by Dillon, Lucy
‘That went well,’ said Natalie, pulling out of the car park slowly, so as not to upset her newest passenger, securely fastened on the back seat in a truss-like harness.
‘If you mean, have you convinced those rescue women that you’ve done your research, then yes, I think it did,’ said Johnny, evenly. ‘That Rachel was asking you questions in the end.’
Natalie turned to him. ‘I just want to make sure we’ve got everything right for Bertie. I don’t want us to let him down.’
‘You’re not going to let him down.’ Johnny grabbed her knee and held it reassuringly. ‘You’re going to be a great dog owner. And he loves you. Don’t you?’ He wriggled round in his seat and let Bertie lick his fingers.
‘Careful, Jon, don’t want to make him sick,’ she said, glancing in her rear-view mirror. Bertie had taken some convincing to get into the car, and it had only been when Megan hid a sausage on the back seat that he’d finally jumped in.
Bertie looked tragic, sitting there now in his harness, as if he was getting ready for a parachute jump. Natalie reminded herself that he’d looked just the same shortly after getting back from the walk, and stealing a bacon sandwich – it was his default setting.
‘I saw the way you signed us up for next weekend,’ Johnny went on. ‘Was that for the bacon sandwiches or to make sure Bill and Lulu go too?’
‘A bit of both.’ Natalie turned the car round and hid a little smile.
‘Now that plan seems to be working,’ said Johnny. ‘Man plus dog definitely equals romance.’
‘You think they’re getting on?’
‘From the way they were chatting away in the kitchen? I’d say so. I’ve never seen Bill so animated.’
The weekend volunteers seemed like a friendly bunch – the three of them, and Zoe, whom they’d met in the park, some nice old dears and one or two teenagers from Longhampton School, whom Johnny knew. Rachel Fielding, in a pair of jeans topped with some gorgeous cashmere, was making bacon sarnies and Megan was holding a sort of advice clinic about handling puppies. Everyone was chipping in, offering advice, mainly about getting dog hairs out of your washing machine filter. It felt nice, Natalie had thought. Like joining a club, but without the competitive element that made her book group such a trial.
Natalie had kept her eye on Bill, and he seemed to be chatting to Megan quite a bit, about Lulu’s grooming routine.
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I like her a lot – she’s so funny and friendly.’
‘Mm,’ said Johnny. ‘Bit accident-prone but if he’s a doctor, could be a good thing?’
‘What?’
‘Zoe. Didn’t you see the way she nearly fell over Bertie, when he was waiting by the door? Thought Bill was very quick to see she hadn’t concussed herself again.’
‘I didn’t mean Zoe,’ said Natalie, shocked. ‘I meant Megan. It’s Megan who’s perfect for Bill.’
‘What’s wrong with Zoe?’ Johnny pulled his ‘I don’t understand women’ face. ‘She’s pretty, and young, and has that adorable puppy! What’s not for Bill to love?’
They were stuck in the traffic now, and it was starting to drizzle. Natalie turned on the windscreen wipers and tried to work out what it was about Zoe that wasn’t right for Bill. She was perfectly sweet. Just not someone she’d ever have imagined Bill ‘I couldn’t date someone who didn’t like Hitchcock films’ Harper with.
‘I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘Maybe it’s because Bill’s always been so specific about what he wants.’
‘And he’s done a great job finding her so far.’
‘He fell in love with a poodle when he went up there for a spaniel, didn’t he?’ observed Johnny. ‘And look how that’s turned out.’
‘True.’
‘And we didn’t go there for a dog at all, and now we’ve got Bertie the canine waste disposal unit back there. People never know what’s right for them until they meet it. Life always turns out right in the end.’
Natalie stared into the rainy evening and thought about the other dogs lying, head on paws, in the kennels, wondering who was going to come for them, hoping they’d be someone’s surprise choice when the door opened. Johnny always believed things would turn out OK because he never even thought about the alternative.
‘Or maybe I’m just lucky that I keep running into all the right things,’ he said, softly.
She felt his hand cover hers on the gearstick, and told herself that it was about time she starting thinking the same way.
13
On Wednesday, Megan asked for the evening off – her first night off in over two months.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, over breakfast. ‘I usually get three nights a week off, but you know, with Dot and everything …’ She lifted her hands apologetically. ‘I’m just going into town with some mates – it’s a birthday party? I won’t be far away, if there’s an emergency.’
Rachel hardly felt she could say no, given that Megan had mucked out the kennels already that morning – and she was still waiting for a small bequest from Dot, which couldn’t be released until Rachel filed the probate application. Which she was definitely going to get finished that morning. Definitely.
‘Of course! It’s no problem,’ she said, checking through the morning’s post for ominous bills. ‘I will be just fine. Watch me.’
‘Brilliant. And you’ve applied for the boarding licence?’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, even though she hadn’t. She would have done by the end of the afternoon, though, she told herself. Today was going to be a very efficient day.
She took another slice of toast from the huge pile in front of her – her bread drought was well and truly over – and opened Dot’s Christie’s auction catalogue, from one of a selection of very upmarket mailing lists Dot seemed to be on.
‘Can you pass me the marmalade, please, Megan?’ she added.
‘Have you applied for the boarding licence?’
Rachel looked up from the glossy pages of the Fine Art sale and saw Megan withholding the sticky pot of Longhampton WI marmalade, just out of reach.
‘Are you training me?’ Rachel demanded. ‘Like one of the dogs?’
‘Have you filled in the form?’ Megan repeated. ‘Because the council are fine about it for a certain period, but they’re going to start kicking up a fuss if there are dogs on the premises and no licencee.’ She waggled the marmalade. ‘It’ll take you two minutes.’
Rachel didn’t like to put her thoughts into words: she hoped that she’d be out of Longhampton and back in a world with no white hairs and slobber well before the council got round to inspecting the new ownership. But even as that went through her head, she had a sinking feeling that getting another job, after Oliver had dined out on her very un-PR-like behaviour, wouldn’t be so easy. Even if her confidence wasn’t at an all-time low, and the recession was closing down PR agencies left, right and centre.
Megan fixed her with a bluster-piercing look. ‘It doesn’t mean you have to stay. It just means we can do some business till you make up your mind.’
Rachel wilted. What was the point? Megan knew her too well already, after hardly any time at all. Either Megan had acquired Dot’s skill for mindreading dumb animals, or Rachel had just got horribly easy to read since she’d left London.
‘Yes. Yes, I will fill in the form this morning. Now can I have the marmalade, please?’
‘Good girl!’ Megan’s smile broadened and she handed her the marmalade.
The dogs were listening to The Archers when Rachel pushed open the door into the kennels, clutching Megan’s scribbled instructions.
‘Evening, all,’ she said, stepping out of her heels and into the wellies positioned by the door. Talking to the dogs was now automatic, but she was still a bit squeamish about the hair/poo/disinfectant cocktail that sloshed around the place before the cleaning started.
There was a little barking, but not too much – the dogs were sleepy after their supper and most were curled up in their baskets, heads d
rooping over the sides as if they were concentrating on the Ambridge gossip.
Gem slunk silently at her side as she pinned Megan’s list to the noticeboard for easy reference. It wasn’t long:
Check and refresh water bowls, sweep out kennels (don’t use broom near the Staffies at the end – they’re scared of brooms, bad experience probably), disinfect where necessary, check blankets, change radio to Radio Three or Classic FM for night time.
Rachel pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and opened the nearest mesh door to let out the first dog – Chester, the stir-crazy springer spaniel – while she stepped gingerly inside his run to pick up his water bowl.
To her surprise, he didn’t bounce out as if he’d been released from a catapult. Instead he lay in his basket, his eyes vacant, his liver-spotted ears flopping lethargically over the edge.
‘Hey, Chester!’ said Rachel, tipping his water down the drain. ‘Are you feeling OK?’
She went back to the dogs’ kitchen to rinse and refill the bowl. When she returned he hadn’t moved, and Gem was sniffing around like a nursemaid. Chester didn’t even bother to swipe Gem’s nose out of the way.
Rachel looked at Gem, the first ripples of unease spreading across her chest. ‘Is he all right?’
Gem stepped delicately out of Chester’s space, and sat down in the corridor between the kennels. At the far end, two of the Staffies were barking for some attention, but even that didn’t rouse the spaniel.
‘Shh!’ She stepped forward to hush the Staffies, and felt panic rising as Chester emitted a low groan.
Megan had only left the premises for what? A few hours? And already Rachel was out of her depth. She had a quick brain, and she’d been absorbing some dog-care basics from Dot’s hand outs in the office, but she hadn’t a clue about canine first aid. Even so, she’d known Chester long enough to realise that anything short of mild hysteria was wrong in a working springer spaniel like him.
Rachel sniffed. Something in Chester’s kennel smelled pretty disgusting – a quick look confirmed there was a puddle of yellow diarrhoea right at the end of the run, as far away from his basket as he could manage. It was a long puddle, as if he hadn’t quite made it.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, taking an involuntary step back. These weren’t her best trousers, but they weren’t her M&S dog-walking ones either, and she’d never be able to get toxic dog slurry out of them.
Was Chester seriously sick? Was he going to give the other dogs whatever he’d got? What if he died? Was she liable?
Rachel closed the kennel door as fast as she could, trying to get away, but then she caught sight of Chester out of the corner of her eye. He was gazing up at her with dull eyes, pathetically trying to wag his tail with what little strength he had left.
Suddenly, she got a flash of what Dot must have felt and her squeamishness evaporated. It was up to her to help Chester – he didn’t have anyone else. And the fact that he trusted a human to help him, after the owners he’d loved had thrown him out like an unwanted sofa, was more than she deserved.
Rachel ripped off her gloves, stepped back in and stroked Chester’s soft ears, crouching down next to him as he tried to lick her hand. There were flecks of runny poo on his feathery back legs and she tried not to notice what they were doing to her trousers.
‘I don’t know what’s up, Chester,’ she whispered, irrationally worried the other dogs might hear. ‘But I’ll find someone who does, OK?’
She stood up, locked his door with trembling hands, and made her way to the office as fast as she could, not wanting to freak out the other dogs. The cordless phone by the door had several speed dials on it, and Rachel’s finger hovered between ‘Megan Mobile’ and ‘George Mobile’.
She didn’t want to spoil Megan’s night, but if Chester was ill, Megan would only ring George anyway, so …
Her finger pressed ‘George Mobile’ before she could think, and it only rang twice before he answered.
‘What’s the problem, Rachel?’ he asked. ‘Fluff on your skirt? Or are the dogs not matching?’
‘No, it’s Chester,’ she said, too worried to rise to his teasing. ‘I think he’s sick. He’s got diarrhoea and he’s just lying in his basket.’ She walked back to the pen, where Chester hadn’t moved. ‘He’s just lying there, like he’s about to die.’
‘Hang on and don’t panic.’ George’s tone changed to calm authority. ‘Has he vomited? Does he feel hot?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rachel. She felt powerless, and scared for the little dog. ‘What can I do? Is it something I’ve done?’
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. It’s probably nothing serious, but I’ll come and have a look. Just keep an eye on him, make sure he’s got some fresh water, and I’ll be right with you.’ He hung up and Rachel stood for a moment, feeling weak at the knees. She’d never experienced such total inadequacy, and utter panic. How could George be so calm?
She grabbed a clean blanket from the pile in the store cupboard and went back into Chester’s run, tucking it around his small body. Beneath his feathery coat, he was shivering, but when he felt her nearby his tail managed a pathetic wag of gratitude, and her heart wrenched.
‘George is coming,’ she said, in a soothing tone. ‘I’m going to carry on sorting out everyone else, but I’m not going to take my eyes off you, all right? Please don’t die before he gets here!’
Chester wagged his tail again, but it was even more feeble than before, and now even the Staffies in the far pens were quiet.
14
For the next fifteen minutes, Rachel refreshed water, cleaned runs and checked bedding like she’d never done before. She kept her sight fixed on Chester, who flopped listlessly in his basket, not even watching her. The other dogs were hushed, sensing something was afoot, and before Front Row had finished on Radio Four, the fire door opened and George’s familiar broad frame appeared, filling it up.
Rachel had never felt so glad to see him.
‘That was quick!’ she said, brushing her hands clean and rushing up to the door.
‘Well, I was passing, as they say.’ George already had his bag open. ‘So, where’s the patient?’
‘In here.’ She opened the kennel, and hovered anxiously outside as George went in and knelt at Chester’s basket. ‘Is he going to be OK?’
‘Good God, Chester, what have you been eating? Now, then, old chap, let me have a look.’ George murmured cheerful, soothing words to the spaniel, which had the side effect of soothing Rachel at the same time. ‘Let me guess, was it a rotten bunny? Or have you been at the dustbins again?’
Rachel watched as his hands moved expertly over the dog’s head. It was mesmerising to watch, and, to her surprise, quite sexy – the combination of skill and tenderness in the way he opened the dog’s eyelid, and checked over his small body. Eventually he stood up.
‘What is it, do you think?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Will they all get it?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ George wiped his hands with anti-bacterial gel. ‘More likely to be something he helped himself to while he was out today. But there’s no harm in keeping an eye on him, just in case – you’ve got those isolation crates in the utility room, haven’t you? We could pop him in there tonight, so you can check up on him.’
‘You’re sure it’s not infectious?’ Rachel’s eyes were round with concern and she was grateful that, for once, George didn’t try to poke fun at her inexperience.
‘Pretty sure. The ones who’ve come in off the streets can’t resist scrounging. It looks a lot worse than it is, and there’s no blood. I can give him something for the dehydration, and he might have to be on rice and chicken for a few days.’ George lifted the whole basket up in one easy movement, and moved it to one side. ‘We should get this slurry cleared up though. Had you got as far as getting the buckets out? I’ll give you a hand.’
Rachel opened her mouth, to tell him he didn’t need to, and George smiled.
‘Come on, don’t look so panicked,’ he sai
d, patting her arm. ‘This happens all the time.’
He had a smile that changed his face from craggy and rather fierce, to a familiar gentle giant-ness. She could see, briefly, where the Daniel Craig wishful thinking came from amongst the town’s female owners.
‘I’m more worried about you,’ he went on. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Is it the state of your trousers that’s given you a funny turn, or Chester here?’
‘It’s Chester,’ Rachel confessed. ‘I was really … worried about him.’ She put a hand on her chest, only half-joking at her racing pulse. ‘I thought it was my fault.’
‘And you not a dog person,’ George huffed, amused. ‘I think we can stop saying that now, can’t we? Rumour has it you’ve even been out walking Gem when you don’t have to.’
‘How would you know that?’ Rachel demanded. ‘How small is this town that other people’s dog walking passes for entertainment?’
George raised his hands, then turned away to start the hose. ‘Just a guess, that’s all! I know there’s nothing like a long walk with a good companion to get your problems aired to a sympathetic ear.’ She couldn’t see his face, because he was sluicing out the pen with practised sweeps of water, but his voice was conversational. ‘They’re great listeners, dogs. Never try to give you advice, unlike people.’
Rachel stared, open-mouthed.
‘You can add it to your PR campaign for the rehoming.’ He lifted one hand to draw an imaginary headline in the air. ‘Get a dog, skip the therapist. Better than a useless boyfriend.’
Now that was too close to home. Rachel stopped changing the water in the Staffies’ pen. Had Megan said something? About her leaving her job? About – her skin crawled – about Oliver?
I’ve got to put her straight about that, she thought, but even as the idea of confessing was passing across her brain, Rachel saw her lovely clean slate slipping away and she pressed her lips together. I’m not that old Rachel any more, she reminded herself. As of now, I’m just any other single thirty-something, making a fresh start.
