The Sweetest Thing (11 page)

‘Mummy, has it gone yet?’ she asks from behind the door in a voice that trembles.

‘Not yet, darling.’ My voice emerges as a high-pitched squeak. It’s only a spider. What can it do to me? Summoning all my courage, I grab a towel and dangle the end of it into the bath, hoping the spider will hitch a ride. It doesn’t, of course, doesn’t move. In fact, when I dare to look more closely, it drifts in the draught that I create with the towel. Gradually, the hammering in my chest subsides, and I can breathe again. It’s dead. There’s nothing to fear. I pick up the delicate corpse in the towel.

‘I’ve got it, Sophie,’ I call softly.

‘Have you killed it, Mum?’

‘I’m going to put it out on the windowsill and release it back into the wild.’

Sophie is impressed. Later, she tells Adam and Georgia that Mummy loves spiders now and she’ll never be scared of them ever again. Best of all, later when I’m printing leaflets for Jennie’s Cakes from the computer, I overhear her telling their dad on the phone.

David always complained that I didn’t do anything to surprise him.

‘She actually held the spider in her bare hands,’ Sophie adds, exaggerating as usual, and I sense with relief that she’s forgiven me for the hamster revelation this afternoon. ‘I saw it with my own eyes.’

It’s funny, I think, while I’m gazing in the bathroom mirror, cleaning my teeth. My hair has grown longer since the divorce, falling in waves around my cheekbones which have re-emerged after my brief comfort-eating stage. I suppose I should thank my ex-husband for giving me the opportunity to discover new strengths.

I wonder if Alice is any good at spiders. Secretly, I hope she isn’t.

‘You’re up early.’ I rub my eyes, wondering what I’ve done to deserve breakfast in bed. Georgia sits on the window-seat, picking the peeling paint off the woodwork. Sophie slides under the duvet beside me.

‘I’m too excited to stay in bed,’ says Adam, placing a tray on the bedside table. He’s brought toast, cereal and a mug of tea, most of which has slopped out. ‘I couldn’t get back to sleep after Napoleon started crowing.’

‘Well, thank you. I wasn’t expecting this. It isn’t Mother’s Day.’ I am welling up. ‘I feel like a princess.’

‘Mum, you’re too old for that. You’ll have to be the Queen,’ says Georgia.

‘I think you look like a princess, Mummy,’ says Sophie. ‘I’m going to look in the pond to find you a frog so you can kiss it and see if it turns into a prince.’

‘I’m not kissing any frogs, even if they should turn out to be far—’ I stop abruptly. ‘I mean, princes.’ Not farmers. I hope that wasn’t a Freudian slip.

‘If you can pick up a spider, you can definitely kiss a frog,’ Sophie says.

‘Eat up.’ Adam plants himself on the end of the bed. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Ah, did I mention we have a few things to do in town first?’

‘Oh, Mum …’

‘I need to pick up a few bits and pieces, and ask some of the shops if they’ll put leaflets up in their windows.’ I don’t tell them the other part – my plan to tout for business for half an hour or so in Market Square. The skin at the back of my neck prickles uncomfortably at the thought of exposing myself in such a brazen way. At least, it seems brazen to me, promoting my business in public like that. I’ve never been good at self-promotion.

‘But we are still going to choose a dog?’ Adam persists. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

‘Of course I haven’t.’ I pause. ‘How do you go about choosing a dog, do you think?’ Is it a bit like speed dating? I picture various dogs of different colours and sizes, sitting on cushions while being interviewed by potential owners over gravy and a bone. ‘What kind of dog are you looking for, Adam?’ I say, realising this is something I should perhaps have asked him before.

‘A proper dog, one that’ll play ball.’

‘All I ask is that it isn’t a big one. It has to fit in the car with our luggage for when we want to visit family and friends.’

‘That rules out a Great Dane then,’ he says ruefully.

‘We’ll have to see what Talyton Animal Rescue has available.’

‘What’s your idea of the perfect dog, Mum?’ Adam asks.

‘It’s like that one in Georgia’s pet hospital set,’ I say, smiling. ‘Small, undemanding and inanimate.’

‘Oh, Mum. Spoilsport.’ Adam stretches out on his back across the bed at my feet.

‘I think you should imagine you’re a dog,’ says Georgia, obviously finding it much easier to picture herself with fluffy ears and a tail than I do, ‘and think, Would I want to live with this family? Then the dog can choose.’

‘Give me ten minutes,’ I tell the children, wondering how many self-respecting dogs would choose to come and live with my little monsters. ‘Then we’ll go. Adam, would you pick up the leaflets I printed off last night? I think they’re still in the printer. And, Georgia and Sophie, there are two boxes of fruity flapjacks and mini-muffins in the larder. They need to go in the car. Don’t eat them though – on pain of death,’ I add, laughing.

I went with my idea for the logo for Jennie’s Cakes, a naïve hand drawing of a butterfly cake – it had to be simple because I can’t draw to save my life. Last night, I made up a leaflet on the computer and printed off a hundred copies on pale pink paper.

Eventually, we’re ready to drive into town. I negotiate the maze of narrow streets and park behind the Co-op. Compared with where we came from in London, it’s another world. We pass a tiny prefab building which houses the library. Sophie reads from the posters on the notice board outside, some of which are rather faded.

‘We’ve missed the Duck Race,’ she announces. ‘That was in April. And we’ve missed the Country Show.’

‘We’ll be able to go to everything next year,’ I say, swept along with enthusiasm and nostalgia. Everything is as I remember it from childhood holidays, even down to the bunting which flutters between the lampposts. It makes me feel better about the task ahead.
I’ve been visualising how I’m going to swan into each shop with a positive mental attitude, but that ‘can do’ feeling wanes as I approach the first destination, the greengrocer’s, so much so that I walk straight past.

‘Mum, you’ve missed it,’ Georgia hisses.

‘Oh, so I have. Silly me,’ I say brightly, although my heart is pounding nineteen to the baker’s dozen. Jennie, you have to do this, I murmur under my breath. Summoning my courage, I turn back and step past the fruit and veg on the pavement and into the shop. I hesitate, wondering if I should buy something to help start the conversation, but Sophie’s ahead of me, already introducing herself to the man behind the till. He’s about fifty-five, short and chubby with a whiskery moustache and a crown of thick dark hair around a shiny bald spot.

‘My name’s Sophie and my mummy’s got something to show you,’ she announces.

‘I’m Peter,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He looks towards me and smiles. ‘If it’s cucumbers, the answer is no, I’m afraid. I’m inundated. People bring me the extras from their greenhouses to sell and there’s been a glut this year.’

Adam pushes me forward, a bit like I do to him when we’re at parents’ evenings.

‘This is about Mum’s cakes.’ Georgia opens one of the boxes of samples with a flourish and holds them in front of Peter, saying, ‘Take one or two. They’re the best cakes in the world.’

In the time it takes him to sample a flapjack and a mini-muffin, Peter agrees to put a leaflet in his window for me. I buy some apples and lettuce in return, and we move on.

The half an hour in Market Square is a doddle, and
the trip into town is officially a success. The boxes are empty, there are leaflets in four shop windows – the ladies’ boutique, the wine shop, greengrocer’s and ironmonger’s. What’s even better is that I picked up a regular order for a weekly chocolate cake from the ironmonger himself, Mr Victor, who keeps a parrot in his shop. I did have to agree though for him to pay me ‘in kind’, seeing that it made sense for me to pick up a few ‘bits and bobs’ such as light bulbs and washers in exchange.

The bells on the church, a rather grand affair for a small market town, with both a spire and a tower, strike twelve.

‘Can we go and choose a dog now?’ Adam sighs. ‘Please, Mum.’

We return to the car, pile in and make our way – using the SatNav who is talking to us today – to St Martin’s Park, a road in the older part of town. I pull up on the drive of number ten, an impressive pebble-dashed Edwardian house. When we get out of the car, our ears are assailed by the sound of barking. It sounds like a choir of dogs, alto, soprano, tenor and bass. The different parts for different voices seem to mingle then merge into a crescendo of howling.

‘Do you think there’s a wolf in there?’ Georgia says worriedly.

‘No,’ I say, trying to mask my uncertainty as Sophie clutches my hand tight.

We don’t need to ring the doorbell. The front door opens a mere couple of centimetres, so that I’m talking to a disembodied voice.

‘Hello,’ it says. ‘Are you here about a dog?’

‘Yes.’ I force a small smile. ‘It seems we’ve come to the right place.’

‘Get back, dogs. Oh, do please be quiet! How many times do I have to tell you, it isn’t the postman?’ The door closes again then, just as I’m feeling rather affronted, re-opens, revealing a stout middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a ruddy complexion. She wears horn-rimmed glasses, a navy and white crew-necked sweater, dark trousers and moccasin slippers. ‘You must be the Copelands. I’m Wendy. Do come in.’

She shows us through to her living room at the front of the house. It’s decidedly shabby, and an odour of wet dog and bad eggs pervades the air. Sophie looks at me as if she’s about to pass comment, but I silence her with a frown. There are dogs everywhere – a greyhound on the rug in front of the fireplace, a row of four terrier types sitting up, watching us from the sofa, a Labrador, I think, and another large brown dog of indeterminate breed, perched on the two armchairs. There are throws draped over the furniture and various rubber toys and bones scattered across the threadbare carpet.

‘Take a pew,’ Wendy says. Then, smiling, ‘If you can find one. Off, dogs. Off!’ She flaps her arms, sending a couple of them jumping down and trotting over to investigate us. She picks up one terrier under each arm and plonks them on the floor. One makes to jump back up. ‘No, Scruffy,’ she booms.

Sophie’s eyes widen with new-found respect.

‘You have to let them know who’s boss,’ Wendy says more gently. ‘I’m sorry, they do rather take over. Now, sit,’ she adds. ‘Sit,’ she repeats, and suddenly I realise she’s talking to us. ‘If you don’t sit down quick, you’ll lose your places.’

I sit down on the sofa. Georgia leans against the arm
and Sophie perches on my lap. Adam takes one of the chairs, Wendy the other.

‘Right, I have to ask you a few questions first, then I’ll introduce you to the dogs that might suit. We take great care to match our dogs with the right people.’

It’s how I imagine being cross-examined in court would be, I muse as Wendy asks about our home life, our family routines, even our holiday arrangements. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want us to have one of her dogs at all. ‘Our dogs have already been through hard times,’ she explains when she notices me wilting under the pressure. ‘We want them going to permanent, loving homes.’

She decides that she has three being fostered with her who might fit the bill.

‘Donald,’ she calls, and the large brown dog hauls himself up from where he’s taken himself off into the corner of the room. He pads across to Wendy, ignoring us. He fixes his eyes on her and stands with his mouth open, tongue lolling out. Long strings of drool start to drip from his mouth.

‘He’s lovely,’ says Georgia. ‘He’s just like Scooby Doo.’

‘Is he friendly?’ asks Adam.

‘He’s rather shy,’ says Wendy.

‘He’s too big and I wouldn’t like all that dribble around the house,’ I say, and Wendy looks offended, as if I’ve criticised one of her children. ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice dog,’ I go on. ‘But I was thinking of something smaller.’

Wendy proceeds to show us the Labrador who’s five and quite staid. The girls like her, but Adam is noncommittal.

‘I want to take them all,’ says Georgia. ‘I can’t choose – it’s too hard.’

‘That’s just how I feel,’ says Wendy. ‘Now, I have one left to show you. I’ll go and get him – he’s gone and got himself locked out in the garden again.’ She returns with a dog about the size of a Jack Russell in her arms. Dark eyes peer out through a fringe of grizzled grey and then the stringy tail starts wagging. ‘Meet Lucky,’ Wendy says, placing him on the floor.

For some reason, Lucky makes a beeline for Adam, jumps up on to his lap, stretches up, tail still wagging and licks Adam’s face.

‘Hi, Lucky,’ he says, beaming, and my heart melts.

‘What’s his story?’ I ask.

‘We know very little about him. We guess he’s about three years old and he’s been castrated.’

‘What’s that?’ says Sophie.

‘He’s had his nuts off,’ Adam says casually, ‘so he can’t be a dad.’

‘I’ll explain later,’ I tell Sophie as Wendy goes on, ‘He likes children – we’ve found out that much, but the rest of his history is unknown. He came in a couple of months ago – the police picked him up from the hard shoulder of the motorway. A driver reported seeing a dog being thrown out of a van.’