The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  These days he lives in one of the newbuild blocks on the corner of Hamleigh; as I approach the development, I’m struck by how weirdly two-dimensional it seems against the shadowy backdrop of the Dales, like it’s a computer-generated image of what a block of flats might look like when it’s done. The gardens are gray and uniform in the light from the streetlamps, all stubbly lawn and gravel, but Jackson’s front garden is a bustling tangle of vegetation. He’s turned it into a vegetable patch. God knows what the next-door neighbors think—their gardens are much more in keeping with the block, with terra-cotta pots of rosemary and little tame vines trailing up trellises by their doors.

  My knock on the door is met by a loud, excited barking, which stops very abruptly. I make a face. I suspect somebody just got told off.

  When Jackson opens the door I don’t have time to look at him, because a large bundle of black fur—lead flying between its legs—has hit me in the gut and sent me sprawling.

  “Oof!” I’ve whacked my tailbone, and my wrist took the brunt of the fall, but the main thing I’m dealing with right now is the dog very enthusiastically licking my face. “Hello, you—would you—Christ…”

  It’s sitting on top of me and has got my necklace between its teeth. Oh, and now it’s started playing tug of war with it, brilliant, that’s—

  “Bollocks, shite, sorry.” A large hand reaches down and hauls the dog up by the collar. “Hank. Sit.”

  Hank scrabbles off me and lands in a sitting position. Unfortunately, he takes my necklace with him; it hangs between his teeth, pendant swinging on the broken chain. I follow Hank’s adoring gaze upward toward his owner.

  It’s strange, looking at Jackson. He’s definitely the kid I knew, but it’s as though he used to be crumpled up tight and now someone’s smoothed him out—the tense jaw’s eased, the hunched shoulders have loosened, and he’s opened up into a broad-shouldered, dozy-eyed giant of a man with a mop of messy brown hair. There’s what looks like coffee down the front of his T-shirt, and a very large hole in the left knee of his jeans. On the arm that’s now holding Hank’s lead, there’s a white strip where his watch ought to be—his forearms are slightly sunburned, a real achievement in the English springtime.

  At a push I’d say his expression is somewhere between bewilderment and bashfulness, but he’s got one of those unreadable faces that either means you’re deep and mysterious or don’t have much to say, so I’m not completely sure.

  “You’re not Eileen Cotton,” he says. His Yorkshire accent is stronger than it was when he was younger—or perhaps I’ve been away too long.

  “Actually, I kind of am. I’m Leena. Remember me?”

  He blinks. After a few moments his eyes widen. “Leena Cotton?”

  “Yep!”

  “Huh.” After a few very long seconds Jackson shifts his gaze to the horizon and clears his throat. “Umm,” he says. “You got … different. As in, you look different.”

  “So do you!” I say. “You’re so much more…” I flush. Where am I going with this sentence? The first word that’s popped into my head is manly, which is not a thing I’m going to say out loud. “I hear you’re a primary school teacher now?” I say quickly.

  “Aye, that’s right.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s half standing on end now.

  “Well!” I say, looking down at Hank, who has dropped my necklace and is now attempting the presumably quite frustrating task of trying to pick it up again without opposable thumbs. “I guess this is the dog!”

  I’m exclaiming too much. Why am I exclaiming so much?

  “Aye,” Jackson says, clearing his throat again. “This is Hank.”

  I wait. “Great!” I say eventually. “Well. Shall I walk him, then?”

  Jackson pauses, one hand still on his head. “Eh?”

  “The dog. Shall I walk him?”

  Jackson looks down at Hank. Hank gazes back at him, tail now methodically swiping my necklace back and forth on the doorstep.

  “Where’s Eileen?” Jackson asks after another long, bewildered pause.

  “Oh, she didn’t tell you? She’s gone to London for two months. I’m housesitting for her and looking after all her projects—the little things she does around the village, you know.”

  “You’ve got big wellies to fill, there,” Jackson says, scratching the back of his neck. It’s a gesture another guy might use as an excuse to show off his biceps, but it seems genuinely unselfconscious. There’s a shambolic sort of sexiness to Jackson, actually, helped by a pair of very blue eyes and that classic rugby-player nose, crooked to one side from having been broken.

  “I’m sure I’ll manage!” I say.

  “You ever walked a dog before?”

  “No, but don’t worry, I am very well prepared.” No need to tell him that I’ve extensively researched dog-walking, the Labrador breed, and the exact route of the walk Grandma instructed me to take.

  “He’s only eight months,” Jackson says, scrubbing at his hair again. “He’s a bit of a handful, still. I really only ask Eileen to walk him on Wednesdays because she was so good with him, and it gives me a chance to go in early, get some lesson planning done before the kids get in…”

  I reach to take back my necklace; Hank lets out a little yip and immediately tries to catch my hand in his mouth. I yelp despite myself, pulling my hand back, and then swear. That’s exactly what you’re not meant to do, I knew that. I should have reached forward with the back of my hand out first.

  “Hank! That isn’t polite. Sit.”

  Hank sits, the picture of shame and dejection, head hung low. I’m not convinced there’s any real remorse going on there. Those hangdog eyes are still watching the necklace.

  I clear my throat. “So I just bring him back in an hour?”

  “Thanks. If you’re sure. I’ll be at the school. Here,” Jackson says, handing me a key. “Just pop him in the conservatory and lock up after.”

  I stare down at the key in my hand. I know we’re not exactly strangers, but I’ve not had a conversation with Jackson in about ten years, and I’m a little surprised that he’s willing to give me permanent access to his home. I don’t have long to think about it, though, because soon Hank is contemplating the possibility that the key might be a treat and is jumping up at me to investigate.

  Jackson pulls Hank back into a sit. “Little bugger. I’ve never met a dog that’s such a devil to train,” he says ruefully, shaking his head, but rubbing Hank behind the ears all the same.

  Oh, good. A devil dog.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” Jackson asks, perhaps catching my expression. He’s looking doubtful.

  After the near-biting incident I am slightly less excited about walking this dog, but if Jackson thinks I can’t do it, I’m obviously going to have to do it, so that’s that, really.

  “We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Hank?”

  Hank jumps up at me ecstatically. I squeal and lose my footing. I’m starting to think Google has not entirely prepared me for this.

  “Off we go, then!” I say, as confidently as I can manage. “Bye!”

  “See you soon,” Jackson calls as we shoot off down the path. “If you have any problems just…”

  I think Jackson is still talking, but I don’t hear anything after this point because Hank is very keen to get going. Christ, I hardly need to use any momentum for this walk, Hank’s dragging me along—oh, feck, he’s in the road, he’s in the—all right, back on the—what’s that he’s eating? Where’s he got that from?

  The journey through the village to the open fields is the longest ten minutes of my life. We also pass literally everybody in Hamleigh-in-Harksdale—it seems they have all chosen right this very moment to be outside their houses, watching me get towed down the pavement by an extremely excited Labrador.

  An old man tries to overtake me on his mobility scooter for the whole length of Middling Lane. He’s mostly obscured by a large waterproof cape to keep off the drizzle; through the plastic, he ca
lls, “You ought to keep Hank to heel!” at me.

  “Yes!” I call. “Thank you!”

  “That’s what Eileen does!” the old man yells, now alongside.

  “That’s good to know!” I say brightly, as Hank attempts to dislocate my shoulder. “Heel, Hank,” I try, in a spritely, talking-to-a-dog-or-baby voice. Hank doesn’t even glance around at me.

  “I’m Roland!” calls the man on the scooter. “You must be Leena.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Heel, Hank! Heel!”

  Hank stops abruptly, smelling something interesting, and I promptly fall over him. He licks my face while I’m down. Meanwhile Roland takes this opportunity to complete his overtake triumphantly, which I find incredibly annoying, because even though I hadn’t consented to this being a race, I clearly just lost.

  When we’re finally through the village and out of sight of prying eyes, I drag Hank to a stop and lean against a tree. Bloody hell, this is more like route-marching than walking. How on earth did my grandmother manage this beast?

  I look around the field—I remember this spot. It looks different in the gray weather, but Carla and I used to picnic here as kids; she got stuck up this tree, once, and burst into noisy tears, which didn’t stop even as I talked her down one step at a time.

  Hank brings me back to the present with a yank of the lead. He’s straining so desperately he’s managed to lift his front paws off the ground. I’m pretty sure the Internet said not to let the dog strain at the lead—I’m meant to encourage him back to me, aren’t I?

  I fish out one of my homemade treats and call his name; he shoots over, gobbles up the treat, then he’s straight back to the business of lead-straining. This happens three more times. The homemade treats have turned to mush in the sandwich bag; I can feel the residue of mincey egginess under my fingernails.

  Defeated, I strike out again and powerwalk around the perimeter of the field. Every so often I try out an optimistic “heel” or haul Hank back to my side, but I am largely, if we’re honest, getting taken for a walk by this dog.

  Ironically, given Jackson’s “big wellies to fill” comment, I am actually wearing Grandma’s wellies right now—I don’t have a pair of my own, and me and Grandma have the same size feet. The wellies have been rubbing my heels ever since I stepped out of Clearwater Cottage, and now there’s an enormous stone in the toe of one too. I make an ineffectual attempt at getting Hank to stop, and then bend down to remove the offending boot.

  I am definitely holding the lead. Of course I am. You wouldn’t loosen your hold on the lead with a dog like Hank. Except … somehow, in the confusion of hopping on one leg and my welly falling over, and trying not to step my socked foot in the mud, I seem to let go of it.

  Hank’s gone like a bullet. He’s running full pelt, back and front legs almost crossing in the middle, bolting with single-minded focus for the fields beyond.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” I’m already sprinting, but I’ve only got one welly on, and running with one welly is very tricky—a bit like doing a three-legged race on your own—and it only takes a few paces for me to stumble and fall again. Hank is streaking away from me. I scrabble to my feet, panicked and breathless, oh God, oh God, he’s out of sight now—he’s—he’s—where is he?

  I dash back for the welly, yank it on, and run. I have never run harder in my whole entire life. After a few minutes of entirely random sprinting, my crisis-control impulse kicks in and I realize I’d be better off running in at least a slightly methodical pattern, so I work my way in a zigzag across the fields, gasping for breath. At some point I start to cry, which does not make it easier to run at speed, and eventually, when almost an hour has passed, I collapse underneath a tree and sob.

  I’ve lost Jackson’s dog. Filling in for my grandma was supposed to be easy, and restful, and something I could not suck at. But this is awful. God knows what could happen to Hank out there. What if he reaches a main road? What if—what if something eats him? Does anything in the Yorkshire Dales eat puppies? Oh, God, why the hell am I crying so much?

  I get up again after a few moments, because sitting still is even worse than running. I yell his name over and over, but it’s so windy I can barely even hear myself. One week ago, I was standing in a boardroom delivering a sixteen-point plan for ensuring stakeholder buy-in when facilitating a corporate change initiative. Now, I am weeping in a field and screaming the word “Hank” over and over into the wind with my feet rubbed raw and my hair—no doubt an absolutely fecking bird’s nest by now—hitting me repeatedly in the face. I can’t help thinking that I am coping with this extraordinarily badly. I’m normally good in an emergency, aren’t I? I’m sure Rebecca said that in my last appraisal?

  I cling to this thought. I breathe as steadily as I can. There’s nothing else for it: I have to go back to Hamleigh. I don’t have Jackson’s number (huge oversight—what was I thinking?), and he needs to know what’s happened.

  I feel sick. He’s going to hate me. Obviously. I hate me right now. Oh, poor Hank, out there in the fields—he probably hasn’t a clue what to do with himself now he’s realized he’s lost me. I’m really sobbing—it’s quite hard to breathe. I need to get a grip on myself. Come on. Come on, what’s the matter with me?

  I thought the walk through Hamleigh was bad on the way here, but this is a hundred times worse. Silent eyes watch me from windows and doorways. A child points at me across the street and yells, “It’s Stig of the Dump, Mam!” Roland whirs by on his mobility scooter again, then double takes when he comes level with me.

  “Where’s Hank?” he calls.

  “I lost him,” I choke.

  He gasps. “Good God!”

  I grit my teeth and keep walking.

  “We must send out a search party!” Roland says. “We must call a village committee meeting at once! I’ll speak to Betsy.”

  Oh, God, not Betsy.

  “I need to speak to Jackson,” I say, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Please. Let me talk to him before you speak to Betsy.”

  But Roland is busy performing a very slow three-point turn and doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “Let me speak to Jackson first!” I yell.

  “Don’t you fret, Leena, we’ll find Hank!” Roland calls over his shoulder, then he buzzes off again.

  I swear and trudge on. I’m trying to run through exactly what to say to Jackson, but it turns out there is absolutely no good way to tell somebody you have lost their dog, and running the conversation over and over is making me feel more and more nauseous. By the time I get to his front door I am in the exact state of nervous tension I enter just before a big presentation, which, based on recent form, presumably means I’m about to have a panic attack.

  I ring the doorbell, then belatedly remember the key in my pocket. Oh, God, Jackson’s probably already left for work—am I going to have to go to the village school to tell him I lost his dog? This is not a conversation I want to have in front of a classroom full of small children.

  But, to my surprise, Jackson opens the door.

  I have an overpowering sense of déjà vu. Scrabble of paws, falling backward, dog licking face, owner looming over us—

  “Hank!” I shriek, burying my face in his fur and holding him as tightly as I can, given he’s moving like a bucking bronco. “Hank! Oh, my God, I thought…”

  I become aware of Jackson’s eyes on me. I look up.

  He looks very big. He was big before, but now he’s really … owning it. He doesn’t look like an affable giant now, more like a man who could end a bar brawl with one low, careful word.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Jackson,” I say, as Hank clambers all over me, paws smearing new layers of mud on my filthy jeans. “Please believe me. I didn’t let him off on purpose, he just got away from me. I’m sorry. I thought I was prepared, but … I’m so sorry. Are you late for school now?”

  “I called in when the vicar phoned to say she’d seen Hank trotting down Peewit Street. The head’s covering my class.”

>   I bury my face in Hank’s fur.

  “Are you all right?” Jackson asks.

  “Am I all right?” I say, voice muffled.

  “You seem … a bit … err…”

  “Of a fucking state?”

  Jackson’s eyes widen fractionally. “Not what I was going to say.”

  I look up; his expression has softened, and he leans against the doorframe.

  “I’m fine,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “I really do feel terrible—I should have been more careful.”

  “Look, no harm done,” Jackson says. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  Hank begins a very thorough survey of my wellies, sniffing wildly, and intermittently whacking me with his tail.

  “You don’t have to be nice,” I say, dodging the tail. “You can be angry with me. I deserve it.”

  Jackson looks puzzled. “I was angry, but then … You said sorry, didn’t you?”

  “Well yeah, but…”

  Jackson watches as I push myself up and make a vague attempt to brush the dirt off my jeans.

  “You’re forgiven, if that’s what you’re after,” he says. “Hank’s a little bugger anyway, shouldn’t have let him loose on you.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I say, trying to pull myself together.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No,” I say, with determination. “I do. Just name a job and I’ll do it. Cleaning classrooms at the school? Or do you need any help with admin? I’m really good at admin.”

  “Are you looking for some sort of … detention?” he asks, tilting his head, bemused.

  “I really messed up,” I say, frustrated now. “I’m just trying to fix it.”

  “It’s fixed.” Jackson pauses. “But if you really want a job to do, one of the classrooms does need a lick of paint. I could do with a hand on that.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I say. “Just name a time and I’m there.”

  “OK. I’ll let you know.” He ducks down to crouch beside Hank, scratching his ears, then glances up at me. “You’re all right, Leena. It’s fine. He’s all under control again, see?”