A Blessing In Disguise (35 page)

She's opening the door before I reach it.

‘Good-morning, Vicar,' she says. She has a quiet voice, a rather shy manner.

‘Good-morning, Mrs Leigh. Nice day!' I follow her into the front room.

‘I've put some coffee on,' she says. ‘Would you like a cup?'

‘Oh, absolutely!' I say. ‘I usually have one around this time but I left home in a hurry.'

I follow her into the kitchen. You don't get far from sitting on your own in someone's front room so, without waiting to be asked, I sit down at the kitchen table. She looks a bit surprised at this.

‘So how are you, Ethel? How's it going?' I ask.

My use of her first name is also deliberate. It's what I do, unless I think it's likely it will offend, but that isn't often the case and I can usually suss it out beforehand. For instance, would I ever address the Honourable Miss Frazer as ‘Amelia'? Never in a thousand years. But Mrs Leigh's face lightens a little at my use of her name.

‘All right, I suppose,' she says. ‘I get by. It's the little things, actually. Like having something to say, something not the least bit important, could be about the weather, or a TV programme, and there's no-one to say it to.'

‘Yes, I know,' I agree.

She gives me a look.

‘I'm a widow myself,' I tell her. I could also tell her, though I won't, that, from my experience, it doesn't get better. One learns to cope with the big things, it's the small ones which are one's undoing. But perhaps it won't be the same for her. I hope not.

She pours the coffee and puts a plate of homemade biscuits on the table.

‘You're very young to be widowed,' she says.

I nod agreement. ‘Not as many things to remember and miss as
you
must have after a long marriage,' I say. ‘On the other hand, sadly not enough time to have so many memories to cherish.'

There's a short silence. ‘How is Marilyn?' I ask. ‘And Garth?'

‘They're both well,' she says. ‘Garth misses his Granddad.'

How long I should talk about the one who's died I always have to play by ear. To some it's a comfort to say a lot but others aren't yet ready to talk, so to discuss other members of the family is a sort of halfway house. We go on to talk about Garth, how he's doing at school and so on, and I bring in Becky and how she's doing.

‘Tomorrow we're going to the Dog Rescue Centre,' I tell Ethel. ‘We're thinking of adopting a dog. Did you ever have a dog?' There are no signs of it, no water bowl, no doggy toys on the floor. Everything is super-neat.

‘No, we never had,' Ethel says. ‘Ronnie didn't like dogs.'

We drift into idle chatter, nothing significant. I refuse a second cup of coffee and say, ‘I suppose I must go. I have a hospital visit, and I must do a bit of shopping because Becky's bringing a friend home to tea.' It gives me great pleasure to be saying that last bit.

Becky is home soon after half-past three, bringing Anna into the house with what I can only describe as a proprietorial air, sort of showing off; partly showing off Anna to me, partly showing off the Vicarage to Anna. Anna is on the small side, very pretty, with fair, curly hair and a nice smile. I take to her at once. I give them both a drink of juice and a biscuit and then Becky takes Anna upstairs to her room.

‘Tea about five o'clock,' I call after them. ‘I'll give you a shout!' I've bought chicken nuggets. Ethel Leigh said Garth doted on them and I know Becky thinks they're food for the gods, so I hope Anna has similar tastes. And, I discover, she does. I'm glad I bought more than I thought I could possibly need! Then after tea I clear the table and bring out the leaflets from the Dog Rescue place and both girls are immediately immersed in them, choosing from the illustrations which dog they like best.

‘It's not to say they'll actually have any of those when we get there,' I warn Becky. ‘It's just to show the different breeds. And not all of them would be suitable for us.' But Becky is not even listening to that sort of talk. Anna is deeply envious. ‘Though we have a cat,' she says. ‘She's called Smokey.'

Then at half-past six Sally Brent arrives to collect her daughter.

‘I've had a lovely time!' Anna says. ‘Becky is going to get a dog tomorrow!'

Mrs Brent looks at me.

‘At the moment it's a possibility, a strong possibility but by no means certain,' I tell her. ‘We're going to the Dog Rescue Centre.'

‘We have friends who got their dog there,' Sally Brent says. ‘It worked out very well. They're quite fussy. They'll ask you a lot of questions to see if you're suitable to have one of their dogs.'

‘Quite right, too,' I say. ‘That's what I've been telling Becky. We can't just walk in and get one off the shelf!'

The Rescue Centre is on the coast a good twenty miles to the south of Thurston. Becky was up early, which is unusual for her on a Saturday, and is anxious to be off.

‘There's no point in being there before twelve,' I tell her. ‘They're closed until then.'

‘Why?' she demands. ‘Why don't they open earlier?'

‘How do I know?' I ask. ‘Don't you think it could be to do with the fact that they have perhaps seventy dogs to attend to – feed them, groom them and so on, all the things you'll discover, if we get one, one has to do for a dog? Why don't you go for a walk down the village?'

‘All right,' she says reluctantly.

I can guess what she'll do there. There's a pet shop where she can gaze at the variety of leads, collars, winter coats, dog treats and toys which she would like to buy for the dog she hasn't yet acquired, and I've forbidden her to buy anything of the kind until something is settled.

Eventually she returns and we set off, and now we are nearing the Rescue Centre, which has been built on a spit of land which stretches out from the shore for about a mile from the small town of Dramwell, and is isolated from any built-up area, which I reckon is a good idea. It must at times be noisy. It is not quite twelve as we reach the entrance. Once inside we are in a clean, bright reception area where I give my name to the young woman behind the desk, whose badge identifies her as ‘GRACE'. By the way, I have broken my usual Saturday rule and I am wearing my clericals because I think the sight of my dog collar might add a certain air of responsibility.

‘Ah, yes!' she says. ‘Imogen is going to look after you. She'll be with you in a few minutes. Please take a seat!'

The few minutes extends to fifteen and Becky is impatient, though in fact there's a lot going on. A man and a woman with two children, round about Becky's age, come in, and a dog, a bit like a Labrador but not quite, is brought to them, already leashed.

‘Look! They're taking it home!' Becky says.

There is a woman sitting on the other side of Becky who knows everything. There is one in every waiting room – doctor's, dentist's, Social Security, train stations. I sometimes wonder if they live there.

‘No!' she contradicts. ‘They're just taking it for a walk. You can do that regularly when you know which dog you're going to have but you can't take it home for a few weeks.'

There are two dogs in sort of open kennels at the other side of the room, so we go across and look at them. One kennel is occupied by a brown-and-black terrier. Her name is Floss, the card says, and she's eight years old. Bright-eyed, she watches everything in the room; no-one goes in or out, or crosses the floor, without Floss noticing them. I am suddenly choked by the fact that she might be watching for her owner, who never comes, but I say nothing of this to Becky. In the other kennel a white, fluffy dog – breed unknown to me – lies asleep. On his cage a card says, ‘I'm Fred! I've got a new home!'

Presently, Imogen appears. She takes us into a small office just off the reception. We chat for a short time; she asks us several questions: ‘Why do you want a dog?' ‘Have you ever had one before?' ‘Do you have a garden?' ‘Do you have a car?' Then she gives us a form to fill in which has loads more questions. Everything is geared to whether I would be a suitable person to have a dog, and if I'm deemed not to be, then, I guess, we're not going to get one.

‘So if you're a Vicar you'll have a fair-sized house, but we'd still want to make a visit, see where the dog would be kept.'

‘You're welcome to come and see us,' I say. ‘At any time.'

‘Yes. And we do sometimes make follow-up visits after you've taken a dog,' she tells me. ‘Not always. Now, the fact that you're a Vicar I suppose means that you'll be out of the house quite a bit?'

‘On and off,' I tell her. ‘I'm also in quite a bit.'

‘And perhaps you could take the dog with you sometimes when you have to go out?'

‘Oh, certainly!' I assure her. ‘Not everywhere, but quite a lot of places.'

‘And what about holidays?'

And so on and so on. It's very thorough and I realize it has to be done, but Becky is looking pale with anxiety. Fortunately, Imogen also notices this.

‘Don't worry, Becky!' she says. ‘All these questions have to be asked for the sake of the dog. We need to know it's going to be happy. But so far everything is going well, and I'm nearly through, after which I'll take you and your mum to meet some of the dogs. I'm sure you'll be helping to look after the dog, won't you?'

Becky's face brightens up no end at this. ‘I'll take it for walks!' she says eagerly.

Imogen takes us off for a tour around the kennels. We see all kinds of dog, every colour and size, so many different breeds. We are very struck by two beautiful greyhounds.

‘I expect they need lots of exercise?' I say.

Imogen shakes her head. ‘Not true! Just short, sharp bursts is what they're used to. Apart from that they lie around a lot. I wouldn't advise one for you and Becky. Too big for a small child.' We pass on.

‘And of course a good many of the dogs here are strays,' Imogen says. ‘The dog wardens bring them in from the streets and we try to find their owners but we don't always succeed.'

We continue to walk around. Dogs climb up the front of their kennels to greet us; we meet dogs being walked by staff, everything seems relaxed, and far less noisy than I'd imagined. We see a kennel with half-a-dozen divine puppies and, naturally, Becky immediately wants one of them.

‘No!' Imogen says firmly. ‘Not suitable! Puppies need a great deal of time and attention and they need to be trained by someone who knows what's what and can be with them for most of the day. One day it might be suitable for you to have a puppy, but not yet. Do the two of you have some idea of what sort of dog you
would
like?'

‘Not too large,' I say. ‘And a nice temperament, as we're not used to dogs. I suppose rescue dogs can be difficult?'

‘That's what most people think,' Imogen says. ‘It simply isn't true. Occasionally there's a difficult one, but not often. And in fact we keep them for several weeks after they're brought in, so we have plenty of time to see how they get on with people.' Then she says, ‘. . . I wonder?' Then, ‘Yes,' she says thoughtfully. ‘She might be just the one!'

Becky is all agog. So am I for that matter.

‘A dog came in earlier this week,' Imogen continues. ‘A spaniel cross bitch. Small, but bigger than a Cavalier. She's not a stray, not by any means. She's a much-loved dog, six years old, but her owner, an elderly lady, has had finally to go into a nursing home. Missie is a healthy, good-tempered dog who's been looked after well. And now she needs another good home.'

‘Oh!' Becky cries. ‘Oh! Can we see her? Please!'

‘Why not?' Imogen says.

Missie is black-and-white, with a glossy coat, drooping spaniel ears and large, lustrous brown eyes. She's lying on her bed, holding a soft toy between her front paws – a small teddy bear which looks as though it's had a lot of handling. When Imogen calls her name she stands up, the teddy bear still in her mouth, and slowly waves her rather beautiful fringed tail. And she moves towards us. It's that which clinches it!

‘Oh! She's beautiful!' Becky cries. ‘Oh, can we have her, Mummy?'

‘Hold out your hand, Becky. Palm down,' Imogen says. ‘Hold quite still!'

Becky does exactly as she's told and Missie walks rather slowly forward and licks the hand, just once. Becky goes pink with ecstasy. ‘Oh!' she says. ‘Oh!' At first it's all she can manage, and then she finds her voice and says, ‘Oh,
please! please!
We can have her, can't we? She likes me, you can tell she does!'

I look at Imogen.

‘I think it might be OK,' she says. ‘But you know,' she continues, turning to Becky, ‘you won't be able to take her for a few weeks. She's only been with us for a few days. There are all sorts of things to do. The vet will want to see her again, we'll have to check on her inoculations and that sort of thing.'

‘When could we take her home?' Becky wants to know.

‘You should say “
if
and when,”' I say. ‘As Imogen says, it has to be decided.'

‘Don't worry!' Imogen says. ‘I'm pretty sure it will be. And you might not have to wait as long as you would if she was a stray. What we'll do is telephone you in a day or two. And if we say “yes” we'll expect you both to come to a training class. You need to learn something about dogs in general and Missie in particular. And when you do come, you can take her for a walk. In fact, once we've decided she's to be yours both of you can come and take her for walks as often as you like in opening hours. And in the meantime I do expect both of you to read all the information I'm going to give you about looking after a dog. It's extremely important. As I told you: remember a dog is for life! Will you do that?'