‘Has he done anything like that before?’ Josie asked. ‘Because he seemed to know exactly what he was at.’
Finn was sitting, bedraggled but otherwise nice as pie, waiting to be helped through the fence, and now Annie stooped to pull at a loose lower bar, so that the dog could squeeze under.
‘You managed to get through this fence before, young feller-my-lad,’ she said. ‘So why can’t you manage it now? Now then, where’s all this blood coming from?’
Josie and Sandra exchanged a look.
‘He’s not bleeding,’ Sandra said. ‘He went for the sheep, like Josie said. Well, that terrier did, but Finn joined in.’
Finn slumped to the floor, in much the same way as Sandra. The smell of traumatised sheep was potent and pervasive and there was no disregarding it; Annie had to allow the truth to filter through the mists of her denial. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear.’ She shook her head, hid her face in her hands. Sandra had no patience with it. She was determined that facts would be faced.
‘Who farms this flock then?’ she said, to Josie.
Josie shrugged. ‘It’s estate land, I think,’ she said, ‘so probably the man at Home Farm. Mr Wright.’
‘Well you’ll need to see him, Annie,’ Sandra said.
‘Oh no, I can’t do that,’ Annie said, through her fingers.
‘Really?’ said Sandra coldly. ‘Why not?’
Annie moved her hands from her face and she looked so woebegone that Sandra’s heart almost went out to her. ‘Because he’ll shoot Finn,’ Annie said shakily and then broke into a wail so pitiful that Josie, who was still in the field, vaulted smartly over the fence and tucked her into the protective curl of her arm.
‘Hush,’ Josie said. ‘Of course he won’t shoot Finn. That’s not how it works, is it, Sandra?’
Sandra said nothing. She found she couldn’t look at Annie so she inspected her hands, which were flecked here and there with dark blood. She wiped them on her jeans.
‘If I were you,’ Sandra said, still staring at her hands, ‘I’d go right away and find the farmer. In fact I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’
‘How about if I came with you?’ This was Josie; she’d released Annie, and had clipped Finn onto his lead, although he was flat out on the grass now, going nowhere. Annie seemed rooted where she stood, incapable of motion, but she answered Josie briskly enough.
‘No,’ she said. She shook her head emphatically.
‘But you will go?’ Sandra said. ‘Because if you won’t, I will. That second sheep’s injured and there’s a little bastard terrier still on the loose that needs catching.’
‘I’m taking Finn home,’ Annie said. She reached out for the lead, and Josie passed it to her.
Sandra felt a rush of frustrated anger. She heaved herself to her feet, looming over Annie as she fussed and fretted over Finn. ‘That sickens me,’ Sandra said, with cold fury. She flung an arm out, pointing at the field beyond. ‘There’s a dead sheep down there and another one trailing blood, and all you want to do is pretend it never happened. Well, I call that cruel and selfish and almost certainly illegal and—’
‘Oh shut your bloody mouth!’
Sandra and Josie both stared at Annie, who stood there, shaking from the impact of her own outburst.
‘Annie!’ Josie said.
‘I’m taking Finn home,’ she said again, and she jerked at the lead so that Finn stood up at once and began to walk beside her. He hung his head though, and his smile was gone.
Twice on the drive home Annie had to stop to be sick. It was the smell of sheep: the smell, and the shock of it all. The first time, she managed to get out and scuttle round the car onto the verge, so that she could vomit tidily into the grass while screening herself with the car. But the second time came upon her too quickly, so that she only managed to open the door and lean out over the road. A boy on a bike said ‘Rank!’ and pedalled away laughing, and a woman in a green Range Rover slowed down and stared, but didn’t stop.
Finn hunkered down in the boot, his bloodied snout an abomination. There was sheep’s wool snagged on his teeth. Annie could barely bring herself to look at him and certainly she had nothing to say. The dog, sensing his disgrace, just watched and waited.
She parked outside her house on Beech Street and sat for a while, worrying about the vigilance of the local Neighbourhood Watch, usually such a fount of comfort and reassurance. Not today though: not now. Oh, what a band of nosy parkers they were! Peering round their curtains, taking notes, running to the community policeman with their unusual sightings. Were they watching her now? thought Annie. Could they tell she was harbouring a fugitive? The incriminating evidence – the blood, the wool, the cloying stink – was abundant, but she couldn’t sit here until after dark so she picked a quiet moment and made a dash for it, chivvying Finn up the path, into the house, and all the way through to the back patio.
Finn tried to oblige her in every way possible. He held his mouth open when she pulled the wool from his teeth; he even stood motionless when she turned the pressure hose on him, soaking him through in a matter of moments with a pitiless blast of cold water that could have shifted barnacles from a rock. Blood dripped from his sodden fur, pooling around his paws, and Annie chased it away towards the drain with further bursts from her power nozzle.
Finn – placid, stoical, dignified – began to win back her affection with this unresisting acceptance of his fate; the more patiently he withstood the icy torrent, the more her heart swelled with love. By the time he and the patio were clean again and Annie stood back to let him shake, all was restored between them. Let that farmer do his worst. Let him just try. She would place herself squarely between the barrel of his gun and her beloved dog, if that was what it came to.
Finn wasn’t coming in the house yet though, not until she could be sure her carpets were safe from his big wet paws.
13
Yesterday, Finn had killed the sheep. Tomorrow, Andrew and his family were coming. Today, Glebe Hall rang to say Vince had suffered another episode overnight, but was conscious and reasonably lucid.
‘Well, I say lucid,’ the duty nurse, Brenda, added. ‘I mean lucid in a rambling sort of way.’
‘Yes,’ Annie said. Her chest was tight with anxiety, not for Vince but for herself and for Finn, and for Andrew on that jumbo jet. She found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I shall leave him be today, then come tomorrow with Andrew, all being well.’
‘All right, Mrs Doyle.’
Annie imagined she could hear disapproval in Brenda’s voice; a tinge of disappointment at responsibilities shirked. Of all the staff at the home, Brenda was the only one who made her feel this way. Something in her tone suggested that while a laissez-faire approach might suit the likes of Annie Doyle, it would never do for her.
‘Michael might be able to come, though.’
‘Michael?’
‘My other son, the older one.’ Annie knew her voice had a defensive edge. She knew, too, that pigs would fly before Michael went to Glebe Hall on a Thursday. Well, any day really, but on Thursdays he had classes nearly back-to-back and then chamber choir in the evening.
‘Well, we shall look forward to seeing Michael later then,’ said the nurse doubtfully.
Annie cracked under the pressure. ‘Oh well, I suppose I could come on my way to Morrisons,’ she said, and there was no mistaking the resentment in her voice. How heartless she sounded! She winced at the impression she must be making. She just felt so … well, she didn’t really know what she felt, but she knew she’d better make amends. ‘I mean, if he’s awake I’d like to come and say hello,’ she said.
‘Up to you, Mrs Doyle, but better safe than sorry.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s very poorly.’
‘Yes, but he’ll hang on for Andrew, won’t he?’
Until she’d asked Andrew to come, Annie hadn’t minded when Vince
died: sooner the better, in her view. His tenacity in clinging to life was plain irritating; just let go, you horrid old man, she wanted to shout; nobody wants you! Now, though, she had a vested interest in Vince’s condition. It must remain critical, but stable. She didn’t want Andrew to feel guilt at missing the last goodbye yet neither did she want him thinking she’d fetched him here on a fool’s errand. In an ideal world, Vince would die this weekend; next Monday at the latest, then Andrew could still be here for the funeral. She realised these matters couldn’t be organised to suit flight times though; it was only wishful thinking.
‘I expect he will,’ Brenda said. ‘On the other hand, one bad turn …’
‘Deserves another,’ Annie said recklessly, and Brenda chuckled, so they ended their conversation quite jovially considering that there was a human soul at stake.
Annie replaced the receiver and looked at the phone warily. Last night it had rung and rung and she’d known it would be Josie; felt it in her bones. She’d ignored it and worked on a jigsaw puzzle but then Michael had come in and of course he picked up.
‘Ye-es?’ he had said in his telephone voice, which conveyed boredom and irritation with the caller even before they’d spoken, and in the living room, Annie had frozen. She’d heard him say, ‘I expect so, hang on,’ and then shout, ‘Mother!’ so she’d peeped round the door with desperate eyes and had vigorously shaken her head. Michael, smirking, had returned the receiver to his ear. ‘Apparently she isn’t here,’ he said in an amused, ironical tone so that Josie – because it must be her – would know he was fibbing, and Annie felt foolish. ‘Who was it?’ she asked nervously, when he put the phone down. ‘What do you care?’ Michael had said. ‘You’re not even in.’
Now the phone sat peacefully on its table. Annie looked at her watch. Five past nine. Finn was shut in the living room but she could sense his watchful bulk on the other side of the closed door. Yesterday’s crime seemed distant and illusory on this crisp new morning, something she’d dreamed in the restless small hours of the night. She’d told no one; not even Michael. Well, especially not Michael. But now she was about to leave the house to do the right thing, which was to see the farmer and offer him recompense for the loss of his livestock. She was proud of that line: she’d rehearsed it and liked its tone of practical professionalism. Recompense for the loss of his livestock. She’d keep Finn out of it entirely. Finn was nobody’s business but her own. It was purely a financial transaction, and no one need know anything about it, other than herself and the farmer. There was nothing at all to worry about.
Still though, there was a cold clod of fear in her chest as she left the house, and she had to endure the sorrowful gaze of her dog, who had his front paws on the inside ledge of the living-room window and was watching her leave without him.
Back in Wentford she found the farm a little too easily. It seemed no time at all before she was parking on the uneven, frosty flags of a yard, which was occupied on two sides by low outbuildings and on a third by a square farmhouse of blackened stone. There was a general ramshackle air; rusting machinery parts were piled in a heap, and an old livestock trailer, filthy with splattered mud and missing a wheel, listed sadly against the wall of a barn. And the smell! A bitter, potent mix of sheep, rotting grass and creosote assailed Annie as she picked her way tentatively towards a drab front door. If she hadn’t been so afraid of slipping she would have held her nose, but she needed both arms for balance. Her stout dog-walking shoes would’ve been the thing but instead she had on her shopping shoes, and they had no grip. She found herself edging sideways to the door like a cautious crab and then it opened before she reached it, and a bony woman with a beaky nose and two hard black eyes challenged her with a stare. Annie panicked and her mind emptied of anything useful. The farmer’s name? Gone. Her own? No idea. The two women considered each other without speaking. Annie’s face glowed red.
‘Now then, tha’ll be ’ere about them sheep.’
This was a man’s voice, and it came from behind her. ‘Oh!’ she said, and turned, and this small action caused her right foot to slip an inch or so on the frost. She teetered like a woman on a tightrope.
‘Steady,’ said the man. The peak of his tweed cap put his eyes in shadow, so Annie couldn’t properly judge his expression. She hadn’t expected him to know about the sheep yet, but she supposed farmers must check on their stock periodically. She cleared her throat to deliver her speech, but he said, ‘Big lass beat thi to it.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Big lass, came yes’di. Carrot top.’
‘I’m not with you,’ Annie said. She wanted to offer recompense for the loss of his livestock, and instead she was listening to riddles.
‘Copper knob,’ said the woman at the door. ‘Big red ’ed.’
‘Sandra,’ Annie said, suddenly understanding. She felt a stab of sharp indignation.
‘Aye, that’s it. Left ’er name and number yes’di morning.’
‘Well, she had no business to,’ Annie said. ‘It’s nothing to do with her.’ She edged close enough to the door to be able to reach an arm out and support herself against the wall. The farmer took off his cap and gave his sandy hair a rub, so that it stuck out at odd angles. He eyed Annie with curiosity. She could see that he was a lot younger than the woman on the doorstep, who Annie now realised was quite ancient: tiny and stooped. Odd couple, she thought. The woman’s hostile black eyes were riveted on Annie’s face, but the farmer’s expression was mild, his tone phlegmatic.
‘It were your dog, were it?’
‘Well and another one, a little one, a stray, but it was, yes, and I’d like to offer you recom—’
‘Poor do. Them ewes were in lamb.’
‘Oh! Oh dear. Well I insist on offering you—’
‘Bad business,’ the farmer said. ‘What dog is it?’
Annie steeled herself, mustered all her courage. ‘That’s neither here nor there,’ she said. ‘But if you’ll let me know the—’
‘See, some breeds are more prone ’n others to savaging.’
‘I’m sure that’s right but—’
‘Pit bulls, mastiffs, they’ve a killer instinct. Yours a mastiff, is it?’
‘No it is not. He is not,’ Annie said indignantly. ‘My Finn’s a pedigree golden retriever and has never hurt a fly.’
‘Until yes’di.’
Annie was silent at this incontrovertible truth, and anyway she’d already said more than she meant to. She’d resolved to keep Finn out of it and now at the least provocation she’d uttered his name! Next she’d be fetching out the photograph she kept in her handbag. The crone at the door said, ‘Aye, an’ ’e’ll do it again,’ and the farmer nodded.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They get a taste for blood. A golden, eh? Well I’m surprised, but they’re big buggers, reight enough. That little ’un couldn’t ’ave managed wi’out yours. They work in packs, dogs. Now then, let’s ’ave a brew, Mother.’
His mother: of course!
He made for the door and Annie wondered if that was that. Surely not? She cleared her throat again. ‘Erm, please can I offer you recompense for the loss of your livestock?’ she said, finally managing to relay her rehearsed message, albeit to the back of his head. The old lady had retreated inside and now Annie could see into the porch through the open door. There were two dead rabbits hanging from a peg, and yellowing newspaper on the floor where there should have been lino.
‘Aye, tha mun pay up,’ the farmer said, pulling off his filthy wellies and leaving them where they fell. ‘But not before we’ve ’ad a brew.’
Annie realised with panic that she was expected to follow him into the farmhouse. Should she take off her shoes too? No, she decided; they were as clean as a whistle, and judging by the state of the porch she’d need them to keep her socks clean. Still, the newspaper seemed to crackle reproachfully as she stepped inside.
In fact the kitchen wasn’t half as bad as the porch suggested; old-fashioned, but there was nothing wro
ng with that. The tiles on the floor were cleanish, the sink was empty of pots, and apart from a crowded fly strip in the window, there was nothing dead that Annie could see. The old lady was sprightly in spite of her stoop; she bustled about making tea and slicing teacakes while the farmer, pleasantly courteous, offered Annie a chair before sitting down himself. They were at the table, facing each other. Wright, thought Annie, suddenly remembering his name with utter relief.
‘Mr Wright,’ she said at once, ‘I can’t tell you what a shock it was. I’ve had Finn for three years and he’s soft as a brush.’
The farmer looked sceptical.
‘No, really!’ Annie said. ‘He’s never so much as looked at a sheep before.’
‘Makes no odds to me,’ he said. ‘Fact is, ’e killed mine.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘One dog, no problem. Two dogs, trouble.’
‘I see.’
‘Bonnie and Clyde,’ his mother said and cackled, without turning round from her post at the worktop.
‘Right,’ Annie said.
‘I’ll ’ave to charge market rate, you understand? Two ewes, four lambs, plus shiftin’ them bodies from that top field. It all costs.’
‘Four lambs—?’
‘One ewe dead, one shot, an’ both were carrying two apiece.’
‘One shot?’ Annie said.
‘Aye, else it would ’ave bled to death.’
‘Oh I see.’ She felt chastened and, suddenly, profoundly sad. Those unborn babies, those slaughtered mothers.
‘So I’ll tot it all up and let you know.’ Mr Wright appeared infinitely less affected than Annie. His mother had put a plate of large, flat toasted teacakes on the table, thickly spread with yellow butter. He pushed the plate towards Annie and she shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she said, believing herself too agitated to even think of food, but her mouth watered when she watched him take a bite. The old lady poured two mugs of dark brown tea and sloshed milk straight from the bottle into each one with no delicacy or finesse, yet when she brought the sugar to the table it was in cubes, in a china bowl, with silver tongs. She didn’t sit with them, but instead fetched the rabbits from the porch and laid them out on a board by the sink.
This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret? Page 11
