Back in the kitchen Hamish is lying in his bed. Well, parts of him are. He’s so big that most of him spills over the side of it. He’s been very subdued since Guy brought him back from his surgery and, if he was like this all the time, I might just be able to cope with him. The dog’s wearing a big white collar to stop him pulling his stitches out, but he’s clearly unhappy with the situation as he’s pawing at it incessantly. The cat, Milly Molly Mandy, is sitting at his head taking the opportunity to systematically bat him on the nose with her claws while she knows he’s unable to retaliate. Payback for all the times he’s tried to roger her, I’d guess.
While I clean up the now regular pile of shredded mice cast off by the cat, Jessica lies down on the kitchen floor and snuggles up next to Hamish, winding her arms round his big, soft neck. His tail thumps out a rhythm on the floor. ‘We love you, Hamish,’ she coos. ‘We missed you so much.’
Hmm. Not all of us did. I had three blissful slobber-free days. Looking at my daughter, I realise that it’s going to be a darn sight harder to take Hamish back to the rescue centre than I’d imagined.
‘We’ll look after you now that Daddy’s not here,’ Tom chips in to the doggy love-fest.
Marvellous. Looks like Will has passed on the Doctor Doolittle gene to his children. I feel like shaking my fist at the sky.
The chickens, sheep and goats are all waiting for their breakfast, so I welly up and head out to their respective pens. I scoop the wriggling mice out of the hens’ feeder without so much as a whimper. ‘Run the other way,’ I warn them with a nod towards the house, ‘or you’ll be kitty litter.’
They head off in the direction of my kitchen and I tut to myself. ‘Can’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The chickens are beginning to recover sight which in some ways is marvellous and in others is problematic. Now they can see me coming at them with their antibiotic drops and scatter in all directions as I approach, so the job takes twice as long. I chase them round, arms outstretched and snatch at them as best I can. They’re not half-bald like they were either so they’re looking much better. They all have a new fluffy feather coat and really look quite smart. As soon as they’re fully healthy then I can get rid of them.
The light is soft on the hills today. It makes them feel close as if they’re protecting the house. Some days you feel as if you can taste the air it’s so fresh, as if it has an extra ozone molecule. It will be different once we’re back in London and breathing in the pollution once more.
I let the sheep out of the barn and into the field. Doris is limping and I make a mental note to ask Guy if there’s anything wrong with her. It’s going to be the devil’s own job to offload these three old dears. They’re probably going to have to go to slaughter. I try not to think about that. I can’t imagine there’ll be many soft touches like Will passing by this way. Who else would want to rescue them? The thought makes the tears rush to my eyes.
‘What were you doing bringing us here?’ I turn my face up to the sky to ask him. ‘I never wanted this, Will. This was your dream life. I’m meant to be in a three-hundred-pound suit and behind a desk, not in wellies and knee-deep in chicken shit.’ I look down at said wellies which are indeed covered in crap. ‘I feel as if I’m letting you down. But I can’t do this. I hope you understand why I’m going back. I won’t be able to manage here by myself. I’ve only just got enough energy to look after myself and the kids. Everything else on top of that is just too much. I have to go back to what I’m comfortable with.’
Then, realising I am alone and no one else is going to do it, I go to check on the tiny goats. They bleat enthusiastically at me. ‘Hello, boys.’ I’m not actually sure if they are boys. They nuzzle my hand, anxiously. Bless, they really are quite sweet. Will would have been head over heels in love with them. I realise that we haven’t even given them names yet. Best not to, if they’re likely to be on their way as well.
Cute or not, they’re a lot of work. Tomorrow I’m going to call my old boss, Gavin, and find out if I can go in to see him next week. I’ll phone the children’s previous school too and get them re-registered for the next term. Then I’ll look for a place for us to live back in the city smoke. Now that I’ve got a plan I feel so much more positive about the future. But the tears start to fall again as it hits home once more that it will be a future without Will.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the night Hamish has pulled off his collar and has chewed out all of his stitches. He doesn’t look any the worse for wear and the wound from his op seems to have healed well enough. I’ve taken the children to school because I think it’s better for them to get back to normal as soon as possible. Strangely, they didn’t protest at all. They would have done, had they realised that I had a covert mission to complete this morning.
‘Come on, boy,’ I say, dragging Hamish into the Land Rover, luring him with a row of the doggy biscuits he enjoys so much. He munches and drools his way into the passenger seat. ‘What a mug,’ I mutter under my breath.
Tying Hamish’s lead to the door handle, I then get in beside him. ‘I want no messing from you,’ I say. ‘Understand?’
He drools on the seat.
Then, with a shake of my head, I crunch the car into gear and rattle off. I can’t wait to get rid of this heap either and get back to good old public transport. How I long for the crush of the Tube, the erratic sway of the bendy buses. Just the thought puts a smile on my lips.
In the seat next to me, Hamish wags his tail as we wind our way through the country lanes. Occasionally, he whines along in tune with Radio 2 – the only station I can get on the ancient radio. The route takes us high across the moors, the first time I’ve been out this way. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, a patchwork quilt of colours beneath a vast, untroubled sky.
An hour later and we’ve clattered and crunched our way over to Malhead. If Scarsby is a one-horse town, then Malhead hasn’t even got a horse. There’s a rag-tag assortment of cottages grouped around a pitiful main street and not much else. I slow down, grating the gears into third and coast along the road. It can’t be far from here. ‘Have you any sense of direction?’
Hamish turns doleful eyes on me. I feel a gulp travel down my throat. I wonder if he knows? The thought makes me laugh. Of course he doesn’t. He’s just a big, stupid old dog.
Then, sure enough, I see a sign. Malhead Animal Rescue Centre. That’s the one I need. Turning the Land Rover into the unmade road, we bump down the track. Hamish starts a low growl. ‘Stop that now,’ I say. ‘It’s like coming home.’
I have a moment of doubt. What am I going to tell the children? They’ll hate me if I tell them the truth. I could simply lie, and say that Hamish has run away. They’d be sure to believe that. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried it.
Pulling up outside the kennels, I think that they don’t look too bad. Not really. They’re quite pleasant – in a concentration camp kind of way. There are lots of dogs barking and they sound . . . well, they sound sort of upset, unhappy. Hamish growls some more.
I sit and listen to the banging of my heart. My mind is made up. No going back now. Traipsing round to the passenger seat, I untie Hamish and go to scoosh him out of the car. He remains solid as a rock, immovable.
‘Hamish,’ I cajole. ‘There are some nice, juicy treats waiting for you.’ I lay a trail of doggy treats on the floor, but he won’t be conned a second time. I push, shove, rant, rave, coo and curse. Nothing is moving him.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You can jolly well stay there.’ I slam the door on him and march off to find a rescue person.
One in the form of a bottle-blond lady in pink Wellingtons greets me at the door to the main shed of kennels. ‘What can I do for you?’ She squints into the sunshine.
‘My husband came here a few months ago,’ I explain. ‘He got this dog from you. And well . . .’ I try to keep my voice strong. ‘He recently died. Unexpectedly.’
‘Oh, that’s so terrible,’ she says, a crack in her o
wn voice. ‘You’re so young. A tragedy. A total tragedy . . .’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Is.’
‘Anything we can do to help. Anything . . .’ I feel like I’m drowning in her sympathy.
‘I’m moving the family back to London,’ I continue. ‘And we can’t take the dog with us. He needs space. Space we won’t have.’
‘I understand perfectly.’ She places her hand on my arm. ‘Perfectly.’
‘I’m sure Hamish will soon be—’
Her face freezes over. ‘Did you say Hamish?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘The big Gordon Setter?’
‘Yes. That’s the one.’
‘No.’ She holds up her hand. ‘I’ll not have that dog back.’
‘But you just said—’
‘No.’
‘Anything, you said. Anything.’
Now both hands are up. ‘Not that.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a disruptive influence.’
‘He’s a little lively,’ I concede as panic fills my chest. ‘I’m sure he’s settled down a lot in the last few months.’ Turning, I gesture back at the Land Rover and, do you know what, I’ll swear that Hamish is smiling at me.
‘No,’ she says. ‘We had a devil of a job to rehome him. Do you know how many times he’s been back? Do you know how many kennel girls I’ve lost because he tried to . . .’ She purses her lips at me as if it’s my fault that my dog has too much testosterone. ‘Your husband was the only one fool enough . . .’ Then she realises what she’s said and stops.
‘Well, thank you,’ I say crisply. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I’m sorry, dearie,’ she concludes. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Very sorry. But I’m not taking that bloody dog back.’
With that she turns away from me and marches off in her ridiculous pink wellies and her blond hair with her roots showing.
I stomp in the other direction and get in the car next to Hamish. He turns his back on me. ‘You’ve just got a reprieve,’ I say. ‘This is no time to turn moody.’
With that, he lets off the most enormous smelly fart, filling the car with noxious fumes. Even his own nose wrinkles in distaste.
‘For goodness sake, Hamish,’ I snarl, ramming the Land Rover into reverse. ‘You just never know when to quit while you’re ahead.’
Chapter Thirty
‘I need to call the vet,’ I say to Tom. We’re watching the sheep in the field. ‘I’m pretty sure that Doris’s limp is getting worse.’
‘I like having pets,’ my son says wistfully.
‘They’re not pets,’ I point out. ‘They’re farm animals.’
‘What’s the difference?’ he asks. ‘We look after them like pets.’
‘We don’t give them names like pets.’
‘The chickens have all got names. And the sheep.’
‘But the goats haven’t got names.’
‘They’re Stephanie and Blob.’
‘You can’t call a goat Blob.’
Tom shrugs with a world weariness that’s born of surviving on this planet for eight long years. He used to be so full of confidence, but he’s been much more subdued and unsure since Will died and I’d love to know what’s going on inside his little eight-year-old head.
‘Tell Jessica about it,’ he says. ‘I told her it was stupid. But they’ve still got names.’
I’m not going to get drawn into this names argument – mainly because I appear to be losing.
‘Can we have pets when we’re back in London?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to ask . . .’ For one moment I was going to say ‘Daddy’ and then I realised that I’m the one who’s going to be making all the decisions from now on. The decisions about everything from pets to pensions will rest on my shoulders alone. I get to be the good guy and the bad guy from now on.
Tom looks at me, puzzled. ‘Who will we have to ask?’
‘Auntie Serena.’
Thankfully, my son doesn’t think to question why my sister would be making our pet-ownership decisions.
‘What about Hamish? He’s a pet.’ Said dog is currently slinking round the garden giving me a very wide berth.
What about Hamish? How can I tell Tom that the only reason we’ve got him at the moment is because the rescue home wouldn’t rescue us.
‘We don’t want to leave him here. Or Milly Molly Mandy.’ The cat I can just about cope with, despite the fact that her aim concerning the litter tray leaves a lot to be desired. But Hamish? If my dear husband hadn’t already died, I’d be wanting to murder him for inflicting that mutt on me. How would we manage him in London?
Turning from Tom, I punch Guy Burton’s number into my new mobile as an avoidance technique. Is it a bad sign that he’s been promoted to speed dial? He answers straight away with a brisk, professional tone.
‘Guy,’ I say. ‘It’s Amy.’
It’s true that you can hear the smile in someone’s voice and I find myself smiling back as he says, ‘Hi. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve got a problem with one of the sheep. Doris is limping. Can you stop by and take a look at her when you’ve got a minute?’
‘I’m on my way home now,’ he tells me. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
And, sure enough, ten minutes later his Range Rover swings into the drive. He has his box of veterinary tricks in his hand and an apple pie that his receptionist, Cheryl, has sent for us. Ever since Will died I’ve received weekly donations of home-baked pies both sweet and savoury, and regular anonymous donations of freshly picked vegetables which have been left on my doorstep – which makes me feel very humble.
Guy hands over the pie just as Hamish, done sulking, hurls himself at the new arrival and tries to commit a sex act on him.
‘Get down, Hamish!’ I shout. Hamish does anything but.
Finally, Guy manages to disentangle himself.
‘Tom,’ I say. ‘Take that dog inside.’
My son wrestles the writhing hound over to the kitchen while Guy and I walk back towards the sheep which I’ve now herded into the barn.
‘Still finding Hamish a handful?’ Guy asks.
I nod and bite back the tears that are never far away. ‘I tried to return him to the rescue home today, but they were too canny to take him back.’
‘Poor Hamish,’ Guy says.
‘Poor Hamish, pah!’ Poor Amy, more like. I give the vet a sideways glance. ‘Don’t suppose that you’d like him?’
‘I can take him out while I’m on my rounds a couple of days a week if that would help you out.’
‘That would be very kind of you,’ I say, jumping gratefully at the chance of a few hours’ peace and quiet without anything being chewed or shagged.
‘It wouldn’t hurt to give him some basic training either.’
‘Can you train a whirling dervish?’
‘We could give it a go.’ We’ve reached the sheep. Guy opens the gate to the pen and we go into the barn. He catches hold of a complaining Doris and straddles her.
‘Now,’ Guy says, ‘the problem with old ladies of both the sheep and the human variety is that they have a lot of trouble with their feet. They need their nails trimming regularly and they can be prone to infection between their toes.’
Fantastic. Now I’m going to have to pay to give my sheep pedicures. I chew my lip anxiously. The place is like a money pit. Who knew that keeping a few animals could prove so costly? The bills are mounting up and I’m glad that I’m heading off to London next week. While I’m there I’m going to sort out Will’s finances with the solicitor. I’ll feel so much happier when I know how much money will be coming in from his pension and life policy.
Guy is examining Doris’s feet. ‘There’s a bit of infection here,’ he says after a minute or two of scrutiny. ‘I’ll give it a good cleanup and then she’ll need some antibiotics. I’ll look at the other girls while I’m here.’ He grabs Delila in an armlock and starts to check her feet too. ‘At this
age I’ll need to give their teeth frequent check-ups too to make sure that they can eat properly.’
Oh, why couldn’t Will have landed us with young sheep, little lambs that could have been on our dinner-table by now providing food for us, rather than these old dears who are slowly draining us of much-needed cash.
I watch how much care Guy puts into tending the elderly ladies. ‘You must love your job very much,’ I say.
‘Yes. I guess I do.’
‘Well, you’re very good at it.’ For some reason it makes me feel bashful to say it.
‘Thank you,’ Guy says with a wry smile. ‘If only some of the farmers round here were as appreciative of my talents.’ He straightens up and the sheep run away to huddle in the far corner of the barn having had enough indignities thrust upon them for one day. He cleans off his hands under the hosepipe. ‘How’s the house sale going?’
‘We’ve got the first people coming to look tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
There’s only one estate agents in Scarsby – which seems bizarre seeing that they’re on every corner in London – but Collier’s seem to have done a good job. ‘The estate agent says it’s a very desirable property.’
‘Mike Collier is full of bullshit,’ Guy informs me with a nod towards our For Sale board. ‘This place was on the market for nearly a year before he managed to offload it . . .’ His voice trails away.
‘To some mad southerners who didn’t know any better?’
‘Something like that,’ he laughs.
‘A year?’ I huff.
‘Sorry,’ Guy says. ‘That’s not what you want to hear.’
‘I’d better get inside and make sure the house is looking as spruce as it can do. I want this place gone – and fast.’
‘This would make a lovely family home.’ Guy gazes at the house. ‘It needs a lot of work, but it would be worth it.’
‘Buy the house and I’ll throw the dog in for free,’ I quip.