Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

by Lucy Dillon

  Rachel paused to let the lurch in her chest subside; it wasn’t hormones, it was a sudden longing for a man who seemed decent and strong. What kind of a mother was she going to be, after all? She had no idea. But they couldn’t pretend to have a bond they hadn’t had time to forge yet, and she hadn’t turned her back on her old life of lies to start a new life based on a different sort of deception, even if it was for the right reasons.

  ‘So where does this leave us?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to, just because you feel you should.’ Rachel pressed the tip of her tongue against her front teeth until it hurt. ‘In fact, it might be better if I just left. I’ve had a few days to think about this – it’s only fair to give you the same.’

  ‘Rachel, please . . .’

  It felt odd, hearing him say her name. She pushed her chair back, aware that she was making it all worse. ‘I’m going to go. I’m sorry about dinner, it smells lovely. Gem?’

  George was standing now too. ‘If that’s what you want . . .’ he began.

  ‘It is.’ It wasn’t. What she wanted was for him to sweep her into his arms and tell her it was all going to be fine, that they were meant to be together and that Dot had fated the whole thing, but she was too adult to believe that, and so was he.

  Gem got up reluctantly from the basket, teetering onto his long legs and looking between the two of them with sleepy eyes, as if to say, why are we leaving so soon?

  ‘Come on,’ she said, reaching out her hand to the collie.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ said George. He shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what the right thing to say is. I’m just . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Rachel, unhappily. The evening felt spoiled now. Curdled, like milk left out thoughtlessly. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ George followed her to the door, and as she left, he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, but Rachel didn’t see it coming, and moved away to nudge Gem away from a hedgehog curled by the front step.

  By the time she realised what she’d done, the kiss had withered in the air and George raised an awkward hand to wave goodbye.

  Proper morning sickness set in a few days later, along with extreme exhaustion and a desire to throw up at the mere sight of the dogs’ Butcher’s Tripe Mix.

  Poor Megan was still convinced it was her flu bug that was making Rachel turn green, and wanted to let her off all kennel duties until she felt better.

  ‘Stay in bed,’ she pleaded, when Rachel dragged herself into the kitchen at eight, unwoken by the usual cup of tea. ‘Please! I feel bad enough already without making you do walking.’

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ Rachel sorted through the post on the pine table. ‘There’s so much to do, I can’t let you . . . Oooh.’ She gripped the chair and sat down heavily as a wave of nausea swept through her. ‘’Scuse me. Did you have a bacon sandwich this morning?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’ Megan eyed her anxiously. ‘You’re sure you won’t go back to bed? Freda will be here any minute and the sixth-former volunteers are in today.’

  ‘I’m sure. I’ve got a lot I need to get through.’

  ‘Ooh, with Open Day stuff?’ Megan’s face brightened. She was even more enthusiastic about the Open Day than Rachel and Natalie, and was convinced the pair of them were hotshot business geniuses to have come up with it. ‘I had a brainwave – Freda can do a bacon sandwiches stall! We could sell them for two pounds, and then tell everyone they’re free when you volunteer for dog walking!’

  Rachel swallowed hard at the thought. ‘That’s a great idea, Megan. Do you want to stick it on the ideas board?’

  As Megan happily scrawled it on the whiteboard by the door, Rachel sorted the junk from the post. It was mainly supermarket offers and feed catalogues, but Rachel spotted a couple of official-looking letters in there too, and her heart sank. Things were moving on the probate front; she’d sworn whatever it was she was supposed to swear to, and Gerald Flint had warned her that the inheritance tax bill would be on its way.

  She took a deep breath and opened the brown envelope, then gasped when she saw what the tax liability was.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Megan.

  ‘Depends.’ That was what Gerald had said when the final valuations had been submitted by the estate agent – ‘There’s good news and bad news, Rachel.’ The good news was that she didn’t have to pay any tax on the kennels because they were a business, and also that the estate agent had put an astonishing value on the land behind the house.

  The bad news was, of course, that the tax Rachel would have to pay was truly enormous. Nearly two hundred thousand pounds, according to this invoice.

  She closed her eyes, then opened them. The horrific amount was still there. Her heart sank as she read the details: she had to pay an instalment now, with the rest to follow within twelve months, and then the house, the field, the outbuildings that were apparently worth so much money, the silver hairbrushes, the Acker Bilk albums and the rest of Dot’s life would be hers.

  To pay the bill, she would need to sell the house. To sell the house, she would need to pay the bill. It was like Alice in Wonderland logic, and Rachel’s brain wasn’t up to it.

  She stuffed the letter into her big desk diary on the table and turned as cheerfully as she could to Megan.

  ‘So! I reckon some fresh air would be good for me! What needs walking? Slowly?’

  The relentless routine of the kennels kept Rachel’s mind off the sickness and the inheritance tax for the next few days, but she couldn’t help noticing that George still hadn’t rung, or dropped in, and that Natalie hadn’t been up with Bertie since the day she’d given her the test.

  Rachel missed Natalie’s calm company at the kitchen table. She had a feeling the inheritance tax bill would be dispatched with a few pragmatic business suggestions, once Natalie had glanced at it. She looked out for Natalie’s red jacket while she was walking the dogs, and did think about calling her, to say that Gerald Flint had told her that they could go ahead and arrange the Open Day for the kennels whenever she liked.

  But her hand had frozen on the telephone, because Rachel knew she’d have to tell her about the baby. And Rachel didn’t want to lie to Natalie.

  It’s still early days, she thought, throwing ball after ball for the Staffies in the orchard. According to the leaflets and the internet doom-mongers, you weren’t meant to tell anyone for three months, in case something went wrong, and at her age all sorts of stuff could go wrong. Rachel had actually turned off the internet one night, she was so freaked out.

  Val. She’d have to tell Val very soon too. That could wait a few weeks as well. Once she told Val, that would be it. The explanations, the worrying, the drama – it would all start. And if it went wrong . . .

  There were some secrets she’d prefer to bottle up herself, than have them paraded around the family like a badge of tragedy. Poor Rachel. She was poor Rachel already.

  Loneliness washed over her like a wave, and when she looked down at the eager little faces of the terriers, so easy to please, she felt like crying.

  She let Megan have Wednesday evening off, since she was feeling so much better at night, and went to sit in the kennel office, where she could keep an ear out for the dogs and make herself look again at the letter from the Inland Revenue.

  Rachel didn’t admit to herself that she felt better with some canine company, and Radio Four burbling away in the background.

  She pressed her palms against her eyes and forced herself to be practical. She could just about manage the first payment, by selling Dot’s diamond necklace, all her own jewellery and cashing in every single investment she’d managed to make in her life. But the second part? What else could she sell? The house to pay for the kennels, or the kennels to pay for the house?

  Rachel dug out her address book and called a university friend who worked in financial services, who talked her through various options, none of which filled her with much hope.
Reading between the lines of what the estate agent had said about the survey, it would be easier to knock Four Oaks down and sell the land to developers than start modernising a property that had some fairly serious issues. And mortgages weren’t that easy to come by, when you were an unemployed PR manager with a kennels that hadn’t made a profit for seven years.

  Gem snoozed at her feet, his muzzle occasionally twitching. Could she pimp him out to a TV company, she wondered? Could she pitch the whole ‘I’ve been left a kennels I can’t pay for’ idea to Channel Four?

  The kennel doorbell jangled, and when she went to answer it, George was standing there with a plastic dog carrier, looking as he always did when he had a delivery – efficient but cross with the world. Rachel felt a strange mixture of awkwardness and relief.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Rachel tried to look normal. ‘Is it some supper?’

  ‘Not exactly. Unless you like sausage dogs.’ He came in, and Rachel heard faint whimpering noises from the carrier. ‘It’s a dachshund.’

  Gem’s ears pricked up at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t been asleep at all.

  ‘Oh, right. Should I call Megan? It’s her night off.’ Rachel turned to the phone, but George waved her away.

  ‘No need. I’m sure you can do the paperwork, that’s all he needs. I’ve given him his shots up at the surgery, cleaned him up, but I wouldn’t put him in with the others just yet. He’s terrified, poor chap.’ George’s voice softened. ‘He was obviously someone’s pet, but one of the farmers up by Rosehill found him in his barn, all covered in scabs. They’re hunting dogs but this one’s probably never even seen a rat before, let alone tried to catch one.’

  He peered through the mesh door of the carry case. ‘I reckon they made a better job of nibbling him than he did of them.’

  ‘I just don’t understand how people can be so cruel.’ Rachel pushed her fringe off her face and tried not to let George see the distress in her eyes. No wonder Dot gave up on make-up once she came here, she thought. She probably cried it all off.

  ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No, I’m just hormonal.’ She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and made a note to ask Natalie where she could get a reliable eyelash dye. ‘Is he OK to pick up?’

  ‘Nope. He’s very scared.’ George put the carry case down on the floor next to the spare basket. ‘Just let him come out of his own accord. Pretend you can’t see him.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee? Now you’re here?’ Rachel went through to the kitchen, taking care not to go too near the plastic case. ‘I’ve only got decaff, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sounds fine. I didn’t expect to find you in here.’ George stepped through and leaned against the mini-fridge, keeping one eye on the office, where a wet nose was now sticking out of the case. ‘Shouldn’t you be sitting with your feet up reading What Mum?’

  It was a tentative start, more like their old banter. ‘No, What Mum? is all internet-based these days. And I’ve got paperwork to do.’

  ‘You could be doing it in the comfort of your own home,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I don’t want Megan to see it.’ Rachel sighed. ‘It’s the inheritance tax thing. I’ve got the most enormous bill to pay.’

  ‘How enormous? Queen Mother enormous?’

  The kettle started to boil and Rachel spooned coffee into the mugs. ‘Big enough to be a nightmare.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ said George. ‘But how? It’s a nice house and everything, but, is there a gold mine in the back field?’

  ‘Almost. There’s more land than I thought, but Dot – or Dot’s solicitors – applied for planning permission to turn one of the old barns into accommodation for future kennel staff.’ She returned George’s look of surprise. ‘I know. She just never got round to it. Anyway, land plus planning permission round here is worth a fortune, apparently, which is great, only I’ll have to sell the house to pay the tax on it.’

  ‘Get a mortgage. You’ll be a homeowner.’

  ‘Apparently it won’t be that easy.’ Rachel passed George a mug. ‘According to the survey, even the mice wear hard hats in the cellar.’

  George sipped his coffee and made a face.

  ‘What?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Your coffee making. It’s as terrible as the rest of your cooking. Milk, please.’ She passed the carton and he stirred in some more.

  The dachshund had crept out of the travel case, and was sniffing timidly around the office. Rachel was shocked to see how half-starved he was; the ribs of his tiny barrel chest nearly poked through the dull coat that should have gleamed like a chestnut. Gem remained at a distance, but alert, clearly in charge, and slowly the smaller dog began to approach him, his tail lowered in desperate submission. Her chest ached, but she kept herself from reaching out, letting him find his own way.

  ‘You could always get an investor,’ suggested George. ‘I thought that was what this great Open Day plan was about, raising some cash?’

  Rachel shook her head. Suddenly the Open Day and its little stalls and competitions seemed pretty pointless. ‘It’s a drop in the ocean. Kennel sponsors will cover the daily running costs, but it doesn’t solve the bigger problem of where I’m going to lay my hands on a hundred grand to keep the place.’

  ‘Get an investor,’ George repeated, so emphatically Rachel looked more closely at his face. ‘Someone who’s already got a vested interest.’

  ‘You’re offering?’ she asked, only half-joking.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘A hundred grand?’

  ‘I think you underestimate how much vets earn,’ he said, pretending to be offended.

  Rachel put down her coffee and looked him in the eye. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve seen your invoices. Thanks, but I’m not sure it’d be a good idea. I barely know you.’

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘It’s a sensible business proposition, from my point of view. Plus I spend so much unbilled time here anyway . . .’

  ‘Is this about the baby?’ Rachel could feel doors closing around her.

  ‘Partly.’ George didn’t bother to lie. ‘Look, we need to talk about that properly. Is that a terrible thing, wanting to help you?’ He paused. ‘I mean, it’s in my interests in all sorts of ways. That you’re here, and not stressed out. Isn’t it better to put things on a business footing? Then you know where you are?’

  ‘No.’ Rachel got up and turned away, because she knew she sounded ungrateful, and churlish, but she couldn’t help it. She’d been her own person for too long. This, on top of the baby, was just too much to get her head around. ‘I can’t let you do that. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t turn away from me. I’ve been thinking about everything you said.’ George turned her back round and left his hands resting lightly on her arms. ‘I haven’t done anything else, to be honest. I know I didn’t react the way you wanted, and I’m sorry. Really.’

  ‘It doesn’t . . .’ she began, but he stopped her.

  ‘Of course it matters. You’re right. I’m not going to pretend I know what to do, because I don’t. I’ve been on my own for forty-odd years and yes, I’m a selfish old bachelor. But I’ll do whatever you want.’ He fixed her with his honest eyes. ‘When you work out what that is, I mean. We’re getting on all right so far, aren’t we?’

  She nodded, then pulled away to sit back down at the small table, stacked high with clean metal dog bowls. ‘I don’t mean to be so difficult,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just painfully aware that I’m making this up as I go along.’

  George pulled out a chair and sat next to her. He was close, and Rachel felt comforted. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘But we’re two intelligent, reasonable adults. And we can only do our best.’

  It was a simple thing, but the way he said it made Rachel think of her dad. He’d never asked anything of her but her best try, and that had been a bigger spur than any amount of bribes or th
reats. Her mum – well, Val had operated on a complicated system of disappointment that had only resulted in Rachel moving to London where raging bosses were easy to deal with in comparison.

  She took a few deep breaths, letting the delicate mood sink in, and George slid his hand across the table, to curl his fingers around hers.

  He waited a minute or so, as if he was considering the right thing to say, and then spoke, very softly. ‘It’s no one’s business,’ he said, ‘but when people ask about the baby, I’d like you to say it’s mine. I mean, ours. I’ll deal with any stupid questions.’

  Rachel smiled quickly, then looked back down at their hands on the table, his chapped fingers rough against her pale skin.

  She heard something move in the office, and turned her head. The dachshund was sniffing the water bowl in the corner, flinching as if it expected something to jump out. Gem kept well back, watching in silence, and then as Rachel held her breath, it began to lap at the bowl with a pink tongue, slowly at first, and then faster, as if it hadn’t drunk properly in months.

  22

  Johnny snapped out of his black mood – or he seemed to – but in the days that followed his second sperm test Natalie could tell he wasn’t back to his usual self. He lapsed into silences for no reason, and changed the television channel when anything to do with babies came on. She tried talking about their summer holiday, which they normally spent weeks deliberating over, covering the sofa with travel guides and magazine articles ripped out of the Sunday papers, but he just shrugged and looked evasive.

  ‘It’s a long way off yet,’ he’d said, even though they usually booked by April. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’

  Natalie had wanted to yell, see how what goes? But she hadn’t, just in case he was thinking about fertility treatment. She hadn’t told him yet about the letter from their NHS trust, putting them on a waiting list which could take ‘up to a year’ to get round to them. That was enough time to broach the subject again, she thought. Let him come to terms with needing it first.