The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  I click the link below his message. A video pops up. It’s a cat, eating its way through a large patch of pansies.

  I burst out laughing, surprising myself.

  EileenCotton79 says: This proves nothing, Arnold Macintyre!

  Arnold1234 says: There are bags of these cat videos on the Internet. I’ve been watching them for hours.

  EileenCotton79 says: Have you seen the one with the piano?

  Arnold1234 says: Brilliant, isn’t it?

  I laugh.

  EileenCotton79 says: I thought you didn’t like cats.

  Arnold1234 says: I don’t. But whatever you think, Eileen, I’m not a monster, and only a monster could fail to be amused by a cat who plays the piano.

  EileenCotton79 says: I don’t think you’re a monster. Just a grumpy old man.

  The dot dot dot lasts forever. Arnold types so slowly. While I wait, I go back to his profile page. There’s still very little detail there, but he has added a profile picture now, a shot of him grinning in the sunshine with a straw hat covering his balding head. I smile. He looks very Arnold-like, and I feel a bit guilty about my decade-old picture, taken in very flattering light.

  Arnold1234 says: I’m not grumpy all the time, you know.

  EileenCotton79 says: Just when I’m there, then …

  Arnold1234 says: You ARE quite infuriating.

  EileenCotton79 says: Who, me?

  Arnold1234 says: And you can be a bit on the petty side.

  EileenCotton79 says: Petty! When??

  Arnold1234 says: When we found out my shed stretched a little over our boundary line and you made me rebuild the whole bloody thing on the other side of the garden.

  I make a face. I did do that, I must admit. Arnold was apoplectic, it was ever so funny.

  EileenCotton79 says: Property laws must be respected, Arnold. Otherwise, as my new friend Fitz likes to say … what separates us from the animals?

  Arnold1234 says: New friend, eh?

  EileenCotton79 says: Yes …

  Arnold1234 says: New FRIEND, eh?

  I laugh as the penny drops.

  EileenCotton79 says: Fitz? He lives with Leena! He’s young enough to be my grandson!

  Arnold1234 says: Good.

  Arnold1234 says: I mean, it’s good that you’ve made friends with her housemate. What’s their house like, then?

  Belatedly I remember there’s one more message waiting for me. This one is from Howard.

  OldCountryBoy says: Hello, dearest Eileen! I’ve just finished reading The Mousetrap, since you said it was one of your favorites, and I must say I loved it too. What an ending!

  Something warm blooms in my chest. I start typing back. Howard’s always so attentive. It’s rare to find a man who’s more interested in listening than talking. We’ve discussed all sorts of things on this website—I’ve told him about my family, my friends, even Wade. He was very sweet and said Wade was a fool for letting me go, which I wholeheartedly agree with, I must say.

  Arnold’s next message pops up, but I press the minus button to shrink it away again.

  23

  Leena

  When the doorbell rings I’ve only just got out the shower; I quickly tug on some jeans and an old blue shirt of Grandma’s. It’s probably just Arnold—he pops in for a cup of tea from time to time now, and, after much frustrated insistence from me, has started coming to the front door instead of the kitchen window. My hair drips down my back as I dash down the hall, still buttoning the shirt.

  When I reach the door, I discover that it is not Arnold. It’s Hank. Or rather, it’s Jackson and Hank, but Hank really demands my attention first, standing on his hind legs at the full extent of his lead, desperately trying to reach me.

  “Hello,” I say, as Jackson pulls Hank back into a sitting position. I hurriedly finish my buttons. “This is a surprise!”

  “Do you want to come for a walk with me and Hank?” Jackson says. His cheeks flush a little. “This is a peace offering, in case you couldn’t tell. From Hank, I mean.”

  “I … Yes!” I say. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Hank.” I do a weird sort of bow to the dog, then try to move on very quickly as though that didn’t happen. “Just let me…” I point to my head, then, realizing this might not be sufficient: “My hair needs sorting.”

  Jackson looks at my hair. “Oh, right. We’ll wait.”

  “Come in,” I tell him, as I head back inside. “The kettle’s still warm if you fancy a drink. Oh, does Hank want one? There are plastic bowls under the sink.”

  “Thanks,” Jackson calls.

  Drying my hair usually takes a good half an hour, so that’s clearly not an option. In front of Grandma’s living room mirror, with Ant/Dec weaving between my ankles, I scrape it up into the bun I wear for work instead—though, Christ, this is uncomfortable on the scalp. Do I really wear it like this every day? It’s like having someone pulling my hair at all times. Never mind, it’ll have to do.

  “Did I leave my phone in there?” I call. I’ve grown accustomed to the solid, heavy weight of Grandma’s Nokia in the back pocket of my jeans; I wonder if it’ll take me a while to get used to my iPhone again when I go back to London.

  I drop my chin to finish tying the bun, and when I lift my head Jackson’s there, his face a little different in the mirror, that crooked nose bending the other way.

  I turn to face him; he smiles, holding out Grandma’s phone. “You getting used to this old brick, then, are—”

  There’s a noise somewhere between a meow and the sound that a birthing cow might make. Ant/Dec streaks by, and then, in a flash of black fur, Hank comes bounding between us, nose outstretched, the cat in his sights, his path cutting directly across in front of Jackson’s shins, so that mid-step Jackson finds his left leg connecting with a fast-moving puppy and the phone in his hand goes soaring and—

  Oof. He tumbles forward into my arms, or rather he would tumble into my arms, except for the fact that he probably weighs twice as much as I do. It’s more like being on the wrong side of a falling tree. The back of my head connects with the cold mirror, my back heel with the skirting board, and Jackson’s pinned me against the wall, his right arm taking the brunt of his weight, his belt buckle pushing hard into my stomach.

  For the briefest moment we’re body to body, the lengths of us pressed close. My face is against his chest, turned aside so my ear can hear the thud of his heart. His arms frame me, and as he pulls back, his chest brushes my breasts. I breathe in sharply as the sensation zings. My cheeks flush; I should have worn a bra under this shirt.

  Our eyes lock as he pushes off the wall, and he pauses there, arms braced on either side of me. His irises are speckled with darker flecks, and there are sandy freckles just beneath his eyes, too pale to see from far away. I find myself thinking about the muscles standing out in his arms, the way his T-shirt pulls across his broad shoulders, how it would feel to—

  Hank licks my bare foot. I squeal, and the stillness between me and Jackson becomes a frenzy of awkward motion: he pushes off the wall and shoots backward as I duck to the side and busy myself fetching Grandma’s phone. Ant/Dec seems to have escaped unscathed; Hank is wagging his way around me, tongue out, as if I might produce another cat for him to chase if he hangs around a while.

  “Are you all right?” I ask Jackson, twisting the phone between my hands. I’ve left it an awkwardly long time to meet his eyes again—I drag my gaze to his face and find him looking slightly ashen, fixed to the spot a few feet away.

  “Aye, yes,” he says, in a strangled voice. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries! No worries at all!” Too much exclaiming. Stop exclaiming. “Shall we head out?”

  “Aye. Yes. Good idea.”

  We make our way out of the house and down Middling Lane. We’re both walking extremely quickly. Too quickly to talk comfortably. Perfect. Silence is just what I’m after right now.

  The walking seems to be working out some of the awkward tension between us. Hank�
�s loving it—he’s trotting right at Jackson’s side, tail wagging. I take a deep breath of crisp, spring air as the Dales open out ahead of us. I can smell the sweetness of something blossoming in the hedgerows, hear the chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff of the little birds darting between tree branches above us. The beauty of nature. Yes. Focus on the beauty of nature, Leena, not the sensation of Jackson’s broad, muscled body rubbing against your nipples.

  “You ready to take him?” Jackson asks, nodding in Hank’s direction.

  I clear my throat. “Yes! Sure!”

  “Here.” He reaches into his back pocket and produces a dog treat. Hank smells it right away—he lifts his nose and glances toward us.

  “Try saying ‘heel,’” Jackson tells me.

  “Heel, Hank,” I say.

  Hank drops into step, looking up at me with the adoring expression I thought he reserved for Jackson. Turns out it’s all about the chicken treats. I am much cheered by this.

  “Hey, look at that!” I say, looking over at Jackson.

  He smiles back at me, dimples showing, then his gaze slides away, uncomfortable.

  We walk on; our footsteps are the only sound I can hear now, aside from the warbling birds. Hank is doing brilliantly, though I’m gripping the lead very tightly, just in case. Jackson takes us back on a route I don’t know, passing through beautiful dense, cool woodland to the east of the village, until we’re within sight of Hamleigh again. From here you can see the little cul-de-sac where Betsy lives, five or six white, blockish houses with their faces turned our way, windows blinking in the light.

  “You’re doing that thinking thing again, aren’t you?” Jackson says, looking at me sideways.

  “Do you honestly not think? As in, if you’re walking around, you’re just thinking of nothing?”

  Jackson shrugs. “If nothing needs thinking about, yeah.”

  Astonishing. “I was thinking about Betsy, actually,” I say. “I wonder … I worry about her a bit.”

  “Mmm. We all do.”

  “Arnold said that too, but … why hasn’t anyone done anything then?” I ask. “Do you think Cliff treats her badly? Should we be helping her leave him? Offering her a spare room? Doing something?”

  Jackson’s shaking his head. “It’s about what Betsy wants,” he says. “And she doesn’t want any of that.”

  “She’s lived with the man for decades—if he has been mistreating her, how can you know she knows what she wants?”

  Jackson blinks at me, registering this. “What would you suggest?” he asks.

  “I want to go around to see her.”

  “She’ll never invite you in. Even Eileen never gets to go into Betsy’s house.”

  “No way!”

  Jackson nods. “Far as I’m aware. Cliff doesn’t like visitors.”

  I grit my teeth. “Well. All right. How about we enlist a little help from Hank?”

  * * *

  “Betsy, I’m so sorry,” I say, “but I think Hank’s in your garden.”

  Betsy blinks at me through the inch gap in the door. Her house isn’t at all what I’d expected. I thought it’d be all twee roses and perfectly polished doorsteps, but the house’s gutters are hanging loose and the windowsills are peeling. It looks sad and unloved.

  “Hank? Jackson’s dog? How on earth did he get into our garden?”

  Well, by me picking him up, Jackson giving me a boost, and me dropping Hank from a possibly quite dangerous height into the relatively soft landing of a large shrub.

  “I really don’t know,” I say, spreading my hands helplessly. “That dog can wriggle his way in and out of everywhere.”

  Betsy looks behind her. God knows what Hank is currently doing to her garden.

  “I’ll go and get him,” she says, and closes the door in my face.

  Shit. I look behind me and whistle between my teeth; after a long moment Jackson appears at the end of the path to Betsy’s front door.

  “She’s gone to get him!” I hiss.

  Jackson waves a hand. “She won’t be able to catch him,” he says comfortably. “Just stay put.”

  I turn back to the door, tapping my foot. After about five minutes the door opens a crack and Betsy’s head appears. She looks a bit more disheveled than she did last time.

  “You’ll have to come through and get him yourself,” she says quietly. She glances behind her again. She seems older, more hunched, but maybe it’s the setting of the worn-out house. The hall carpet is threadbare and stained; the lampshade hangs wonkily, casting strange lopsided shadows on the beige walls.

  “Betsy!” yells a gruff male voice from somewhere within the house.

  Betsy jumps. It’s not a normal jump, the kind you do when you’re startled. It’s more like a flinch.

  “One moment, love!” she calls. “A dog’s just got loose in the garden, but I’m getting it sorted! Come on through,” she whispers to me, ushering me past the closed door to our left and into the small, dark kitchen.

  There’s a door leading out into the garden; it swings open, and through it I can see Hank tearing through the flowerbeds. I feel a bit guilty. The garden is the one part of this place that actually looks cared for—the shrubs are carefully pruned and there are hanging pots on each fence post, overflowing with pansies and pale-green ivy.

  “How are you, Betsy?” I say, turning to have another look at her. I’d never noticed how thin her hair is, how the whitish-pink of her scalp shows between the strands. There’s thick, peach-colored foundation caked under her eyes and gathering in the lines around her mouth.

  “I’m well, thank you,” Betsy says, pulling the kitchen door closed firmly behind her. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting that dog out of my garden?”

  I look outside again and wince: the dog is currently digging a hole in the middle of Betsy’s lawn. I should probably put a stop to that.

  “Hank! Hank, come!” I call, and then—this is the part Jackson gave me very firm instructions on—I crinkle the plastic packet of dog treats in one hand.

  Hank’s head shoots up and he freezes mid-dig. Within half a second, he’s bounding toward me. Betsy lets out a tiny shriek, but I am prepared: I grab him before he can change his mind, and fix the lead to his collar. He continues bouncing about undeterred—once he’s collected his snack, of course—and I swivel to avoid him completely entangling me in the lead.

  I can sort of see what Jackson means, now: Betsy isn’t OK, is she, but what can I do to make her say it? This may not have been my finest plan. It’s very hard to have a personal conversation with somebody when you’re also trying to stop a Labrador from licking their face.

  “And you’re sure everything is all right?” I try, as Hank redirects his attention from Betsy to the bin.

  “Everything is fine, thank you, Leena,” Betsy says.

  “Betsy, what the bloody hell’s going on?” yells a gruff male voice.

  Betsy stiffens. Her eyes flick to mine, then away.

  “Nothing, love,” she calls loudly. “Be with you in a moment.”

  “Is there somebody in here? Did you let somebody in?” A beat, then, low, like a warning: “You didn’t let somebody in, did you, now, Betsy?”

  “No!” Betsy says, eyes flicking to mine again. “Nobody here but me, Cliff.”

  My heart thumps. I’ve gone cold.

  “Betsy,” I begin, my voice low. I give Hank a hard yank on the lead and tell him very sternly to sit; blessedly, this time, he does. “Betsy, he shouldn’t speak to you like that. And you should be allowed to have friends around. It’s your house as much as his.”

  Betsy moves then, out into the garden, leading me to the passage running from the front to the back garden. “Goodbye, Leena,” she says quietly, unbolting the gate.

  “Betsy—please, if there’s anything I can do to help you…”

  “Betsy … I can hear voices, Betsy…” comes Cliff’s voice from inside. Even I flinch this time.

  Betsy meets my gaze square on. “You’re on
e to talk about needing help,” she hisses. “Sort your own life out before you come in here and try to fix mine, Miss Cotton.”

  She steps aside. Hank strains beside me, eyes on the pathway through the open gate.

  “If you change your mind, call me.”

  “You just don’t take a hint, do you? Out.” She nods to the gate as if she’s talking to the dog.

  “You deserve better than this. And it’s never too late to have the life you deserve, Betsy.”

  With that, I go. The gate clicks shut quietly behind me.

  * * *

  I hate how little I can do for Betsy. The next day, I research local services that offer support for women who are in controlling relationships—I can’t find much that’s specific to older people, but I think there are some resources that might still help her, and I print them off, carrying them in my rucksack whenever I’m out in the village, just in case. But as the week passes, she’s still as frosty as ever, and every time I try to speak to her she shuts me down.

  I don’t have much time left here. It’s May Day next weekend, then I’ll be back to London, and back to work the week after that. There is an email from Rebecca in my inbox to discuss which project I’ll be working on when I return to the office. I keep opening the email and staring at it—it feels as though it’s meant for somebody else.

  For now, I’m just focusing on May Day. The final elements of the festival are falling into place. I have sourced a hog roast, I have worked out how to fix five hundred lanterns to the trees around the field where the main bonfire will be, and I have personally transported six bags of biodegradable green glitter to the village hall so that it can be scattered along the parade route. (That, it turns out, was what glitter meant on the to-do list Betsy gave me. My protestations that glitter is not very medieval were met with a firm “it’s traditional.”)

  I can’t step in and try to help Betsy without her consent, but I can help her coordinate a large-scale project.

  And there’s something else I can do, too.