Follow Me Home

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘I’d like to see you too.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Thank you for today. I really enjoyed it.’ I catch hold of his hand. ‘One thing, though . . .’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ he says, a shadow of anxiety crossing his eyes.

  ‘Just promise me you’ll never turn up in tweeds with a flat cap and whiskers. It isn’t a good look.’

  He chuckles.’ I promise.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ I lean up and kiss him.

  ‘Goodnight, Zara.’

  I watch him go, torn between the sensation of wanting to part in order to have space to mull over the day and revisit every look, every touch, every kiss, and the feeling of not wanting to spend a moment apart. I let Frosty out without disturbing Gran, but she doesn’t show the same consideration to me the following morning when she turns up in my room with tea and biscuits and perches on the end of my bed with the dog.

  ‘What time did you roll in last night? You sounded like a herd of elephants.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.’ When I came back through the hall with Frosty, the cuckoo clock sounded once and I added ten more to take it to eleven. ‘It wasn’t late. I was home an hour before midnight.’

  ‘You might think I’m old and losing my marbles, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You make a pretty useless cuckoo.’ She pats my knee. ‘Never mind, Zara. Love makes you a bit cuckoo at first.’

  As it turns out, love makes the dogs behave quite oddly too. The next time, Lewis and I meet at the farm and walk through the fields. At first I have Frosty on the lead, but Lewis suggests I let her off to run with Mick and Miley. Mick and Frosty play in the long grass, rolling each other over, but the way Miley rounds them up like sheep, her head low to the ground and her lips drawn back as if she’s hunting, makes me feel uneasy.

  ‘You see, they’re going to be all right.’ Lewis squeezes my hand affectionately as I look up at him, aching with lust and adoration. I slide my arm around his back and slip my fingers through the belt-loops of his jeans.

  ‘We could go back to my place.’ Lewis grins and blimps his hip against mine.

  ‘This minute?’

  ‘Why not?’ He rests his hand on the curve of my waist and I find I can’t think of any reason at all, so we head back, Lewis whistling for his dogs.

  ‘Look at Mick,’ I say. Whenever Lewis whistles, Mick brings Frosty back with him, chasing across the fields, as if he’s acting as her ears. ‘Miley’s being left out, though. It isn’t fair.’

  ‘She’s a bit of a loner. I got Mick from a farm where I was doing some work, but Miley came from a puppy farm. She was the last of the litter, and kept with her mum in a filthy old shed. I took her mum too and rehomed her to a friend of mine. Miley tolerates Mick, but doesn’t interact with him, which is why he’s so pleased to have someone to play with.’

  I try to make it up to Miley but, like me, she only has eyes for Lewis.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  One More Push

  My mobile rings when I’m having a quick coffee in the office with Kelly one morning.

  ‘It’s Lewis,’ I say, taking the call.

  ‘You just had to point that out, didn’t you?’ Kelly says, grinning. ‘Go on. Talk to lover boy.’

  I pick up a pen and start doodling on a copy of Midwifery News as he invites me over to the farm after work tonight.

  ‘I’ll cook dinner,’ he offers.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a chef,’ I smile. ‘What’s on the menu? Beans on toast?’

  ‘I’m not saying. It’s a surprise. Just bring yourself – and Frosty, of course.’

  ‘I can leave her with Gran.’

  ‘Because of Miley, you mean? I think we’re going to have to let them get used to each other. If we keep them apart, they’ll never learn to get along. We could take them out before dinner.’

  ‘And after that . . .?’ I glance across to Kelly, who’s sticking her fingers down her throat.

  ‘Please Zara, I’m married, we don’t do that kind of thing any more.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Lewis asks.

  ‘It’s Kelly messing around.’

  ‘Don’t you two have anything better to do?’

  ‘We have actually. I’ve got an antenatal class and Kelly has three visits. I’d love to come for dinner. I’ll see you later, about seven.’

  ‘This sounds like the start of something big,’ Kelly observes.

  ‘We’re just getting to know each other and taking it slowly.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She doesn’t believe me, I can tell, and of course she’s right not to.

  I’m happy to see that the mums-to-be start chatting and making friends as soon as they arrive in the meeting room where we nm the antenatal classes. I catch sight of Rosie first of all.

  ‘Hi, Zara,’ she says, helping me get some chairs out.

  ‘How are you today?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum took me to the hospital yesterday because I thought there was something wrong with the baby.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘It turns out it was trapped wind. It’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says one of the other mums-to-be. Gemma is twenty-eight and works in the baker’s in Talyton St George. She freely admits that she eats far too many cakes, and when I first met her I assumed she was pregnant when she wasn’t. Today she’s wearing a long white summer maternity dress, which reminds me of the WI tent at the Country Show. ‘You weren’t to know. You’re lucky, Zara,’ she adds, turning to me. ‘When you have your own children, you’ll be an expert.’

  I don’t say anything. I just smile.

  ‘Hey, what are your tips for bringing on labour?’ asks Millie, the oldest person in the group at thirty-seven. She swallows from a bottle of antacid. She says it’s for her reflux, but I can’t help wondering if it’s a psychological prop because she drinks it like water.

  ‘There’s raspberry leaf tea,’ I say. ‘Some women say that helps.’

  ‘I’ve tried the curry – but that hasn’t worked,’ Gemma says.

  ‘My cousin says sex is a good way of bringing on labour,’ Millie joins in.

  ‘No way,’ Gemma giggles. ‘Sex is what got me here in the first place.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re keeping your sense of humour,’ I say, ‘but can we get on now? I’m going to talk about the physical process of labour today and tips for keeping calm and focused.’

  ‘I’ve already thought that one through,’ Gemma says. ‘I’m sending Dave off to the pub for the duration.’

  ‘Surely you want him with you at the birth?’ Millie exclaims. ‘I want my husband there to support me and guide me through.’

  ‘Watch you suffer, you mean?’ Gemma says brightly.

  I look towards Rosie, who’s flinching.

  ‘There’s no need for anyone to suffer,’ I say. ‘We’ll go through methods of pain relief next week.’

  ‘My sister says that you can have all the pain relief available and it still bloody hurts,’ Gemma says.

  ‘A little discomfort is a natural part of the journey, soon forgotten once the baby arrives.’ I’m not sure anyone in this group believes me. They’ve been watching too many TV programmes about midwives and labour, I reckon. Soon antenatal classes will be superfluous.

  When we’ve all sat down in a circle to begin the class, I notice how Rosie is very quiet, stroking her bump and gazing out of the window. Now and again, she checks her mobile and types a text, presumably to keep in touch with her friends. I don’t comment – she isn’t being rude. She’s a teenage girl trying to keep everything normal when it’s anything but, which is what I do with Gran. Everything’s normal, even when I return home briefly the same evening to find the milk in the oven and Norris in a strop over being given dog food instead of cat. When I take his bowl to give to Frosty, and offer him a saucer of cat biscuits, he lashes out at me.

  ‘Don’t blame me when it wasn’t my fault,’ I tell Norris as I watch the bobbles of blood
well up along my arm. ‘You really shouldn’t bite – or scratch – the hand that feeds you.’

  Having sorted out the mix-ups, I change and head to the farm with Frosty – I still find it strange going straight to the annexe to see Lewis, instead of calling on my sister.

  Lewis’s accommodation is in an extension to the main house; it is built from local red brick with a tiled roof and stable doors front and rear. As soon as Frosty and I approach, Mick and Miley come flying out barking, sending Frosty’s hackles up.

  ‘I’m here,’ I call to Lewis, who appears in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his middle and an electric razor in his hand.

  ‘I kind of guessed. You’ve caught me out.’

  ‘I couldn’t wait to see you,’ I say, flushing at the sight of him. It is a very small towel.

  ‘Come on in.’ Lewis closes the door behind me and the dogs, and Mick and Miley trot into the kitchen, their claws pattering on the vinyl floor, while Frosty makes a beeline for the sofa bed in the living room.

  ‘Frosty, off,’ I say, gesticulating at her to get down. ‘I’m sorry, Lewis. We’re working on that one,’ I go on when she ignores my command and settles down on the duvet, digging it up to make a nest in which she curls up with her nose resting on her tail.

  ‘She isn’t allowed up on the furniture at your gran’s, is she?’ Lewis pulls the duvet from underneath her and Frosty jumps down, her brow crinkled, as if to say, what did you do that for? She sits down and gazes up at Lewis, thumping her tail against the floor, and making him laugh. ‘I think she’s shown you up, Zara. Don’t tell me she sleeps on your bed!’

  ‘Occasionally, she jumps up and lies across my feet. I can’t stop her.’

  ‘You could shut her out of the bedroom,’ Lewis says, amused.

  ‘She gets upset and scratches the door. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. It’s the way she looks at you with those soft brown eyes . . .’

  ‘I’d never have imagined you’d end up like one of those mad dog people, like Wendy,’ Lewis says. ‘When are you going to buy the scarf and the tweed skirt?’

  ‘Maybe I already have,’ I tease.

  ‘Very funny,’ he says. ‘I’ll get dressed then.’ He looks me up and down, his appetite clearly not for food. ‘Unless, you’re offering yourself up as a starter,’ he begins.

  I hesitate. ‘I’m sorely tempted, but shouldn’t we save it for later in case Poppy decides to knock on the door?’

  ‘I suppose we should get the dogs out before it gets dark, too,’ Lewis smiles ruefully, grabbing some clothes from a box under the sofa bed and getting dressed. ‘You aren’t peeking, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, but the giggle that escapes my throat reveals otherwise. He has a narrow waist and long muscular thighs. He’s perfect.

  ‘Right, I’m ready.’ He fastens the buckle on the belt of his jeans and ruffles his hair. ‘I’ll stick the dinner in the oven – it can warm through while we’re walking the dogs.’

  ‘Did you cook that from scratch?’ I ask as I follow him into the kitchen, where he takes a dish of some kind of pasta bake from the fridge and places it in the oven.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t sound quite so surprised – I am house-trained.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I went to the baker’s for fresh bread and the sauce is from a jar. I boiled the pasta and tossed the salad leaves in an olive oil and herb dressing. Does that count?’

  ‘I don’t think it matters.’

  Lewis sets the timer on the oven. ‘Let’s go.’ He doesn’t need to call his dogs; they’re sniffing at his heels as soon as he starts putting his shoes on.

  We stroll around the fields where the sheep are chewing the cud and a pair of buzzards, crying like babies, are being harassed by the rooks that are nesting in the trees in the covert. On our return, we eat, finishing our meal with the door wide open and the pink evening sunshine streaming through the windows in the annexe kitchen as the sun begins to set behind the wooded hills. Lewis’s crook leans against the, wall behind the door beside his boots, his keys lie on the worktop and the sink is piled up with dishes.

  The dogs are sleeping. Mick and Miley are lying in their matching beds in the corner of the kitchen, while Frosty is stretched out on the mat Lewis has put down for her. Every so often, she sighs in protest at being made to be like the other dogs, but I try to ignore her because Lewis and I are together and she’s going to have to get used to following his rules when we’re at his house.

  ‘The dogs seem settled,’ Lewis observes.

  ‘Perhaps they will be all right together in the end.’

  ‘It’s looking promising. I don’t think Miley and Frosty will ever be best mates, though.’

  ‘They seem to have decided to tolerate each other, which makes life a whole lot easier.’

  Lewis’s thigh bumps gently against mine. I slide my hand across the worktop and touch the tips of my fingers very gently to his.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘would you give me a Michelin star?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘Though not necessarily for your cooking.’

  His face falls. ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘I’m teasing. That was lovely, thank you. You must come round to the flat so I can return the favour, although you might have to put up with Gran.’ I stroke Lewis’s hand, noting the curling blond hairs on his skin, the rough calluses and scabs;

  ‘You don’t have to rush off tonight?’ he asks.

  I gaze into his eyes. I couldn’t leave now, even if I had somewhere else to be. My heart pounds, my knees grow weak and the core of my belly seems to melt. The attraction, like an invisible thread, closes the distance between us until his lips are on mine.

  ‘Shall we move into the other room? It’s more comfortable.’ Lewis draws back slightly and tips his head to one side, adding, his voice rough with desire, ‘If I can’t have you soon, I’m going to spontaneously combust.’

  I stand up and take his hand to lead him out from the kitchen, and I don’t know what happens exactly, but there’s a clattering sound behind us, followed by a growl, and Lewis and I turn to find the dogs—Miley and Frosty, to be precise – scrapping and snarling among scattering plate fragments over a crust of leftover garlic bread. Mick is standing barking, like a headmaster trying to break up a fight in the playground.

  Frosty and Miley are having a tug of war over the crust, but when neither of them is prepared to give it up, Miley lets go and flies at Frosty, biting at her neck until she gets a firm grasp with her teeth and shakes her. Frosty is screaming. I’m screaming at the dogs. Lewis is trying to separate them.

  ‘Get her off! She’s going to kill her!’ I look around for a weapon, finding Lewis’s crook. I hook it around Miley’s neck and haul at it. Still, she won’t let go of poor Frosty. Lewis grabs the crook too and, between us, we manage to pull her off, choking, cold-eyed, and intent on returning to finish off what she started. Lewis drags her away and shuts her in the other room and I fall to my knees to help Frosty, but her eyes are filled with terror and, before I can hold onto her, she struggles to her feet and runs across the kitchen, out of the door and across the yard.

  ‘Frosty!’ I scramble up to chase after her, but I’m too slow, and the last I see is the white tip of her tail disappearing through the hedge across the drive. ‘Frosty!’ I glance down to find my fingers are wet with blood.

  ‘Frosty’s bleeding,’ I say, turning to Lewis, who’s right behind me with Mick at his heels.

  ‘Which way did she go?’ he says.

  I show him and he takes Mick to the point in the hedge where she disappeared.

  ‘Find her.’ Lewis sends him through the gap. ‘He isn’t a sniffer dog, but it’s worth a try.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say quickly when he heads back across the yard. ‘That’s my dog out there; she’s petrified and she could be bleeding to death.’

  ‘I know. I’m taking the pick-up. You go through the field. I’ll see if I can
head her off – if she’s still running, that is. Go, Zara,’ he adds with urgency. ‘Go!’

  I run across and climb the gate. I can see Mick searching the top of the field with his nose to the ground, tacking back and forth like the boats do on the estuary down at Talymouth. I jog across the grass, my legs heavy with apprehension at what I’m going to find – if we find her because, with her long legs, Frosty could be miles away by now. I notice how Mick pauses, raising his head in the ear-flipping breeze. Suddenly, he turns and disappears under the fence and into the covert beyond.

  ‘Anything?’ I hear Lewis calling from the gate that opens out onto the road.

  ‘I think Mick’s onto something,’ I yell back.

  I struggle over the fence – the posts are wobbly – and duck under the low branches of hazel and ash, catching my trousers on brambles as I follow the sound of Mick whining from somewhere in the undergrowth. I hear the sound of an engine cutting out, then Lewis’s footsteps as he catches up with me, his breath harsh and rasping with the exertion.

  ‘Where did Mick go?’ he gasps.

  ‘Sh,’ I say sharply. ‘Listen.’ There’s a whimper. ‘That’s her. That’s Frosty.’ I crawl further into the bushes and there, in a small clearing, is Mick, standing over my beautiful dog, licking at her neck. ‘Frosty!’ She’s lying on her front, panting. I kneel beside her and grab hold, but she isn’t going anywhere this time. She’s too weak.

  ‘How is she?’ Lewis joins me with his mobile pressed to one ear. He hands me a tea-towel. ‘I grabbed it from the kitchen,’ he says in explanation. I fold it and press it hard against the wound in Frosty’s neck to stem the steady flow of dark blood.

  ‘It’s coming from the jugular. Oh god, she’s going to die.’

  ‘Hold on, Frosty,’ Lewis says. ‘Thanks. We’ll be on our way,’ he finishes his call. ‘Zara, let’s get her into the pick-up. We’ll take her straight to Otter House.’

  ‘I can’t let go of this,’ I say, gesturing to the makeshift pressure pad, where a deep purple stain is seeping through. Lewis pulls off his T-shirt and I wrap that over the top.