by Fiona Gibson
FIONA GIBSON
Pedigree Mum
For the delectable Miss Wendy Rigg
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Part One: Arrival
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Four months later
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine: One week later
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen: Jack’s, three weeks later
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Two: Settling in
Chapter Twenty-Five: December 1, the first snowfall
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Part Three: Training
Chapter Fifty-Six: Four months later
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy: Three months later
Children and Dogs … Are they really that different?
My Inspirations for Pedigree Mum
20 Quick Questions for author Fiona Gibson
Why Every Writer Should Own a Dog
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART ONE
Arrival
‘Welcoming a new addition into your home is a decision not to be taken lightly. The impact on your family will be enormous.’
Your First Dog: A Complete Guide
by Jeremy Catchpole
Chapter One
So it actually exists. The perfect family day out, as peddled by the glossy magazines, featuring unfeasibly photogenic parents and children enjoying beach picnics in the sunshine – it happens in real life, Kerry realises. To her left, a family entirely populated by curly-haired blondes are tucking into a Niçoise salad from a huge transparent pink bowl. They’ve even brought salad tongs (pink to match the bowl) and it appears to be fresh tuna, not tinned. There’s also a huge pastry oblong which looks like one of those savoury French tarts, with anchovies draped all over it – Kerry is amazed to see it being happily consumed by persons under eight years old – plus a dazzling array of fresh fruit.
At another gathering, kids in Breton tops are tucking into what looks like a week’s worth of five-a-days at one sitting, and not your boring old apples and tangerines either. Kerry spots mangoes, papayas and gnarly little testicle-like things that might possibly be kumquats or maybe ugly fruits … God, she doesn’t even know the names of the more exotic varieties. Is it any wonder she can’t persuade her own children to acquaint themselves with pineapple? Here on Shorling beach, in the glorious April sunshine, no one is whingeing or picking out bits they don’t like. There appears to be not one Cheesy Wotsit on the whole beach.
As for acceptable picnic attire, Kerry realises this is Petit Bateau territory, with a liberal sprinkling of Boden and Gap. It’s also clear that Mia, who at seven years old favours scruffy denim shorts and has already splattered ice cream down her T-shirt, doesn’t quite belong. And it’s a miracle that Freddie, who’s wearing the hideous black and orange tracksuit that’s permanently welded to his lithe five-year-old body these days, hasn’t been politely asked to leave the beach. Kerry might be feeling paranoid, but she’s sure that kumquat-slicing mum over there is giving her children a look of distaste, as if fearful that they might pitch up beside them and start slugging Fanta and ripping open packets of Jammy Dodgers.
She chuckles to herself, focusing now on her husband Rob as he turns and motions for her to catch up. Their children are running along at the water’s edge while Rob is marching ahead, laden with bags, having decided that the far end of the beach will be more suitable for kite flying. However, Kerry has lagged behind deliberately, swivelling her eyes from left to right in order to amass as much information as possible about the picnicking etiquette at Shorling-on-Sea. After all, they might live here one day. It’s just a hazy idea, but still, research must be conducted in these matters.
At least Rob looks the part, she decides. Tall, dark-eyed, handsome Rob, who’s been scouring the shops these past weeks for a top-notch kite, especially to bring today.
‘Think this is a good place?’ he asks as Kerry catches up with him. They have left the picnicking groups behind now, and she experiences a wave of pleasure as she surveys the sweep of flat, empty sand.
‘Looks perfect,’ she says. ‘D’you think there’s enough wind?’
‘Yeah, ’course there is,’ Freddie declares, unselfconsciously pulling off his sodden tracksuit bottoms. He points at a father and son over by the rocks who are expertly manoeuvring a box kite.
‘That’s impressive.’ Rob grins at his son. ‘Reckon we can do that, little man?’
‘Yeah. Let me go first.’ Freddie tries, unsuccessfully, to snatch the kite from Rob’s grasp.
‘You said I could, Daddy!’ Mia declares, scampering towards them.
‘Of course you can both have a go,’ Rob says. ‘It’s for you guys, not me. Just let me see if I can get us started, okay?’ Amidst the children’s protests, Rob strides away while Kerry unpacks her own picnic offerings: ham baguettes, a little squashed, bananas having mysteriously blackened during the two hour drive from London to the south coast. But at least her blueberry muffins have endured the journey well. She almost wishes the anchovy tart mum would venture over and see them: they’re home-made, you know, and there’s fruit nestling inside …
Actually, no she doesn’t, because all’s not going well on the kite front. Having decided he does need assistance after all, Rob is urging Mia to launch the kite as he simultaneously charges away, gripping the spool as if trying to control an exuberant puppy. Kerry traps a bubble of laughter as, no matter how fast he runs or tugs ineffectually at the line, the bright yellow kite still smacks straight back down onto the sand.
‘I really don’t think there’s enough wind,’ she suggests, sitting cross-legged on a spread out
towel.
Rob blows out air and glances at the father and son with the box kite. ‘They don’t seem to be having any problems,’ he huffs.
‘Yeah,’ Freddie grumbles, ‘why haven’t we got one like that?’
Mia fixes her father with a thoughtful stare. ‘Is it our kite’s fault, Daddy, or is it you?’
Slinging the kite on the sand beside the picnic basket, Rob plonks himself down beside Kerry. ‘Guess it must be me, sweetheart. Guy in the shop said even a dumbwit can fly this. It’s guaranteed to fly like a bird, he said.’
‘He lied then,’ Freddie says.
‘Can you get your money back?’ Mia wants to know.
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother. Maybe I should leave kite flying to those alpha-dad types.’ Rob grins, putting an arm around Kerry’s shoulders.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘that box kite probably took six weeks to build, and I bet he’s president of some horribly competitive kite-flying club …’
‘And the kid hates it,’ Rob cuts in. ‘He’d much rather be at home, plugged into his Xbox …’
‘Have you noticed how he hasn’t let the boy have a go?’ Kerry has barely spoken when the man hands the kite’s controls to his small, eager son who continues to manoeuvre it in majestic swoops.
‘There must be some different kind of air pocket system going on there,’ Rob says, taking a bite of a muffin. ‘These are delicious by the way.’
‘Thanks. New recipe.’
‘Excellent work, Mrs Tambini.’
She laughs, kissing him lightly on the lips, relieved that she managed to persuade him to come down here today. The children are clearly enjoying it too, having wandered off back to the water’s edge.
‘D’you think it’s okay,’ Rob ventures, ‘Freddie wandering about in his pants like that?’
‘It’s a beach,’ she laughs. ‘Of course it is, as long as no one realises they’re from Primark. We’ll probably be arrested if they do.’
Rob smiles. ‘You really like it here, don’t you?’
‘I love it, even though it’s gone posh. I always have, ever since I was a kid.’ She glances at him, deciding not to ask him again whether they should take up her Aunt Maisie’s offer of buying her home on the Shorling seafront at a ridiculously low price. Admittedly, the cottage needs work, but it’s the perfect size, with a great primary school within walking distance. Maisie is keen to move to Spain where her oldest schoolfriend, Barbara, has an apartment. She’s out there now, ready to embrace a new life, and Kerry feels she, Rob and the children are too. Rob has cautiously agreed that London is commutable – seventy minutes by train – and as a freelance songwriter, she could easily live and work here. And the children, who have now joined forces to build a sandcastle, would love it …
Rob strolls over to help them dig a moat, and Freddie squeals with delight every time a wave rushes in to fill it. As she watches the three of them digging frantically, Kerry is overcome by a surge of love for her husband. Rob seems to have been struggling at work lately, no doubt due to a clear out of virtually all of the old, faithful team. His new editor sounds utterly obnoxious, so is it any wonder he’s seemed a bit distant and distracted?
Kerry gets up to join her family, helping to reinforce the moat’s walls after each wave.
‘We’re winning against the sea!’ Freddie yells until their castle finally melts away.
‘Let’s try the kite again,’ Rob suggests, ‘now that over-achiever with the box kite has gone.’
Perhaps because the pressure’s off, this time the kite soars up easily – a canary-yellow diamond against a dazzling blue sky.
‘Here, you try,’ he says, passing the spool to Freddie while Mia claps delightedly.
‘You did it, Daddy!’ she cries.
‘Hero,’ Kerry murmurs teasingly. ‘Kite maestro superstar.’
‘Hey, it was nothing.’ Rob chuckles, his smile dissolving as the kite spins erratically before dive-bombing a child-free couple who have just set out their picnic à deux. ‘Shit, bollocks,’ he blurts out, haring towards them to apologise profusely.
‘It’s fine,’ the woman snaps. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She extracts the kite from a fluted glass dish and hands it to Rob.
‘Shit-bollocks,’ Freddie sniggers into his hand as his father returns, brushing cous-cous off the kite with the flat of his hand.
It doesn’t spoil the day though. The afternoon drifts by in a pleasant blur, and Rob is even persuaded by Mia to roll up his pristine Levi’s and have a paddle. The muffins are devoured, plus delicious crab sandwiches from a nearby cafe. The children are engrossed in playing with a bouncy white terrier now, throwing a wrecked tennis ball for him with the approval of his elderly lady owner.
‘I wish we had a dog,’ Mia announces. ‘Why can’t we have one, Mummy?’
‘Please don’t start on about that now,’ Kerry says, resting her head on Rob’s shoulder.
He turns to her in the pinkish evening light and gently brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘This is beautiful, Kerry. I don’t think I’ve ever realised how lovely it is to be by the sea.’
‘It’s been a perfect day,’ she agrees. ‘We should come down here more often.’
He nods, and there’s a pause, as if he’s taking care to choose the right words. ‘You know what? I think we should do it. We should take up Maisie’s offer and move here.’
She sits up and stares at him for a moment, wary of overreacting and causing him to backtrack. Then, unable to help herself, she flings her arms around his broad shoulders and kisses him long and hard on the lips.
‘Are you sure?’ she says finally. ‘You’re not feeling pushed into it, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. Look at this place, and how the kids are here – it’s so much better for them than a tiny backyard …’
‘Well, I think so.’ She swallows hard, watching as the yellow kite, now being flown single-handedly by Mia, darts gracefully, as if performing its own excited dance. The posh picnics have long been packed away and the beach is deserted apart from a couple of dog walkers in the far distance.
‘Let’s talk to her,’ Rob says, ‘as soon as she comes back from Spain.’
Kerry nods. ‘Okay.’ Closing her hand around his, she squeezes it tightly. ‘It’ll be great for us,’ she adds. ‘I can just feel it, Rob. I think it’ll turn out to be one of the best things we’ve ever done.’
Chapter Two
Four months later
Certain activities should be left until the children are safely tucked up in bed. Sewing falls into this category. With all the swearing and blood loss involved, it’s best not undertaken with impressionable young people around. Kerry has already acquired a repetitive injury from jabbing herself with a needle; all this to stitch a few name tapes onto school uniforms for the new term ahead. Could she get away with writing their names in biro on the wash-care labels instead? It’s considered slovenly, Kerry knows this, but surely it’s better than sending the children to their new school in blood-stained tops?
As a fresh scarlet bead seeps from the wound, Kerry manages to locate the first aid box from one of the many packing crates. These are still full and stacked precariously along one wall of the living room, like reinforcements against floods. Opening the tin of plasters, she selects one disguised as a bacon rasher (Freddie requested these last birthday; the set includes an egg, sausage and a blob of beans – a full English breakfast in plaster form). The name tapes are too thick, that’s the trouble. The biro option hovers tantalisingly in Kerry’s mind, even though she has already surmised that Shorling-on-Sea is a sewn-in-name-tapes sort of place.
The small, compact seaside town had a very different vibe when she spent childhood holidays here, in this very house where her Aunt Maisie used to live. Back then, the place bustled with visitors eating burgers on the seafront and children plucking tufts from pink candyfloss clouds. Where the town once smelt of fried onions, these days it’s all organic bakeries and seafood restauran
ts. Apparently, more scallops and langoustines are consumed per capita in Shorling than anywhere else in Britain. Eating a doughnut in public would probably have you shot. The Gold Rush Arcade is now a Wagamama, the World’s Biggest Museum of Tattoo Art has become a glass-walled restaurant filled with glossy people tackling crustaceans with an impressive array of little metal tools. The bleach-blonde ladies in velour tracksuits who once ran the numerous B&Bs – where did they all go, Kerry wonders? – have been replaced by glowing-skinned women with long, glossy hair, perfect teeth and children called Lottie and Felix.
Of course, it had been clear on kite-flying day that Shorling had gone upmarket. But it wasn’t until they’d actually moved that the extent of the transformation had truly sunk in. Still, Kerry reflects, at least there’s one final week of summer holidays. She’d noticed a sign advertising a children’s end-of-summer beach party, and if Freddie and Mia could make some new friends, surely starting school would be a little easier. And what about her? Without lurking weirdly around the dog-walking women who hang out on Shorling beach, she hasn’t the faintest idea how she’ll meet anyone. Maybe it’ll be easier at the school gates. Even more important, then, that Mia and Freddie’s names aren’t biro-ed on.
