A Place to Hide

by Sheila Norton

  ‘Wow,’ I breathed, stopping where I stood, and staring into the distance. As far as the eye could see, were the gentle rises of hills, some dotted with sheep, some sporting rocky crags where streaks of snow still remained, others scattered with patches of bright yellow gorse. The little lane narrowed ahead of me, twisting and turning until it disappeared into a valley where I could see the river glinting in the winter sunshine.

  As I strolled back past Bilberry Cottage I glanced up at the windows again and wondered whether the upstairs windows afforded that same view. How wonderful it would be to get up in the morning, open the curtains and see those rolling hills, and watch the sunshine chasing the shadows across the moor. It surely wouldn’t be possible to wake up in a bad mood with that kind of view to sustain you, would it? Or perhaps it was just the thought of something so completely different from the view from my bedroom in New York that appealed to me. I realised I was already falling in love with this little town, its situation here on the edge of the moor, its charm and especially its remoteness. I’d been right to choose it as my hiding place. It suited me perfectly. Spending time alone, going for country walks in the fresh cold air – it couldn’t have been more different from the life I’d been living before, but it was giving me what I needed: time to calm down, lick my wounds and decide what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

  That evening, I’d just given the cats their evening meal, when Mary turned up with a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates.

  ‘Just to thank you for looking after Scrap at such short notice,’ she said as I held the door open for her.

  ‘Oh! I didn’t expect … I mean, you’ve paid me for looking after him, there was no need for anything else.’

  ‘Your charges are ridiculously low and, besides, I heard from my neighbour how long you spent with Scrappy every day and all the long walks you took him on. I’m really grateful that he was looked after so well.’

  ‘Oh, it was no trouble. I enjoyed it, honestly.’

  I wondered if her neighbour also mentioned me wearing Mary’s dressing gown.

  ‘Well, anyway, I’ll certainly be recommending you.’

  ‘Oh. Well, thank you.’ I smiled at her. I didn’t for a minute imagine anyone else would be asking me to look after their dogs – it had been surprising enough to get the two bookings I had – but it was nice of her. ‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea? Lauren and Jon are away for the week.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tenerife, isn’t it. Lucky them, getting away from this cold weather. I hope they’re enjoying it. I won’t stop; I can smell your dinner cooking.’

  I didn’t enlighten her. It wasn’t cooking, of course; it was being thawed and reheated in the microwave.

  ‘I just wanted to say I heard from young Josh in the library that you had to leave your boyfriend behind when you moved down here.’ She gave me such a sympathetic look that I felt myself shrivelling up inside with embarrassment.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I muttered.

  ‘I suppose you were too traumatised to stay in the area, after the fire?’

  I nodded, trying to look suitably traumatised. Thank God Josh didn’t seem to have mentioned that Holly was supposed to be my daughter.

  ‘Well, I do hope you’ll soon be reunited with him. It must be a terrible strain – living apart.’

  ‘Yes. It is,’ I muttered. ‘Well, thanks again for these.’ I waved the flowers and chocs at her.

  ‘My pleasure. Now, if there’s anything I can do to help you, Emma, any time, you just give me a call, you understand?’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  I closed the door and leant on it. Damn that stupid young Josh – it seemed he was a worse gossip than anyone else around here. I’d have to be wary of him; I might have hurt his pride by turning down his offer of going for a drink, and if he got too curious about me he might start digging. If necessary, I thought grimly, it might even be worth going out with him just to get him on my side and shut him up.

  With these thoughts crowding my brain, I dished up my sad, over-microwaved lasagne-for-one and scoffed it in front of the TV, following it up with nearly the whole box of Mary’s chocolates before having an early night in bed with a stomach ache.

  At least Romeo and Juliet were a pleasure to look after, although Juliet did spoil things slightly by bringing home two dead birds on the same day. They were lying side by side on the front doorstep, waiting for me like an Amazon delivery when I got back from another walk. I made such a fuss, squealing pathetically as I picked them up on a shovel from the garden shed and tried to bury them in the frozen garden without looking at them too closely, that both cats appeared behind me to watch, meowing crossly at me. When Juliet then tried to recover her prize while I was still doing my best to bury it, I turned and hissed at them both to clear off, and they loped away across the frosty grass with an offended air.

  ‘I’m sorry, babies,’ I told them later, dishing up their food. ‘I know it’s just your instinct, but the problem is, I’m not used to things like that. My Albert lived indoors in the apartment, you see. He didn’t go outside, he was …’ I swallowed. ‘I mean he is, a Ragdoll. That’s a special breed, they’re happy to live inside, so he never hunted birds or anything …’ I tailed off again, tears coming to my eyes. I’d loved Albert so much. He was a beautiful, docile, affectionate cat. How could I have left him, walked out on him without a backward glance? I’d been so distraught I hadn’t even given him a thought – I’d just had to get away. And once I’d gone, I couldn’t go back. I’d had to make myself scarce. Poor Albert. If only I knew whether or not he was being looked after.

  I sat down at the kitchen table, watching Romeo and Juliet demolishing their dinner. Juliet looked up at me when she’d finished eating, and, as if she’d realised I needed consoling, trotted over and jumped up onto my lap, where she made herself comfortable and began to wash her face, purring happily. Within a few minutes Romeo was curling himself around my legs, joining in the chorus of purrs, and I had to laugh despite my tears.

  ‘Well, at least I’ve got you two to keep me company,’ I said, wiping my eyes.

  But I knew that, somehow, when all the fuss had died down, I was going to have to get in touch with Shane, whether I wanted to or not. I hated having to admit it, but there was nobody else who could tell me if Albert was all right. Despite all the attention I’d received during my time in New York, and despite the fact that the people I used to hang around with would be agog to hear my side of the story, to get their hands on any salacious details and lap up all the scandal, I knew none of them could really care less about me. The real me, the girl behind the tabloid photos and the celebrity lifestyle. The girl from Loughton who got in too deep, fell in love and made a mess of her life. The girl who was desperately trying to reinvent herself in a little Devon town by telling everyone a fistful of lies. The truth was, that girl didn’t actually have a friend in the world apart from the cat she’d left behind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the last day of the Atkinsons’ holiday, I was gazing idly out of the window at a shower of sleety rain, when I noticed a man hanging around outside. He seemed to be staring straight back at me. To say this was unnerving would be an understatement. I actually dived away from the window and ducked down behind an armchair. After a couple of moments waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal, I poked my head cautiously out from my hiding place. He was still there, strolling backwards and forwards outside. It was late afternoon and a dull, murky day so it was hard to see exactly what he looked like, especially from behind the armchair. But there was definitely something furtive about his movements as he looked around him, up and down the road, back at the cottage and then slowly walked away. I felt my pulse beginning to return to normal.

  ‘Calm down,’ I told myself crossly, out loud. ‘For God’s sake, he was probably just waiting for someone. He’s not looking for you. Nothing to do with you whatsoever. Get out from behind this armchair and stop behaving like an idiot.’r />
  There was a clatter and a thump from the kitchen, and I nearly yelled out in fright, until Romeo came trotting into the lounge, meowing, and I realised it had just been him jumping through the cat-flap.

  ‘Is anyone out there, boy?’ I asked him. ‘Anyone prowling around outside?’

  I crept cautiously to the window again and peered out into the gloom. I knew I was being ridiculous. Nobody had followed me to Crickleford. Nobody knew I was here. Nobody was watching the house. I went around drawing all the curtains and put the television on to drown out my stupid fears. I was safe, I reminded myself. But all the same, I was relieved when the Atkinsons arrived home the next day. It felt better having everyone else around.

  They were eager to tell me all about their holiday, and little Holly was hopping up and down with excitement, desperate to relate how she’d learned to jump into the swimming pool wearing her armbands. She sat on my lap and chattered about how the next exciting thing, now the holiday was over, was her fourth birthday, which was coming up soon. It seemed perhaps absence had made the heart grow fonder and Holly had really started to like me. It was nice to know somebody did.

  The next morning I was due to start looking after the Alsatian in Moor View Lane, and I felt slightly nervous about it. When I’d been introduced to him he’d barked his head off at me, but Pat, his owner, had just laughed and said he did that to everyone at first, and it was only because he was a bit scared of strangers.

  When I arrived at her bungalow for my first day, I could hear him crying and barking as I walked up to the front door. I let myself in and called as loudly as I could above the noise:

  ‘All right, Bingo, calm down, it’s me, Emma.’

  Not that he’d remember who I was, but he’d have to get used to me if I was going to be in charge. Pat had left him shut in the kitchen, which was quite a big room, but it was evident from the way he was charging around in there, whining and barking himself silly, that he was frustrated at being shut in. When I opened the door to the room, he bounded out, with his tongue out and his tail swishing – before he evidently realised I wasn’t his beloved Pat but this strange new person that he wasn’t too sure about. He stopped in his tracks, lowering his head and looking at me suspiciously, giving a little whimper.

  I laughed. ‘Don’t be nervous, Bingo!’ I said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, you silly boy.’ It seemed really funny that such a big, tough-looking dog would be such a wimp. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’ll soon get used to me. I’ll let you out in the garden first and then we’ll go out for a walk.’

  He flew out of the back door as soon as I’d opened it, but once he’d relieved himself he promptly began barking loudly again. What on earth was wrong with him now? I opened the door to let him back in but he was way up the end of the garden.

  ‘Bingo!’ I yelled, but he completely ignored me. He seemed to be staring at something halfway back down the garden. First he’d bark at it madly, then run forward a few steps, before stopping, whining loudly as if in fear. My first thought was: who’s out there? But I forced myself to dismiss this as paranoia again, and instead began to worry about all the neighbours getting angry about the noise.

  ‘Bingo!’ I shouted again, still with no effect whatsoever. I sighed and strode out down the garden path. ‘Bingo, what’s the matter?’

  There was a cat, a large, cross-looking tabby, halfway down the path. It had its back arched and all its fur standing on end, and was hissing at Bingo contemptuously. Surely that wasn’t what Bingo was scared of? Was he a dog or a mouse?

  ‘Shoo!’ I said to the cat. ‘Go on, off with you.’ The cat turned to glare at me, tossed his head and, with a final hiss at Bingo, ambled off across the garden, jumping up onto the fence and down the other side in one leisurely movement, as if to prove how unbothered he was.

  Bingo looked at me with something like respect and wagged his tail a couple of times.

  ‘OK, I’ve seen him off for you. See? I’m your friend,’ I said. ‘Now then. Walkies?’

  This magic word seemed to get the desired effect, and he bounded ahead of me back into the house, where I fastened on his lead. ‘OK, are you up for a brisk walk to Windy Tor?’

  That should tire him out, I thought. It had worked with Scrap. But, of course, I was underestimating the amount of exercise an Alsatian needed, compared with a little terrier. Pat had assured me that he would come back obediently when he was called, but after the episode in the garden just now, I wasn’t too confident about this. And she’d also added that it would be best to keep him on his lead if we were in an area of the moor where there were any sheep or livestock.

  ‘That’s really important,’ she’d said, ‘especially during the lambing season. Farmers are entitled to shoot dogs who chase or worry livestock.’

  After the episode in the garden, I was wondering frankly whether Pat was kidding herself. If he was that nervous of a spitting tabby cat, I couldn’t quite see him chasing sheep! But I wasn’t going to take any chances, even though I didn’t have a clear idea of when lambing season was. The idea of being confronted by an angry farmer with a gun was enough to decide me that Bingo was going to stay on his lead for the duration of the walk. Having apparently now decided to trust me sufficiently to come out with me, though, he reacted to being on the lead by setting off like a bullet, pulling me along behind him helplessly as if I were a child’s toy on the end of a string. I wondered what would happen if he decided to chase a rabbit and pulled me into the undergrowth. That hadn’t been covered by my dog care book.

  ‘Bingo!’ I yelled, puffing and gasping as I stumbled along the footpath after him. ‘Slow down. Bingo, for God’s sake!’

  So much for him responding obediently to being called back. One word from me, and he did exactly as he liked. We reached Windy Tor in about half the time it had taken me to get there with Scrap, even on our best day. Fortunately for me, I suddenly got the answer to my debate about what would happen if he saw a rabbit. A little one happened to dart across the path in front of us just as we arrived at the Tor, and he skidded to a halt, whining in fear and turning back to run behind my legs.

  ‘What are you like, Bingo?’ I laughed out loud. ‘It’s just a tiny little thing. Come on, it’s gone now. Whatever made you such a scaredy-dog?’

  At least it gave me a chance to tighten up his lead, forcing him to stop for a rest. I had a pain in my side and I could hardly breathe. How had I become so unfit, so soon after stopping my workouts with my personal trainer in New York?

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ I told Bingo. ‘But I’m not used to these conditions.’ I was referring to the red mud that had once again covered my boots and splashed up the legs of my jeans. Of course it was exhausting, running over this kind of ground! There was no comparison with the gentle paths of Central Park, or the treadmill in the private gym in our apartment block. And glancing again at Bingo, I could see that my work wouldn’t be over once we got back home. His paws, legs and flanks were red with the Dartmoor soil too.

  ‘Come on, then. Home,’ I said, trying to sound authoritative. I kept him on a tighter lead this time, and he seemed happy enough to walk at a slightly more reasonable pace. Probably scared of meeting another rabbit, I thought with a giggle – and I felt a surge of affection for this big softie of a dog.

  We were nearly home, and I was beginning to hallucinate about a mug of hot chocolate and a lie down, when I was stopped in the lane by a cross-looking woman wearing a purple bobble-hat.

  ‘Are you looking after him while Pat’s away?’ she demanded, nodding at Bingo.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what I’d done wrong already.

  ‘Well, do us all a favour and stop him bloody barking all the bloody time, will you?’ she said.

  ‘Oh. Um … well, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘He’s always outside barking at that bloody tabby cat,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whose cat it is, but it’s obviously scared of him.’

  ‘Actually, I get the impressi
on it’s him that’s scared of the cat,’ I offered.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she scoffed. ‘Great big bloody dog like him. Pat ought to keep him under control.’

  So this was the next-door neighbour. I remembered now that Pat had told me about this – the ‘miserable’ neighbours complaining about his barking.

  ‘Just keep Pongo indoors, will you, if you can’t bloody well shut him up?’ she went on. ‘I tell Pat all the time, but she doesn’t bloody do anything.’

  ‘Right,’ I said faintly. ‘Um … who’s Pongo?’

  But she was already walking away, leaving me standing there staring after her.

  When we got indoors, I shooed Bingo into the shower in the bathroom, soaped him all over and rinsed the mud off him. He seemed quite used to this and appeared to enjoy it, but when he came out of the shower, of course, he shook himself all over me and all over the floor. I sighed to myself as I rubbed him dry. I’d need a shower and a change of clothes myself, and then I’d have to wash the bathroom floor before I could finally have a rest. Looking after Scrap might have been a doddle, but I could see Bingo was going to be more of a challenge.

  When I picked up his collar and lead from the floor, I caught sight of his identity disc.

  P – O – N … I read, frowning at the name engraved on it. Oh dear. He wasn’t even called Bingo. No wonder he’d ignored me when I called him.

  ‘Pongo?’ I tried, quietly – and he came trotting over to me, wagging his tail like a good doggy.

  Note to self: next time, write down the name of the pet as soon as you’ve been told it.

  I gave Pongo another quick walk before I left him to go home for my dinner. Pat had suggested that this would make sure he’d had enough exercise and should then rest quietly on his own for the evening and through the night. We stayed on the road, though, for the second walk – a brisk march up to along Fore Street up to Town Square and back again. I didn’t see the point of going through the whole mud-shower-clean-up process twice in one day. I slowed down slightly past Bilberry Cottage, of course – I just couldn’t stop staring at it – but as nothing ever seemed to look any different there, I just sighed and went on my way.