The Sweetest Thing (14 page)

I take Lucky to the vet on Saturday morning, walking into Talyton along the lanes then through fields, passing the Talymill Inn, a country pub, and following the river valley into town. Arriving at the vet’s, I greet the receptionist, a woman in her sixties or so, wearing a wig and rainbow-framed glasses.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Jennie Copeland with Lucky. I rang yesterday.’

‘Good morning, Jennie,’ the receptionist says, revealing smudges of lipstick on her teeth as she smiles. ‘What a lovely little dog,’ she goes on, looking over the desk. ‘Now, just to confirm, Lucky isn’t registered with another vet? We don’t want to go treading on anyone else’s paws, so to speak.’

‘Wendy from Talyton Animal Rescue said you would already have him on your books, here at Otter House – Lucky would have come in to be checked over before he was placed with her.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

‘He’s the dog who was dumped on the motorway.’

‘Maz saw him – she’ll remember,’ the receptionist says, reading from her computer screen. ‘Take a seat.’

I’m not sure that I want to, considering the size of the dog that occupies the waiting area at the moment. He’s a big blue-grey creature, standing up, lashing his tail against the display of toys and pet food.

‘Sit!’ barks his owner, a woman dressed in a nylon blouse, floral skirt and flat sandals. She tries pressing
him down with one large hand flat on his back, but he remains standing. The woman smiles in my direction.

‘Don’t worry about Nero,’ she says. ‘He’s the softest hound in the world. He’s scared of his own shadow.’

I head for a free seat, towing Lucky behind me. As I pass Nero, Lucky makes a leap for him, snapping and barking, at which Nero leaps backwards, plonking his bottom on to his owner’s capacious lap.

‘Oh, you silly boy,’ she says, laughing. ‘Mummy’s baby.’

And I think, How embarrassing, and pray that I never start talking to our dog like that.

‘You’re new around here,’ she goes on, turning to me. ‘Are you from the new estate?’

‘No, Jennie’s bought Uphill House,’ the receptionist joins in, ‘Mary’s old place.’

So much for client confidentiality, I sigh inwardly, but the receptionist goes on to reveal that some of her information – quite extensive information, at that – about my life and home furnishings has come from that woman, Fifi Green.

‘We haven’t introduced ourselves,’ the receptionist says. ‘I’m Frances and this is Mrs Dyer from the butcher’s just down the road.’

‘You can call me Avril. Frances does when we’re outside the practice. Here, she likes to keep everything very professional,’ she says. ‘Have you tried our prizewinning local sausages yet? They’ve been voted the best in the South West for the fifth year running.’

‘I’ll buy some,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ I rummage about in my shoulderbag and pull out a leaflet. ‘I bake cakes. Feel free to call me if you have a special occasion coming up.’

‘You know, Jennie,’ Frances cuts in, ‘it might have
been tactful to have had a chat with the people who run the other outlets for cakes in Talyton, to see if your business could fit in rather than impose it upon everyone else. Cheryl who owns the Copper Kettle is most upset at the thought of someone like you entering into direct competition with her. It’s rather unfair.’

‘What do you mean … someone like me?’ I say, my face warm with mounting annoyance.

‘You have to be pretty well off already if you can afford to buy Uphill House,’ Frances points out.

‘I still have to support my children,’ I say.

‘You could have done that where you came from. Cheryl has worked seven days a week, all year round, to keep her business afloat. The last thing she needs is competition.’

‘And don’t forget about Fifi,’ Avril says. ‘She sells cakes in the café at the garden centre.’

‘She has people to bake and sell them on her behalf, you mean,’ Frances says, correcting her. ‘Fifi makes out that she bakes at home, but I know for a fact that she buys for herself and her husband from Marks and Spencer.’

‘Well, I can’t change my plans because baking’s what I do,’ I say, feeling very much the outsider in this conversation. ‘We’ll just have to hope that there’s room for all of us.’

‘We’ll see,’ says Frances. ‘The people of Talyton St George are very loyal to their local businesses. I think you’re going to find it incredibly hard to get yourself established.’

‘Frances,’ says Avril, ‘give poor Jennie a break.’ She flashes me a sympathetic smile. ‘I wish you luck with your new venture.’

I fear that I’m going to need it.

‘Lucky Copeland,’ the vet calls from the door leading into the consulting room. ‘Would you like to come through now?’

Lucky makes it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t like to at all, and I have to drag him through. The vet is tall, pale blonde and in her early thirties. She’s wearing a scrub top, like a surgeon might wear, but this one is covered with navy pawprints.

Now, I’ve never actually been into a vet’s before, and I can only go on what I remember from watching the film
All Creatures Great and Small
years ago.

‘Do you want him up on the table?’ I ask.

‘Yes, pop him up there.’ The vet smiles. ‘My name’s Maz, by the way. I’ve met Lucky before …’ She checks her records. ‘What can I do for him today?’

‘He needs an injection and a microchip.’

‘Have you had any problems with him?’

‘He’s been fine. We’ve only had him a week though.’

The vet checks him over, then having given him an injection and a microchip with a broad needle that makes me feel faint to look at it, kisses him. A vet who kisses her patients? I don’t remember James Herriot ever doing that.

Lucky lets me pick him up, but refuses to let me put him back down on the floor, so I carry him out to reception where I settle what seems like an enormous bill for a very small dog, and wonder if the vets charge pro rata according to the size of the patient. Still carrying Lucky, I take him to the butcher’s shop where I have to leave him tied to a hook placed in the wall outside and next to a bowl of water that someone’s thoughtfully provided for the canine residents of Talyton St George. Having been unable to hand Avril the leaflet for Jennie’s Cakes in the vet’s because her
dog was in the way, I leave it for her in the shop and buy some sausages.

Later, I eat three for tea, give one to Lucky for being a good boy at the vet’s, and freeze the rest. Then, as dusk falls, I sit amongst my tea lights and scented candles for the second evening running, with Lucky at my feet chewing on a stick of rawhide. I review the day and my encounter with Frances and Avril and wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

Think positive, I tell myself. The locals are bound to be concerned about my business venture. I would be too, in their position.

Lucky growls. I tense and listen. There’s a knock at the front door. Lucky jumps up and runs through to the hallway, barking. I follow, unbolting the front door and holding Lucky by the collar as I open it. Guy is standing in the porch carrying a lantern.

‘You locked the door,’ he says.

‘Force of habit,’ I say, smiling.

‘I happened to notice you were in darkness. The candles. It’s probably a fuse … I thought I might be able to help.’

‘Oh, no. There’s no powercut.’ I release my grip on Lucky’s collar. ‘I like candles,’ I say, to fill the awkward silence. ‘There’s something really romantic about a naked flame.’ Why did I say that? It’s my turn to be embarrassed. I hope he doesn’t think I’m hinting at anything.

‘I’ve always found candles rather inconvenient and outmoded,’ Guy says, his tone lightly teasing. ‘I’ve disturbed you then, Jennie. I’m sorry.’ He backs away into the shadows.

‘Don’t apologise. Come on in. If you’d like to, I mean.’

‘I thought …’ He hesitates. ‘Well, I knew you were on your own, apart from the rodent anyway.’

‘Yes. Go away, Lucky.’ I shoo him from where he’s sat down on my foot, but he doesn’t go far.

Guy moves into the light once more, and smiles shyly. ‘I’m sorry about what I said the other day – about you being the lesser of two evils. I’ve been thinking about it and it didn’t come out as I intended.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say, gratified to discover that he didn’t mean it and pleased to have some human company. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?’

‘Don’t open it especially for me.’

‘It’s already open,’ I confess.

‘A small glass then.’

‘I remember. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn.’

‘Yeah,’ he says.

I switch on the lights and blow out the candles and tea lights and take Guy through to the kitchen where I pour two glasses of wine. He sits at the table. I lean against the Aga, wondering how to start the conversation.

‘I took Lucky to the vet today,’ I begin. ‘Fifi had obviously been gossiping with the receptionist there … What’s her name?’

‘Frances.’ Guy smiles. ‘Both Fifi and Frances are very generous spirits, but they’re also terribly bossy and interfering. They’ve lived in Talyton for years and think they own the place.

‘Since Mum’s been ill, Fifi’s taken responsibility for my welfare. She keeps telling me to be careful … that you aren’t the kind of woman I should be associating with,’ he goes on lightly.

‘What does she mean by
that
?’ I exclaim, more amused than offended. ‘And you needn’t “associate”
with me, as you so delicately put it, if you don’t want to.’

‘I’m talking about what Fifi thinks, Jennie, not what I think.’

‘What exactly does she think? You have to tell me now.’

Guy tilts his head, his cheeks flushed. ‘She says you’re a scarlet woman.’

I find myself laughing. How quaint.

‘I’ve never been called one of those before.’

‘Fifi is inclined to make things overly dramatic.’ Guy smiles. ‘She’s a gossip. That’s how she is.’

‘But I’m not like that. I’ve been married once and had one other serious partner before that.’ I shut up quickly. Too much information. It’s me who’s blushing now.

‘Fifi’s rather prone to making snap judgements. I told her she can’t make that kind of assumption just because you’re single and you dress young.’

‘Dress young?’ I glance down at my tunic over leggings.

‘Meaning that you don’t go around in a twinset and pearls,’ Guy chuckles.

‘Well, thanks for standing up for my honour.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Guy pauses. ‘I expect you’re missing the children.’

‘Being alone has made me realise how very quiet it is around here,’ I say mournfully.

‘I thought that’s why you moved to the country?’ he says with a grin. ‘You aren’t really in a position to complain that it’s too quiet.’

‘I know.’ I sit down and take a sip of wine. It’s a red and tastes of liquorice and blackcurrants, an odd contrast, a bit like city versus country life. ‘I miss the
children terribly, but I miss my mum, sister and friends too.’

‘You’ll soon make friends here,’ Guy says reassuringly.

‘I hope so.’

‘You’ve got me,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye.

‘Thank you, Guy,’ I say as calmly as I can, because my heart is racing and my thoughts are in tumult, like the water in the race at the Talymill Inn was today when I walked past it with Lucky. Here I am alone in the house with a man I hardly know, but find extraordinarily attractive, physically at least, and he’s telling me I’ve ‘got him’, presumably in an ‘as a friend’ kind of way, but how can I be sure? I’m certainly not going to make a fool of myself by asking.

Guy picks up the copy of the
Chronicle
that’s been on the table since David left.

‘Have you had any response to your ad?’ he asks.

‘Not yet,’ I say, still optimistic.

‘Your cakes speak for themselves,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you need to worry unduly. Have you thought about selling at the Farmers’ Market? There’s one on the first and the third Saturday of the month. You could rent a pitch for the next one.’

I register that as a good idea.

‘When’s Adam going to start work with me then?’

‘I thought Monday. I hope he does a good job.’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll be under close supervision for a while. There’s a lot to take in.’ Guy pauses. ‘I like Adam. He seems very bright.’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid he doesn’t always apply himself.’

‘I always imagined having a son – or a daughter – by
now,’ Guy says thoughtfully. ‘I used to help my father with the milking, as he helped his father before him. The farm’s been passed down through three generations of Barneses, and I’d hoped I’d pass it to my own offspring, but I can’t see that happening now.’

‘You aren’t that old, are you?’ I say lightly.

‘I’m thirty-five.’

‘So you have plenty of time left.’ I’m glad Guy doesn’t ask me my age in return, although he must guess that I’m older than him. ‘What’s the record for the oldest man to have become a father? Seventy? Eighty?’

‘I’d want to last long enough to bring them up,’ Guy says rather indignantly. ‘I’d want to be there for them. Tasha didn’t want children, or so she said,’ he begins awkwardly, ‘but it turned out that she meant she didn’t want them with me. She’s on her second now.’