘Poor little chap. Let’s hope he doesn’t have to go through that again. So, from what they told us at the vet’s, he seemed to be lost or abandoned?’

  I nod. ‘I think probably abandoned. There’s been no report of a lost dog like him.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so too.’ Oskar frowns, clearly touched by Scout’s story. ‘I’ve just done another search and there’s still nothing.’

  ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but sadly it happens quite a lot. Obviously, we have people handing in dogs that they can’t keep any longer, but there are quite a few strays here too.’

  At the sound of a distant howl, Scout pricks up his ears. ‘A friend on the island says she’ll put up some lost dog posters,’ I add, aware that it already feels natural to refer to Cara in that way. ‘So obviously, I’ll let you know if anyone contacts me through those.’

  ‘Yes, please do.’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t just been abandoned,’ I add. ‘Why on earth do people do that?’

  Oskar shrugs sadly. ‘We can only go on hunches of course, but if there are obvious health or behavioural issues, then we assume that’s why they’ve been dumped. It happens a lot with older dogs too, when the vet’s bills can start creeping up.’

  ‘That’s awful.’ I glance at Scout. He gazes back at me, pink tongue out, eyes shining. ‘I wonder how old he is?’

  ‘Pretty young, I’d guess,’ Oskar says. ‘Maybe around two? That’s common too,’ he adds. ‘I mean, for dogs to be dumped during the first couple of years after puppyhood.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Well, by that stage they’re not so little and fluffy anymore, and they need work and commitment so everyone can live happily together.’

  I nod as Oskar turns back to his laptop. ‘If I could start with your contact details …’ I give him my landline and mobile numbers, plus my home address. ‘So, apart from hating the ferry, there are no other issues you’re aware of?’

  I’m pretty confident gnawing a sweater wouldn’t count as an ‘issue’. ‘No, nothing at all,’ I say.

  ‘Does he seem to be house-trained?’

  I pause. ‘There was, uh, one small peeing incident at the holiday house.’

  ‘Oh, that’s understandable,’ Oskar says briskly. ‘He was probably scared and a bit out of sorts. How does he behave around other dogs?’

  ‘We haven’t met any properly,’ I reply, ‘but he seemed fine at the vet’s, and there were some there.’ I think about Cara and how she’s had to leave Barney at the vet’s on Sgadansay tonight. And how she’ll wake up tomorrow morning and the first thing she’ll think is, did he die during the night?

  Oskar gets up and takes a phone from a desk drawer. ‘I’ll take some pictures to put on his file.’ As he snaps away, an extremely beautiful young woman strides in.

  ‘Hi,’ she says with a bright smile. ‘You must be Suzy, with our new little friend?’ She bobs down to greet him.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m Shalini. I’m Oskar’s partner. We run this place together.’

  ‘Oh, what an amazing thing you do here,’ I say.

  She straightens up and smiles. Her glossy dark hair is piled up on her head, and she’s wearing a baggy red sweater and faded jeans. ‘We can’t imagine doing anything else, can we, Osk?’ she says, and he shakes his head.

  ‘Well, thanks for bringing him in,’ he adds. ‘We can keep in touch, let you know if he’s adopted …’

  ‘When he’s adopted,’ Shalini corrects him with a grin. ‘He’s such a cutie! I’m sure he won’t be with us for very long.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ I say with a catch to my voice.

  Shalini meets my gaze and smiles kindly. ‘He’ll make someone very happy. And don’t worry – we’re super-careful before we agree to an adoption. We always have a face-to-face meeting to make sure they’re suitable.’

  ‘We always want an adoption to be successful,’ Oskar adds, ‘and we follow up with calls to make sure the dog’s settling in.’

  Shalini looks at him and chuckles. ‘We might as well admit it, Osk. With some of them, we find it a little bit hard to let them go …’

  ‘Oh, God, yeah.’ He catches my eye and smiles.

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say truthfully. I look down at Scout, feeling a little peculiar now that the time has come to say goodbye. And now I’m thinking of Cara again, and how brave she was being about Barney. And it strikes me that perhaps that’s why she was so eager to ask about my stuff; all the business with Paul and the distillery. It’s as if she’s wanted to talk about anything other than the imminent loss of her dog. In fact, she’d only blurted out how serious his condition was as I was about to catch the ferry.

  ‘People often hold back the thing they really want to tell you until the last minute,’ my friend Dee, the GP, explained to me once. ‘They come to the surgery and it’s all, “I’ve been feeling a bit tired” or, “I’ve got this rash on my little finger”. You deal with that, and then, just as they’re leaving – their hand is actually on the door handle – they’ll blurt out, “Oh, um, there is another thing …” And they’ll have a lump they’re terrified about. Or they’ll want help to stop drinking. And that’s the real crux of it, that’s why they really came in – because of the, Oh-and-there-is-another-thing.’

  Barney was Cara’s ‘another-thing’, I realise now. And if she can be so stoical and brave, and chat to a stranger so cheerfully, listening to me prattling on about Paul and chilled Chablis and crab pliers, then I can deal with what’s happened to the distillery, and somehow make it all right.

  I need to go home, I decide, and do all I can to rescue the business. I need to be as strong as Cara was on the beach today.

  Shalini looks at me. ‘Would you like a few minutes with Scout, just to say bye, before you head off?’

  I nod. ‘Actually, yes, I would. Thank you.’ I catch myself. ‘It seems crazy, I know. He’s only been with me for twenty-four hours …’

  Oskar chuckles. ‘A little dog can make a big impression.’

  As they leave the room together I glimpse their living quarters through the open door: a lounge with a sage-coloured sofa scattered with cerise and lemon cushions and the orangey glow of a wood-burning stove. It looks so cosy through there, and I’m sure the dogs’ and cats’ quarters are the best they could possibly be. I know Scout will be well cared for here.

  I call him over and he trots towards me. I crouch down, and he sits comfortably at my feet. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I murmur, stroking the top of his head where his fur is softer, less wiry, than on the rest of his body. ‘But someone nice will choose you,’ I add, my
eyes misting a little. It’s been a brief relationship – a one-night stand really – and if he’s adopted by someone who’ll love him, then at least something good will have come out of my trip.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, intending to take a final photo of him, but my attention is caught by a text. It’s from Shona, the holiday cottage’s owner: Thank you for leaving the house in such good order. I did notice some wetness on living room carpet. We’ve had a bit of dampness coming up occasionally and will be getting a builder to investigate. Hope this didn’t spoil your stay.

  It was no problem at all, I reply. I had a lovely time – thank you. I turn back to Scout, deciding not to take a photo after all as Oskar and Shalini reappear. ‘All okay?’ he says.

  I nod. It’s almost 11 p.m. and I really should leave them in peace now.

  ‘You have a long drive ahead of you,’ he adds.

  I nod. ‘Around six and a half hours.’

  ‘Wow, so you’ll be driving most of the night …’

  ‘You could stay here, if that’s easier?’ Shalini offers, giving Oskar a quick look. ‘We have a spare room—’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, ‘but I’ll be fine, honestly—’

  ‘But it’s such a long drive on your own,’ she says.

  I muster a smile and glance down at Scout, then back at Oskar and Shalini. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve messed you about, but I’ve kind of …’ I exhale loudly, barely able to believe what I’m about to say. ‘I’ve actually changed my mind.’

  Oskar seems to study my face for a moment, then I catch him and Shalini exchanging a brief glance, as if they half-expected this to happen. This is crazy, I tell myself. I live alone and I have never owned a dog; I didn’t even give in after all those months of Frieda nagging. However, that was over a decade ago and now everything’s different, and I’m thinking: Scout turned up in the night and lifted my heart when I truly believed I’d never be happy again.