Creature Comforts

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘No, but I thought Cam had been quiet these last few days! He must have been busy moving, though I do know about the art gallery he’s trying to set up.’

  Cam, after teaching art in a London inner-city school, had returned to Halfhidden to live with his widowed mother a few months ago, intending to create a studio and art gallery in the old garage next to her shop.

  ‘Jonas is into his nineties now and his rheumatism was playing him up, so he’s better living with his daughter. And Cam will take over the Lady Spring from his uncle one of these days anyway … or he should do, though of course it’s tied to the Sweetwell estate, like Dan Clew’s cottage, so until the new owner makes his presence felt, we don’t know what he intends.’

  ‘He can’t change how things are at the Lady Spring, because that’s how it’s always been,’ I said quickly. ‘They pay a peppercorn rent for the cottage, I remember Tom telling me once.’

  ‘Yes, they’re the guardians of the Spring, so long as there’s a male Tamblyn to carry on, as I understand it,’ Judy said.

  ‘Well, he is a Tamblyn, it’s even his middle name – Cameron Tamblyn Ross,’ I said.

  ‘There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort Farm,’ Judy said deeply, and then we both giggled, for a love of reading was something we shared.

  The tractor finally rumbled off up a farm track just before the pub and Judy paused the car briefly so I could admire the huge, freshly painted sign outside, which boldly proclaimed: ‘WELCOME TO ONE OF THE MOST HAUNTED HOTELS IN BRITAIN!’

  ‘Is it?’ I said dubiously. ‘I thought really it only had Howling Hetty’s skull behind the bar, the footsteps on the backstairs at night and one haunted bedchamber.’

  ‘It is now,’ Judy said drily.

  ‘The car park’s empty,’ I commented, as she drove off again.

  ‘Monday’s always quiet, with the weekend visitors gone home and the restaurant closed, and I don’t suppose Tuesday is ever much busier, so it’s a good night for Lulu to talk to everyone.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, though it sounds as if she’d like to fill the hotel every night. She just sent me a text to ask me to go to the Hut early tomorrow to help her set things up for the meeting.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘She didn’t say. I think she wants to surprise me.’

  ‘There are rumours that she’s been going up and down the valley talking to all kinds of people, but if she did, she must have sworn them to silence till the big reveal tomorrow night.’

  The road took a sharp turn between dark hawthorn hedges starred with silvery constellations of blossom, and then began to climb. The dark and densely planted conifers of Sir Lionel Cripchet’s estate, Grimside, crowded up to the backs of the cottages on our left, while the tangled ancient woodland of Sweetwell lay to the right. Oddly, although Cripchet’s estate was well known to be overrun with grey squirrels, they never crossed the road into Sweetwell. Tom Tamblyn always reckoned that this was to do with the taste of the water there, which despite the name is anything but sweet.

  I put my window down and inhaled the familiar scents of home appreciatively. Already spring seemed to have arrived in the valley and all the buds and blooms were bursting forth at once, with bluebells, saffron-yellow gorse and daffodils along the grass verge, and creamy magnolia and bright yellow forsythia in the gardens.

  The cottages edging the lane grew in number for, although Halfhidden straggled all the way up the steep lane to the Summit Alpine Nursery, most of the important buildings, including the tiny church, formed a defensive huddle around the circular Green.

  Here stood the large house from which Cara Ferris’s parents ran their veterinary practice, Lottie Ross’s general shop, and the Hut, a half-brick, half-wooden hall, renovated more than twenty years before by Baz Salcombe in a fit of philanthropy.

  Judy steered the car past the deserted bus shelter where, twice a day at an inconvenient hour, the Middlemoss bus stopped before returning whence it came, and turned between the lichen-scabbed stone gateposts of Sweetwell – and I saw at once that a large sign reading ‘Rufus Carlyle Garden Antiques’ had replaced the ‘Debo’s Desperate Dogs’ one.

  I spotted that a moment later, half-concealed in the shrubbery by the turn-off to the Lodge. Unfortunately, the sign was the only thing that was concealed, for ramshackle kennels and rusty wire pens ran right up to the edge of the drive, and the sound of barking, which had been increasingly audible as we approached the Green, now became deafening.

  ‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Things have expanded a bit since I was last home. How many dogs have you got now?’

  ‘Nearly forty at the last count,’ Judy admitted. ‘Debo can’t seem to say no.’

  The cottage, a low honey-coloured building with windows set under the eaves, looked just the same. The deep scarlet door was flung open as we got out and the tall, slender and elegant figure of Debo, clad in jeans and wellies, was swept out on a wave of Desperate Dogs.

  ‘Darling!’ she cried, tripping over a rat-tailed little white mongrel and practically falling into my arms. ‘Welcome home!’

  Chapter 4: Desperate Dogs

  Sandy, the kennelmaid, loomed silently up and waded into the scrum, chasing all the dogs back towards the kennels in a yapping, noisy pack, and I finally managed to get through the door.

  Debo didn’t let me have time to do more than dump my bags in my old bedroom up in the eaves, before calling me back down to the small sitting room for the council of war.

  Vic and Ginger, the two house dogs, had vanished with the rest, but Babybelle lay like a furry Mont Blanc in front of the empty fireplace.

  ‘Belle refused to go out with the others and she’s too big to drag, unless one pushes and one pulls,’ Judy said, seeing my glance.

  I sat down on one end of a rather hairy sofa and Belle heaved herself up and wearily plodded over, then subsided heavily onto my feet with a sigh. My toes instantly went numb.

  Judy exchanged glances with Debo. ‘There, I told you she’d taken to Izzy.’

  ‘I suppose we’d better try and get her into her kennel before we start, because Sandy will feed them all when she comes back and then Belle will be desperate to get at her dinner. She’ll howl for hours afterwards, too, wanting more food,’ Debo said.

  ‘That must go down well with the neighbours,’ I commented.

  ‘Oh, well, most of them don’t mind and it’s not as if we’re right next to anyone. Dan Clew’s cottage is the nearest and he did report the barking to the council last year, but luckily we didn’t have quite as many dogs in at the time and when they measured the noise, it wasn’t so bad. Anyway, they don’t bark all the time.’

  ‘I’ll get Belle out,’ Judy said, and fetched in a sort of plastic ball with holes in it, filled with doggy treats that Chris, Debo’s canine behavioural specialist, had recommended. I think she could produce an adoring male specialist to provide free advice in any department.

  Babybelle looked up when she heard the food rattle; then, as Judy backed out of the room, she slowly hauled herself to her feet, her eyes fixed longingly on the toy.

  ‘She has to chase it round her run to get the treats out and they’re low calorie, because Judy bakes them herself. Exercise and food – such a good idea,’ Debo said.

  ‘She is huge!’ I commentated as the bear-like creature ambled out.

  ‘Quite a lot of that is fur, because the Newfoundland breed has a special double layer to keep them warm when they’re swimming in the icy sea. And she’s got webbed feet too.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, fascinated. ‘Weird!’

  Debo poured coffee and pushed the milk carton my way. The china was a mismatched collection of thick, white, cheap pottery, one or two remnants of Victorian chintz-patterned loveliness and a couple of eighties Portmeirion plates.

  ‘We can get the biscuits and cake out now without Babybelle bothering us,’ she said happily, opening a tin to reveal Judy’s home-baked pecan biscuits and another containing
the coffee and walnut cake that Judy is convinced is my favourite.

  Debo cut hefty slices from it and took one for herself.

  ‘It’s a miracle you aren’t twenty stone, with the amount of sugary things you eat,’ I said.

  ‘Good metabolism, darling, like you. It’s so lucky you took after my side of the family that way, even if you ended up titchy, like your father.’

  Judy returned, dogless. ‘That should hold her for a while,’ she said, sinking back into her usual wing-back chair. ‘If we can get some more weight off, we should be able to rehome her eventually. She’s good-natured enough with people and other dogs. I’ll miss all that lovely hair for my knitting, though.’

  Since Debo’s Desperate Dogs was a kind of Last Chance Saloon, rescuing dogs that, for one reason or another, were facing being put down, there was a core group of permanent residents who were unlikely to leave, as well as a fluctuating population of arrivals and departures. But recently there appeared to have been a population explosion.

  I said so. ‘I see you’ve had to get Tom to make you some more runs out of old wooden pallets and wire mesh, Debo – they’re right up to the edge of the drive, now!’

  ‘We were bursting at the seams and it’s flat just there. Besides, I had to put them somewhere,’ she said reasonably.

  ‘But you’re only licensed for a certain number, and there wouldn’t be quite so many if you didn’t take in dogs that could be easily found new homes by other charities,’ Judy pointed out.

  ‘But the poor things have had such hard lives that they need a little time and love so they can recover first,’ Debo protested. ‘And anyway, when Baz came back last year – his first flying visit for yonks and he’d put on so much weight that that heart attack was on the cards, Izzy – he didn’t say anything about there being too many dogs, or the kennels spreading round the front just a tiny bit, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind about the extra runs.’

  ‘The new owner of Sweetwell might not be quite so sanguine about having what looks like a shanty town up the side of his drive,’ Judy said.

  This reminded Debo of her grievances and she said indignantly, ‘That will! I’m sure someone must have persuaded Baz not to leave me the Lodge, because he always promised he would. If I had any money, I’d challenge the will on the grounds of undue influence, but he didn’t leave me any of that, either!’

  ‘If you’d had any money, you’d have instantly spent it all on the dogs,’ Judy said. ‘We’ve got so many unpaid bills, we could wallpaper the entire office with them.’

  ‘You have got the Lodge for life, haven’t you?’ I asked. ‘That’s what Daisy said.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the same as owning it outright. I mean, apparently I can’t even make small changes to it without permission from this Carlyle man! And he’s already had my sign taken down from the front gate without asking me first, though I got Tom to put it by the turning to the Lodge instead.’

  ‘I suspect people could find the kennels without a sign,’ I said drily. ‘But I did notice the new one for Rufus Carlyle Garden Antiques – it would be a bit hard to miss, since it’s so big. That’s his name, Carlyle?’

  ‘Yes, Rufus Carlyle. I do vaguely remember Fliss getting pregnant by some man of that name, back in the mid-seventies, because there was a bit of a scandal in the papers. So since he took his name, this Rufus is probably his child and not Baz’s illegitimate son at all. They should check his DNA against Baz’s, before he moves himself and his business in, lock, stock and barrel.’

  ‘I’m not even sure you can do that at this stage, but even if you could I think you’re way too late, because a big removal van passed earlier, while you were out,’ Judy said. ‘Myra says she expects him to arrive any day and she’s spring-cleaned the house ready.’

  Sweetwell Hall was an ancient, long, low, black and white building with a small brick-built Victorian wing blobbed onto one end like an afterthought, in which the younger of Tom Tamblyn’s two sisters, Myra, her husband and their son, Olly, occupied the upper storey. Myra, Sweetwell’s housekeeper, was such a fanatical cleaner that she practically caught the dust before it hit any surface, so the place was probably already buffed and polished to within an inch of its life.

  ‘The outbuildings are full of garden antiques now, lorry-loads of them … whatever they are,’ Debo said. ‘When did you talk to Myra, Judy?’

  ‘I didn’t. Lottie told me when I popped over to the shop for a packet of walnut halves, and she said that Myra was going to make some proper Lancashire hotpots ready for his first dinner in the house, so he could start the way she intended him to go on.’

  ‘I didn’t think she cooked for Baz,’ I said.

  ‘Not often, but she did stock the freezer and fridge, so she had a lot of control over what he ate. He always said he didn’t know why he bothered leaving out a list of things he fancied, because she always ignored it.’

  ‘Presumably they’ve already completely proved this Rufus Carlyle person is Baz’s son, or Baz wouldn’t have acknowledged him in the will,’ I said, returning to the original subject.

  ‘That’s true, Izzy. Baz was easy-going but he wasn’t stupid, and he must have known Fliss Gambol would have said anything if she thought there was money in it,’ Judy said.

  ‘She certainly would,’ Debo agreed, her face darkening. ‘She was always trying to take my boyfriends away … and if she hadn’t drawn your mother back into her crowd after you were born, Izzy, I’m sure she’d still be here with us.’

  ‘Daisy told me all about that,’ I said.

  ‘Lisa was very young for her age and impressionable,’ Debo explained. ‘I always felt I should have taken better care of her.’

  ‘You had a career too, don’t forget, and you did your best,’ Judy told her. ‘I haven’t heard much about Fliss for years – what’s she been doing?’

  ‘I think she’s been on an endless cycle of rehab stays and career relaunches that never quite took off. Now up she pops as the mother of the heir and, reading between the lines of that story she sold to a Sunday rag, she’d let the Carlyle bloke think he was the child’s father until she decided she could get more out of Baz, only a couple of months before he died. I think Baz met Rufus only once – then he goes and leaves Sweetwell to him!’

  ‘Rufus Carlyle is certainly no child,’ Judy said. ‘He must be a year or two older than Izzy, in his late thirties.’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen him and I haven’t,’ Debo said. ‘I was away earning an honest crust both times he came to inspect his windfall, so you’d think he was trying to avoid me. Probably a guilty conscience,’ she added darkly.

  ‘Guilty conscience?’ I asked. ‘If he was really Baz’s son, then I suppose he couldn’t help that.’

  ‘No, but then he must have got round Baz and talked him into leaving him everything, even the things he’d promised to me,’ Debo said bitterly. ‘It’s so unfair!’

  ‘But Baz did make sure you could live in the Lodge for the rest of your life, so that’s not so bad. I mean, I know you can’t do anything radical with it, or leave it to anyone else, but he can’t get you out.’

  ‘But he could object to the kennels encroaching onto his land, or us building any more,’ Judy said. ‘And though I didn’t tell you at the time, Debo, because I knew it would upset you even more, Fliss came for a snoop round one day, with Dan Clew in tow.’

  Debo stared at her. ‘When was this?’

  ‘When you were away the first time. I opened the door and there she was, looking like one of the Living Dead. I told her she had a nerve, showing her face anywhere near you – and it was just as well you weren’t there, Debo, or you’d have set the dogs onto her.’

  ‘Too true: I would.’

  ‘She said the kennels were a total eyesore and her son wanted them cleared away as soon as possible. Then Dan Clew put in his two pennyworth and told her Baz had been trying to get us to remove them from his land for years, not to mention complaining about vicious dogs const
antly escaping and the noise problem, but we hadn’t taken any notice.’

  ‘Dan Clew is a lying toad who would do anything to get us out of the Lodge! And the brazen cheek of the woman, coming to my home after what she did!’ Debo said furiously. ‘I hope you didn’t let her set foot over the threshold.’

  ‘No, and I told her Dan was lying and Baz had been a dog-lover who completely supported what we were doing with the Refuge. Then she said even if that was true, Rufus certainly didn’t feel the same way and then I slammed the door on her. She seemed to be getting on very well with Dan,’ she added.

  ‘Well, she would – she’d sleep with anything male and he’s never been that fussy, either.’

  ‘She’s a fast worker though, because Myra said afterwards that she’d been staying with friends not far away and only called in out of curiosity to have a quick look at the place.’

  ‘She hasn’t got any friends,’ Debo said. ‘It was probably another rehab clinic.’

  ‘We’ve only got her word for it that her son wants the kennels removed,’ I said. ‘He might be another dog-lover.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Judy said, ‘because actually he did say something about the kennels near the drive not giving a good impression to customers when he opened the garden antiques centre for business. And then Goldie – he’s a big mastiff cross, Izzy – got out that very night and went up to Sweetwell. Myra was too terrified to hang the washing out next morning until I’d been and collected him.’

  ‘He only hates men,’ Debo said. ‘And he didn’t actually bite, he just threatened to.’

  ‘Perhaps, but you can understand that he wouldn’t want big, vicious-looking dogs bouncing up to customers,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Goldie’s gone to live with a woman in an isolated Scottish croft now, and she loves him to bits,’ Debo told me.

  A lorry covered in a flapping tarpaulin went past and on up the drive, rattling the diamond-paned windows. ‘That’s probably another load of garden antiquities,’ Judy said. ‘When we took some of the dogs up there first thing this morning, the courtyard was full of old wrought-iron gates, fountains, wheelbarrows and even bits of ancient farm machinery.’