Maybe that was a crazy, unrealistic dream. But surely an unrealistic dream was better than walking back into a trap? Here, whatever happened, she was free from the pressure, the deadlines; the politics. Waitressing brought its own stresses, of course it did, because you had to think on your feet, and there were always difficult customers, and mistakes were made. But the buzz she felt at the end of a shift, when the staff all came out into the bar area and had a beer together with the music on and chilled out, was far greater than the buzz at the end of a campaign, when she had felt sucked dry and overwhelmed by anti-climax.
All she knew was that she never wanted to go back to that life, no matter what the rewards.
She typed out a reply, her fingers sure and speedy over the keyboard. Not once did she hesitate about what to say.
Dear Howard
Of course I forgive you. Your email touched me hugely, and I really appreciate everything you said, and your job offer. But I can’t come back. It’s time for me to move on and find a new path in life. I am very happy where I am at the moment, and I think there are great things just around the corner for me.
I hope you understand, but I want to move forwards, not backwards.
With very best wishes
Chloe
She read the email again before pressing send. It felt good to have the power. She couldn’t quite believe she had done it. Once, that email would have been her dream come true, but now she had opened up her world she realized what confinement she had been in: a prison of her own making.
And then she picked up her phone and sent a text to Chris.
That was the loveliest evening I’ve had for a long time. Thank you.
She only had to wait thirty seconds for a reply.
Me too. Maybe do something at the weekend? A Famous Five picnic? Let me know.
BOB AND ELVIS
Bob strode along the dunes, puce in the mid-afternoon heat, his baseball hat already soaked with sweat. He could feel beads of it start to trickle down his forehead and down the back of his neck. He pulled the hat off and wiped his face with the back of his arm before the sweat got in his eyes, then rammed it back on his head.
‘Elvis!’ he shouted again, and he felt sure he could hear a nearby group of girls snickering.
It wasn’t funny. Wretched animal. He should never have let it off the lead but Janice always liked it to have a decent run. And it had always come back when she called it. It didn’t take a blind bit of notice of Bob. It never had. Janice was its mistress, and it had doted on her. As she had on it.
It. Elvis was a he, obviously. But Bob always referred to him as ‘it’. And he always felt an utter fool shouting his name. It was a ludicrous name for a dog. But Janice had adored dogs and Elvis Presley in equal measure, so it had seemed logical, when she brought the little terrier back from the rescue centre four years ago, that Elvis would be what she called it.
‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,’ she would sing, and Bob would roll his eyes.
‘Nothing but a bloody nuisance,’ he would correct her.
‘Oh, you love him, you know you do,’ Janice would reply, and Bob never disabused her of this, because he might not love Elvis but he loved Janice very much, every inch of her jolly fifteen stone.
They went to the same beach hut at Everdene every summer for their holiday. Largely because of Elvis: most hotels and self-catering places didn’t take pets, but the battered old hut they rented welcomed dogs, and there were loads of walks for him – them – to enjoy. Besides, it suited them both. Bob would go birdwatching in the burrows, and do a bit of deep-sea fishing – he’d go out on one of the day boats from the harbour in Tawcombe, the little town on the other side of Mariscombe, the next cove. Janice was happy to sit in her deckchair and read – endless historical novels she borrowed from her friends. She could read five in a week. Bob hadn’t ever read a book in his life. He couldn’t sit still long enough. His eyes would glaze over after the first line. It seemed to keep her happy, though, being immersed in her world of scoundrels and hussies. One hand dipped in and out of a family-sized bag of crisps as she read, and from time to time she would drop one for Elvis, who lay in the shade of her bulk.
Once during the week, they would walk the coast path from Everdene to Mariscombe. It was a tough route, along a rocky clifftop, and Janice had to stop for a rest on nearly every bench, but they both agreed it was the most beautiful walk in England. If they were lucky, they saw seals. In Mariscombe they would go to the pub for scampi and chips and half a pint of Devon cider. They sat outside in the pub garden, Elvis under the table, and Janice would feed him chips, then they would get a taxi back, because she couldn’t manage both ways.
‘God’s own country,’ she would always say on the journey home, Elvis wedged between her feet. They always booked up again as soon as they came back for the following year. The hut was popular: if you didn’t get in there quick someone else would nab your week.
In the furore after the funeral, Bob had forgotten all about the booking until the reminder email for the final payment arrived. He was tempted to cancel and lose his deposit, but daughter urged him to go.
‘It’ll do you good, Dad. A change of scene. And I can have a clear-out while you’re gone, if you like.’
She was kind, his daughter. She knew he couldn’t face it, the clearing out. He felt filled with gratitude and relief when she told him she’d do it. He would be able to walk back into the house after a week away, and not be confronted with Janice’s skirts and jumpers when he opened the wardrobe. Not see her powder and face creams in the bathroom. The thing that really crucified him was the half-finished tapestry on the side table in the lounge. He could see the brightly coloured skeins of thread, and imagine her needle whipping in and out of the holes, as she kept up a running commentary on Downton Abbey, flipped channels and texted her friends. Janice had always been able to do several things at once.
The thought of making a decision about any of her things gave him an unpleasant hot feeling in his chest. He would never have described himself as a sentimental man. He knew that keeping her things as they were wouldn’t bring her back. And the most ironic thing of all was that he had longed to get rid of what he called her dust-gatherers over the years. She loved her ‘bits’, did Janice – her collection of piggy banks, the dried flower arrangements, the picture frames with every school photo ever taken of their grandchildren, grinning out at them with gap-toothed innocence from every surface. But now he had the chance, Bob couldn’t touch any of it. And it was gathering dust. He couldn’t be bothered to do any housework. His daughter told him off, but he couldn’t see the point. You wiped it away, only for more dust to appear the next day.
So he’d agreed to go. He stuck Elvis in his travelling crate in the boot, and off they went.
There had been a long family debate about Elvis after the funeral. None of their children could have him. Bob wasn’t sure he could look after himself, let alone the dog. He’d never taken any responsibility for him. He had no idea about worming or vaccinations or how much of the unappetising brick-coloured lumps that came in a sack he was supposed to be given to eat.
‘You could always take him back to the rescue centre,’ his daughter suggested.
Elvis had eyed him beadily during the conversation. Bob turned away. ‘The bloody thing needs walking three times a day. And it shits all over the garden.’
‘You’re supposed to pick it up. Mum used to.’
‘I know. But I’ve got better things to do.’ Bob looked disgusted at the prospect.
In the end, he decided on one last holiday, then he would drop Elvis off at the rescue centre. That was, after all, what rescue centres were for – rehoming dogs when there had been a change of circumstance. There was no point in being sentimental. Elvis would be far better off with a family who craved a canine companion than someone who was merely tolerating him in
deference to a wife who was no longer there.
Now, as Bob paced desperately up and down the dunes looking for any sign of the wretched beast, he wished he’d dropped him off before he went. He was going to have a heart attack with the stress of it at this rate. Elvis had spotted a rabbit and had bombed off into the bracken like a high-speed train. The dunes stretched for miles, riddled with warrens and all sorts of enticements for a small terrier who knew only too well he was under sufferance. Elvis knew Bob didn’t care much for him, even though he did his best to meet his needs. The unconditional love just wasn’t there. They hadn’t bonded.
Bob even suspected Elvis thought he’d been jealous of him and his relationship with Janice. He wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. He was happy the dog had made Janice happy, but it didn’t mean he had to like him. Bob wasn’t the jealous type.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly an hour since Elvis had gone. How long were you supposed to search for a missing dog? What were the chances of finding him?
‘Elvis!’ he bellowed again, feeling furious and helpless but also secretly relieved that this might be the last he’d seen of him. Didn’t this absolve him from making the decision? He knew he would have felt guilty taking him back where he had come from, as if he’d betrayed Janice in some way.
‘Have you lost your dog?’ A woman in billowing shorts and stout sandals, her greying hair scraped back in a ponytail, looked at him, concerned.
‘He ran off. After a rabbit. Nearly an hour ago.’
The woman screwed her face up in distress. ‘Oh dear. Lots of people lose dogs on these burrows.’
‘You reckon I should give up, then?’ Bob tried not to look hopeful. He tried not to think about the pork pie that was waiting in the fridge for his tea.
‘What sort of dog?’
‘Little terrier thing. Mongrel.’ Bob held his hands apart to indicate Elvis’s size.
‘Thing is, once they get down those rabbit holes …’
Maybe Elvis would be happier without him? Maybe he could live for years on the dunes, roaming wild, sleeping in a rabbit hole, munching on whatever he caught, as happy as Larry? Maybe that had been Elvis’ plan all along, to do a bunk, knowing he wasn’t wanted, knowing Bob had a plan to dump him? Maybe Elvis wanted to be the master of his own fate? Janice had always said he was clever, and had human feelings.
‘Maybe give it till sundown?’ the woman suggested.
‘Sundown?’ Bob looked up at the sky. Dusk was a long way off. Was he going to have to stride up and down for another four hours? What was decent?
Janice, he knew, would have stayed until the end of time looking for Elvis. But Elvis wouldn’t have run off if she had been there. He’d have been back by now.
‘Well,’ said the woman. ‘I wish you luck.’
Her tone of voice indicated she didn’t think he had much hope.
She strode off. Bob sat down on a nearby bench and watched until she disappeared around a corner. Maybe he would go? If Elvis was going to come back, he would have done by now. He felt pretty confident about that.
He stood up. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. There was no point in wasting any more time. But as he set off back down the path, his conscience tugged at him. Janice would never forgive him if he didn’t do everything in his power to get the dog back.
Janice wouldn’t know, he told himself. Bob had no belief in people looking down from heaven at what you were up to. His wife wouldn’t have a clue.
He, however, would have to live with the fact he hadn’t given it his best shot. With a sigh, he turned and walked back to the spot where he’d last seen Elvis. He called his name. He tried as many different tones as he could. Authoritative, enticing, casual, panic-stricken. He asked every passer-by if they had seen him, but no one had seen a small, scruffy terrier on the loose. As the sun went down, and the air grew cooler, Bob satisfied himself that he had given Elvis as much chance as he could.
As he made his way back along the dunes and down the steep sandy bank to the row of huts, he couldn’t help but look back, to see if the little dog was scampering along behind him. But of Elvis there was no sign.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said in his head. ‘Hope you’re all right.’
He genuinely did. He wished the dog no particular ill, but he felt the burden of responsibility had lifted. He no longer had to worry about his canine legacy.
The hut was strangely peaceful that night. He made his tea – the pork pie, a carton of potato salad, and a bread roll, followed by a Mr Kipling treacle tart with the last of a pot of clotted cream bought from the post office. There were no eyes gazing at him, begging for a stray crumb. No irritating scuttering of claws on the wooden floor. No doggy whimpers during the night disturbing his sleep. Elvis had always had vivid dreams. Well, now perhaps his dreams had come true. He could chase rabbits until the end of time.
When Bob woke up the next morning he was halfway to the hut door, ready to let Elvis out, when he remembered. Tutting, he made his way to the kettle. Elvis’s bowls were still on the floor. He lifted them up, emptied them, then put them in the bin. He wouldn’t be needing them. Nor his lead. Or his basket. There wasn’t room in the bin for that, so he’d have to take it home and get rid of it there.
He wondered how his daughter was getting on with clearing the house. He wondered how ruthless she was being. He wondered if she would keep the piggy banks for the grandchildren, or if they would end up in some charity shop somewhere, with a sticky label on the bottom stating ‘50p’. It made him feel morose. He didn’t want to think about it.
He tidied the rest of the hut as best he could, as was the arrangement at the end of a week’s rental. It had always been Janice who had done the cleaning, while he had loaded the car and gone into the village to buy souvenirs to take back home. Sticks of rock and boxes of fudge. He didn’t bother this year. He felt rather out of sorts. He hadn’t slept well, despite the silence. Or perhaps because of the silence. He’d sat up more than once, straining his ears for the sound of Elvis’ breathing. And at three he had woken up, wondering if the little dog had emerged from whichever rabbit hole he had gone down and was now searching desperately for him. He got up to open the door and look out. There was no sign of him, just the sea edging its way in. He shut the door and told himself Elvis was independent and resourceful and the last person he would look for would be Bob. He lay back down and finally went off to sleep.
At eleven, he vacated the hut and made two trips to the car with his stuff. He looked up the bank to the dunes, and wondered if he should have one last look. Of course he should. Even though it would mean he wouldn’t be home until late afternoon. Rolling his eyes at his own sense of duty, he retraced his steps of the day before. There was still no sign of him. Of course there wasn’t.
He made his way back to the car, feeling rather heavy of heart. He looked back along the row of huts, where he and Janice had spent so many contented summers. He wouldn’t rebook this year, he thought. He’d go somewhere that had no memories of Janice. Even now, he could see her wandering across the sand, holding her sandals in one hand, in one of the rather garish flowered sundresses she loved. She never wanted to fade into the background. She wasn’t self-conscious about her size. She was large and flamboyant. And happy. Janice was one of the most contented people Bob had ever known.
He did the journey home in record time, because he only had to stop once. Janice liked to stop off at the teddy bear shop on the way home, to get cuddlies for the grandchildren, and there were always at least two service station stops. And of course, he didn’t have to stop to let Elvis out for a pee. By three, he was walking back in over the threshold.
What he found inside took his breath away. The chaos and the clutter had all gone. The surfaces were clear of all but the necessary. All Janice’s bits and bobs were nowhere to be seen. In the bedroom, everything was in perfect order. Her nightdress c
ase, her slippers, her endless bottles of designer perfume had vanished, as well as her rails of purple, red and pink clothing.
He sat down on the bed. His chest felt tight. He had known it had to be done; that he couldn’t carry on living in a shrine. He was grateful to his daughter for doing the job. But he just wanted to lie down on the bed and sleep for ever. He didn’t want to live in this soulless, empty box that wasn’t filled with Janice’s chatter, the smell of her cooking mingled with whichever celebrity scent she had poured down her cleavage, the ting of her phone as someone texted her, the blaring of the telly – she loved all the soaps and the reality shows. The hole she had left in his life was cavernous – how on earth was he supposed to fill it? Sights, sounds, smells – he felt surrounded by emptiness.
The phone rang, echoing through the hollow bedroom. He reached out for the handset that had now been put on his side of the bed. It was probably his daughter, wanting to know if he was home safely, so he’d better answer or she would worry, and he felt he’d put her through enough of that.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ It was a strange voice; a youngish woman. ‘This is the veterinary practice in Tawcombe. We’ve had a dog brought in – a little terrier. He was found on the dunes in Everdene?’
Bob sat up. ‘How did you get this number?’ He hoped he didn’t sound too aggressive.
‘He’s been microchipped.’
‘Oh.’ Microchipped. He remembered Janice getting that done now.
‘Is this still the right contact number? We can keep him here for you in our kennels overnight if you want to come and collect him.’
Bob thought. It would be the easiest thing in the world to deny all knowledge. No doubt the vets would be able to find him a good home. They’d make sure he was all right. At least that way he would know Elvis hadn’t got stuck in a rabbit hole and starved to death. He could stop wondering; stop feeling guilty.
The Beach Hut Next Door Page 18
