Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (3 page)

Rachel did wonder almost immediately what on earth she was doing, driving miles on her own out to Worcestershire, when she could have been flirting in a Soho members’ club, but the wilful desire to be unfindable spurred her on. Once in Longhampton, though, it had been different. Dot had ushered her into the warm kitchen, where she was listening to a Radio Four play, and she’d cooked a fish pie, as Rachel slowly found herself getting absorbed in the play too. They’d eaten in companionable silence, bar the snuffling of about seven assorted rescue puppies in a box by the Aga.

Midnight arrived and went by the log fire, toasted in with a vintage bottle of Krug. Dot didn’t ask Rachel why she was on her own on a night when most women of her age were engaged in determined partying, just whether she was happy. The simple question had broken through Rachel’s fake nonchalance, and she’d let more slip to Dot than she had to her own mother. Not everything though; just that Oliver was hard to pin down, and she was too proud to stay at home to be pinned herself.

‘Men like to make themselves complicated,’ Dot had told her, with something in her wry expression that said she knew what she was talking about. ‘Don’t let them complicate you. That’s the thing about dogs – their affection is very straightforward. A walk, some food a bed . . .’ She paused, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Actually . . .’

Dot had looked decades younger in that instant and Rachel felt like a naive kid, not a jaded urbanite. But she couldn’t ask. Val had told them never to ask Auntie Dot any questions about her strange lack of husband. Habits died hard.

Then she’d offered Rachel a whisky, and passed her some crystallised fruits from Fortnum & Mason, and they’d sunk back into their thoughts. Rachel wondered where Dot got Fortnum’s crystallised fruits and Krug from. They didn’t fit in with the image Val liked to paint of Dot at Christmas, sharing a bowl of Winalot with some holly in it.

Now she paused at the front door, as the memory of that night slid through her mind. She’d left first thing on New Year’s Day, to prepare for a client meeting, and she and Dot never mentioned their shared New Year again. Their relationship of wry birthday and Christmas cards continued as before. From that New Year on, Rachel volunteered at a local homeless shelter, to teach Oliver a lesson. Not that he cared.

Rachel pushed her way into the hall. Dot clearly hadn’t done any decorating since moving in some time in the early seventies, but the dignified shabbiness suited the country house. With a wash of pale paint and some vases of flowers, it would be a different place. It would be hers, to settle down in. Redecorate as she wanted. It didn’t make Rachel as excited as it should have done.

‘Would you like to freshen up first?’ asked Megan, pausing at the foot of the carpeted stairs, one of Rachel’s bags over her shoulder. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer to come and say hello to the folks, get it out of the way? I’ve got to take out some of the dogs at five, so if you wanted to come for a walk, you’d be very welcome to join us, maybe give Gem some one-on-one time . . .’

Her voice trailed off as Rachel didn’t reply. ‘Sorry, it sounds like I’m welcoming you to a hotel, doesn’t it? And this is your house now.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Rachel. That wasn’t why she was looking awkward; it was the idea of having to make small talk with strangers when all she really wanted to do was put on her Virgin Atlantic eyemask and try to block out the reality of what she’d set in motion back in Chiswick. Her phone kept buzzing in her pocket and she knew it would be Oliver. She didn’t want to hear his messages; he’d be incandescent with rage by now, after what she’d done. ‘Um, when you say
folks
. . .’

‘Actually, I was meaning the dogs.’ Megan grinned. ‘Sorry, you’ll get used to it. But George, the vet, is here, and I guess you’ll need to talk to him about the kennels anyway?’

George the vet. The bath and a bottle of wine were beckoning, but Rachel dragged on her best PR meeting face. Better to get it over with.

‘Good idea!’ she said, rather hollowly, and felt a flicker of shame at Megan’s eager, unforced smile as she set off down the hall.

‘We have our team of volunteer walkers,’ Megan said over her shoulder. ‘Couldn’t do without them, to tell the truth – they’ll be in now, dropping the terriers off.’

‘Walkers?’ repeated Rachel, though she wasn’t really listening. It was a client trick she’d learned from Oliver – if you don’t want to talk or listen, just repeat the last word and let the other person chatter on.

‘Yes, local owners who don’t mind taking a few rescues out with their own dogs. And we’ve got some kids who aren’t allowed a pet, some older people who can’t take one on. Works out well for everyone.’

‘Mm,’ said Rachel, pausing by a photograph of Dot, straight-backed and white-haired, surrounded by a group of dogs leaping up to lick her face. Here and there were big portraits of frolicking greyhounds and collies in mid-leap, in much the same way that Val covered the walls of her Dustbusted living room with studio shots of Amelia, Grace and Jack.

‘So what do you do?’ Megan asked conversationally. ‘Gerald said you worked in PR! Sounds very glam.’

‘Oh, not really. Internet launches, mainly, new businesses, some web-based retailers, nothing too interesting.’ Rachel felt something nudge against her heel and jumped.

Behind her, Gem was lowering his head to make gentle butts with his nose against her calf. He stopped, and looked up, tilting his head so his ear flopped.

‘Gem! You bossy dog!’ yelped Megan, outraged but obviously amused. ‘You’ll have to excuse him, Rachel, he’s a real collie – always herding us around if he doesn’t think we’re moving quickly enough.’

‘Was he a hand-in?’ Rachel asked, making eye contact properly for the first time with her new dog. ‘I don’t remember seeing him when I was here.’

Megan’s cheeriness drooped. ‘No. He was her puppy. Dot got Gem when he was two weeks old. Our local policeman found him in a box down by the play area in the park with three of his baby brothers, just dumped there to die.’ Her eyes widened. ‘God knows what happened to their poor mum. The river froze over, so you can guess what sort of state these guys were in. When they came in, they were just clinging to each other for warmth. Their sister had already frozen to death in there.’

‘That’s awful,’ breathed Rachel, jolted out of her self-pity. She crouched down to Gem’s level, so she could stroke his neck.

Gem stared up at her, his bright eyes shining in the dimly lit corridor. His coat was so thick and strong, it was impossible to imagine him tiny and struggling for life.

‘He looks amazing now,’ she said.

‘Yeah, well, that was Dot.’ Megan leaned over and fondled his ear. ‘She virtually kept all four in a sort of sling round her for the first week – they were far too young to leave their mother, so she had to feed them with pipettes and stuff. One little guy didn’t make it – he’d got too thin. George did what he could, but even Dot couldn’t keep him alive.’

There was a roar of male laughter from the kitchen, and Rachel wished she didn’t have to face everyone just yet. Especially not now Gem’s story had brought her back to the edge of tears. ‘So what happened to them?’ she asked, to delay the moment.

Megan bent down to Gem’s level to stroke him better. ‘Shem and Star went to a farmer up near Hartley, Spark went to an agility trainer in Rosehill. But she couldn’t bear to part with Gem, so she kept him. Broke every rule in her book, she said, but he was worth it. And you loved her as much as she loved you, didn’t you, poor sad boy? Eh? You’re missing your mistress now, aren’t you?’

Megan buried her face in his black fur and Rachel got the feeling she was paying him extra attention so she wouldn’t see how tearful she was. Maybe they were both putting off the kitchen moment.

‘Dot didn’t normally take dogs for herself?’ she asked. ‘Wasn’t that really hard, if she loved them so much?’

‘No, she had to be tough – if we took all the sad cases that are handed in we’d be running our own dog rescues from home. She made me promise I wouldn’t try to save all the dogs myself! The best we could do, she reckoned, was to make sure their second chance didn’t let them down. We had to give the dogs their second chance, because they’d given us humans a second chance, despite how badly they’d been treated.’

‘Don’t,’ said Rachel suddenly. ‘You’ll make me cry.’

Megan straightened up, and forced out a watery smile. ‘Sorry. I don’t know how we’re going to manage without her, never mind Gem. He was with her, you know, when she had her stroke. At least he doesn’t look out for her, like the other dogs do. He knows she’s not coming back.’

Gem came forward with two delicate steps and this time nudged Megan’s leg with his snowy muzzle until she broke off and looked down at him.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, tea time.’ She raised her eyebrows at Rachel. ‘Actually, I shouldn’t say that. That was another rule. Don’t pretend the animals talk like humans. They’re bloody dogs, she said, about ten times smarter than we are. And ten times better company.’

‘Well, that I can believe,’ sighed Rachel, thinking of Oliver’s silences and her mother’s constant probing. ‘But don’t get any ideas,’ she added quickly.

The kitchen was buzzing with hearty conversation when Megan pushed the door open, and it didn’t die down as she went in.

‘. . . and I said, here, have a poo bag, lad!’ the old lady at the kitchen table was saying, nodding for emphasis so hard that her neatly set hair nodded with her. ‘It’s like I say to Ted, we should have training classes for the owners, not the dogs. Pippin
never
toileted anywhere inconvenient, did he, Ted?’

‘He certainly did not.’

‘He did not. He was a
very
clean doggie.’

‘For a Yorkshire terrier, Pippin was a lavatorial miracle, Freda,’ said the big man leaning against the Belfast sink, with a hint of what Rachel recognised as teasing, although Freda didn’t.

So that’s George the vet, she thought. At least he’s got a sense of humour.

George looked like a country vet too, in a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves, battered red cords, and muddy boots. He clutched his mug of tea with a large, chapped hand, not bothering with the handle. His hair was thick and blond, and, going by the casual confidence in his blue eyes and the way he was helping himself to a double slice of fruit cake, he seemed very much at home.

‘Ah, Megan, you’re back, love!’ said the older man
– Ted, was it? ‘We’ve parked Mickey and Minnie in the kennels and we’re fine to take out another two, if you’d like?’

‘How about Bertie?’ suggested George, and Rachel caught the shudder that went over the two elderly faces. Then he spotted her standing behind Megan, and his face changed, out of the relaxed bonhomie and into a more professional alertness.

Rachel thought she preferred the first, before he’d seen her looking; George’s face was rugged, rather than handsome, and the red skin around his nose suggested he’d spent a lot of time outside in the cold air recently. But when he’d been gently teasing the old lady, the twinkle in his eyes made him look younger, and cheekier; as soon as he’d spotted her at the door, he’d seemed more like a senior vet, about her own age, she guessed, maybe a little older. A practice owner, not an employee.

‘Hi, guys!’ carolled Megan. ‘This is Rachel Fielding, Dot’s niece. She’s the new owner of the house, the kennels, the rescue, everything!’

‘Hello,’ said Rachel, raising an awkward hand.

‘Ted Shackley. And my wife, Freda. Our condolences, love,’ said Ted. He rose to his feet and shook her hand, clasping it for a second in his. As he spoke, the creases around his forehead deepened. ‘Not a happy occasion, this.’

‘No,’ echoed his wife. ‘She was one in a million, was Dot.’

‘One in a million,’ sighed Ted.

‘George Fenwick.’ The vet pushed himself off the sink and switched his mug to the other hand, but didn’t put it down. He was a good bit taller than Rachel, which was unusual enough for her to notice; she was nearly five foot ten, and hadn’t worn heels since Before Oliver. He extended a hand, and she saw flecks of gold hair along his arm, disappearing into the checked shirt.

‘Hello,’ she said. His hand felt big and rough against her own smooth skin. Country hands against her SPF-protected city ones. ‘Thanks for helping Megan keep this place ticking over since Dot’s . . . for the last few weeks.’

‘A pleasure. Dot was a client and a good friend.’ George looked at her, his head on one side, scrutinising her. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You’re not really an animal person.’

‘Mr Fenwick!’ exclaimed Freda, in a scandalised manner. ‘How rude!’

‘Well, a fancy black skirt in a kennel?’ he said. His shrewd eyes didn’t leave hers, and Rachel thought they weren’t quite joking. ‘I’m no fashion expert, but I’d advise you not to go anywhere near the runs until Megan’s finished feeding time. You’ll walk in with a smart black suit and leave with grey flannels.’

‘I didn’t dress for feeding dogs,’ said Rachel. She couldn’t be bothered with men who thought borderline rudeness constituted repartee. ‘I dressed for meeting a solicitor.’

‘Of course you did,’ said Freda, soothingly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something suitable of Dot’s to pop on. And if you need any help, just ask.’ She squeezed Rachel’s hand. ‘I’m here most days, helping out with the poor little souls. It’s our way of remembering Pippin. Pippin was one of Dot’s rescues, wasn’t he, Ted? He was an angel sent to us from a higher place.’