‘Would love to,’ he admits. ‘But I’ve no one to share it with. I rattle around in my own house as it is.’
‘Stay for supper,’ I say impulsively. ‘It will be something involving pasta. Nothing fancy.’
‘That would be great,’ he says, ‘but I can’t call it a day just yet. Joe up at Brandon’s Farm has got a cow with potato choke.’
‘I won’t even ask what that is.’
‘It’s a cow that’s choking on a potato.’
I smile. ‘Of course.’
‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
With a shrug, I say, ‘Another time then.’ I walk Guy to his car as the dusk begins to fall. The nights are closing in fast – most of the light is gone by three-thirty – and I get the feeling that winters will be long and hard here. I’m hoping the people coming to view Helmshill Grange tomorrow – Mrs and Mrs Finnegan – will fall in love with the house instantly and I can be out of here before the worst of the weather sets in. Optimistic, I know, but it’s only that thought that’s keeping me sane. ‘Thanks again, Guy.’
‘Any time,’ he says, as he drops his vet’s bag in the back of the Range Rover and feeds himself into the driver’s seat.
I wave as he reverses. There’ll be a few things that I’ll miss about this place and, I feel awful admitting this, but Guy Burton will be one of them.
Chapter Thirty-One
When Guy got back from Brandon’s Farm it was gone ten o’clock. It might have been relatively easy to refuse Amy’s offer of supper, but to turn down food prepared by Mrs Brandon took a braver man than he was.
Dealing with the choking cow had been a fairly quick job, as it turned out. The animal had gone into the crush easy enough with a little persuasion and brute force, and he’d managed to get the offending potato out without getting bitten, but Joe Brandon was one of the few talkative farmers round here so that always added a good half an hour to a routine call. Ellen Brandon was also one of the best cooks in the area and was keen to show off her skills whenever he was there. It was, it seemed, Ellen’s mission in life to fatten him up as much as it was Cheryl’s mission to find him a woman.
An hour after he’d finished the visit, he was still in the Brandons’ homely farmhouse kitchen in front of a roaring fire filled with home-made sausages and mash followed by apple pie and a generous dollop of whipped cream, listening to the Brandons tease each other with the ease of people who’d been married for over twenty years.
Now he was back at home. The house was chilly as the central heating hadn’t come on and there were no lights burning to welcome him. He sighed as he pushed through a pile of junk mail sitting behind the front door. No welcome in the hillside for Guy Burton.
The only light blinking was that on the answerphone. He pressed the button and listened to the usual raft of messages from people who had vomiting cats, fainting dogs, calving cows. Most of them could wait until the morning, but a couple would probably mean him turning out again tonight. The last call, however, made him come out in goosepimples and it was nothing to do with an animal in need.
‘Hi Guy,’ the voice said into the darkness. ‘I know that it’s been a long time, but I thought I’d call and see how you are.’ There was an awkward pause on the phone and Guy realised that he could hear his own heart pounding. ‘Circumstances have changed for me now and I wondered what was happening in your life. If you want to call me, I’d love to hear from you.’ She left a number and then said, ‘Oh, this is Laura.’
As if he wouldn’t know that. He went through to the living room. The picture windows in here looked out over the valley and the rest of the village. It was his favourite view, the thing that had sold him the house. He could see Helmshill Grange from here, the lights on in the upstairs windows. Amy must be getting ready to go to bed. He could do with an early night himself but, as a vet, that was something he’d given up years ago.
He let out an unhappy huff. Laura, eh? What had made her call him now after all these years? A change of circumstances, she said. Did that mean she was no longer married to his best friend, Craig? The best friend she’d left him for when he’d found them in bed together two months before Laura and he were due to be married? Guy was usually the type to forgive and forget, but some wounds went way too deep.
He hadn’t been able to face any of his mates after that. They’d tried to drag him out on the town but, to be honest, he’d had no desire for socialising. He’d lost his love of five years and was raw with pain. Why on earth would he want to go out every night of the week looking for another one to replace her? He’d thought that they were happy, were going to grow old together. How could he have read it so wrong? Craig and Laura carried on as if nothing had happened. So, to his amazement, did his friends and he’d gradually felt himself being squeezed out of his own social circle. That was why he’d come here. To get away from it all. Start a new life. A couple of weeks later, he’d packed up and headed for the hills. He’d been here ever since. And he’d never seen Laura or Craig again.
He sat in the darkness, staring out of the window. What should he do? Did he want to pick up the phone and open old wounds? He’d heard through the grapevine that she wasn’t happy with her husband – but then Craig had always had a roving eye and wandering hands. It had been him, loyal and unsuspecting Guy, who’d been the faithful one. Would Laura be calling to say that she and Craig had split and that it had all been a terrible mistake? Did he really want to hear that from her now, after all these years?
Helmshill had been a great place to come to and nurse a broken heart. There was no social life to speak of. All that was required of him was to turn up in the local pub a couple of times a month and make regular appearances at the annual summer barbecue and harvest supper. No hardship in that. No danger in it either. Despite Cheryl’s increasingly fervent attempts to pair him off, Guy had stayed resolutely and happily single. It was only when Amy Ashurst had appeared in the village that he’d begun to think that he was missing out on some of the finer things in life. But she was another man’s wife and he’d tried very hard to put her out of his mind. Now her circumstances had changed too. Tragically. And Guy had wondered whether his genuine concern for her was entirely altruistic?
He saw the lights go out at Helmshill Grange and he hoped that Amy was managing to sleep well at night.
Guy worried at a ragged fingernail. It was late. He should find out how the calving cow was doing. That was more important than any of Laura’s troubles. Guy picked up the phone, calling not his ex-fiancée, but the farmer in question. He’d used his work as an avoidance technique for the last five years, and he didn’t see any reason to stop now.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘The estate agent told us of your loss,’ Mrs Finnegan says. ‘We’re very sorry.’ She touches my arm. Why do people do that to widows? It doesn’t make them feel any better, trust me.
‘Thank you. That’s why I’m going back to London. We had such big plans for this house,’ I say. ‘It would have made a lovely family home.’
She’s a publisher and he’s a lawyer up from Hertfordshire and they’re looking for a weekend place where they can entertain. Helmshill Grange would be perfect for them. At least, I’ll make them think it is. Actually, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to take on a place this size as a second home. But isn’t that the trend these days?
I’ve taken the precaution of locking Hamish in one of the small outhouses. One that I’ll have to remember not to show the Finnegans. I thought he might have been howling the place down like the Hound of the Baskervilles, but there’s not a peep from him. That should worry me, but it doesn’t, so intent am I on flogging my house.
Mr and Mrs Finnegan take in the dilapidated kitchen. ‘Oh, my.’ She puts a hand to her throat. ‘It needs an awful lot of work.’
‘Hence the asking price,’ I say. ‘I’d like a quick sale. And most of the work is purely cosmetic.’ If Mike Collier can bullshit, then so can I.
‘The estate age
nt told us that it needed new plumbing, new heating, a new roof, a damp-proof course and new windows.’
So my estate agent has suddenly found his conscience. ‘Other than that, it’s purely cosmetic,’ I say brightly.
‘We just hadn’t expected it to look so . . .’ Mr Finnegan runs out of words as he takes in the room. It’s the flattering pictures. Catches them out every time. And I should know.
‘Come and see the living room.’ In all honesty, this is a great room. It was Will’s favourite place in the house. Well proportioned, tall ceilings, French windows that open out onto the garden – if only they weren’t rotting away and you were actually able to get them open. I get a vision of him sitting, feet up on the sofa, flicking through the Guardian and I push it away to concentrate on the job in hand.
I throw open the living-room door with a flourish. Hamish is in the throes of humping the armchair. His tongue is hanging out. There’s a line of drool, pooling on the wooden floor, and his big canine bottom is pumping frantically at my Heal’s shabby chic.
‘Oh, my word.’ Mrs Finnegan’s hand goes to her throat again.
‘Hamish! Get down!’ I shout. ‘I’m so sorry about this.’ I yank the dog by his collar and disengage him from the armchair. He yelps in dismay at his enforced canine coitus interruptus. ‘He’s normally so well behaved.’ He proves this by sticking his nose into Mr Finnegan’s bottom.
Dragging him out to the scullery, I hiss at him, ‘How did you get in there? Have you dug a secret underground tunnel from the barn? Bloody animal.’
Hamish gives me doe eyes.
‘Stop that,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t wash with me. Stay in here and behave. Otherwise I’ll have to do something horrible to you.’ I shut him into the scullery.
The dog whines pitifully. You’d think it was me who was torturing him rather than the other way round.
Back in the living room, Mrs and Mrs Finnegan are looking worried. ‘I’ll show you upstairs,’ I say airily and they trail after me while I keep up a stream of nonsensical conversation.
In my bedroom, it’s clear that Hamish has paid an earlier visit. The delinquent dog has pulled the goosedown duvet off the bed and has shredded it. The room is full of feathers and they fly into the air anew as I fling open the door. The contents of my underwear drawer are scattered on top of them. My flimsy wisps of expensive lace are even more flimsy now.
‘Oh, my word,’ Mrs Finnegan says again.
‘Very sorry,’ I say and slam the door closed. I’m going to kill that dog.
In the children’s rooms, the scenes are much the same. Chewed toys, duvets, clothes. It seems that Hamish has learned to open doors. Everything will have to be fitted with child locks from now on.
‘The bathroom’s very nice,’ I try. With trepidation, I crack open the door. Sure enough, the bathroom has remained untrammelled by the hound from hell.
‘Oh, my word,’ Mrs Finnegan says in dismay. I’m going to have to kill her too if she keeps saying that. ‘When was the suite last replaced?’
‘Original fittings are very popular,’ I say, casting a glance at the chipped, claw-footed bath and the ancient loo. Perhaps Hamish couldn’t have made this room look any worse.
The Finnegans turn and start to head back down the stairs. Then my heart jumps to my mouth. ‘Where’s your handbag?’ I demand of Mrs Finnegan. ‘Where is it?’
She glances at her unencumbered arm and purses her lips in thought. ‘I think I left it in the kitchen.’
Without another word, I barge past them on the stairs. An unguarded handbag is manna from heaven for Hamish. My feet scrabble to get purchase as I skid into the kitchen. Sure enough, Hamish is up on the table enjoying the contents of Mrs Finnegan’s handbag.
Tom and Jessica come in from the garden where they’ve been banished while I show our prospective purchasers around. Though why I thought my children would be the ones to embarrass me, goodness only knows. ‘How did Hamish get in here?’ I yell.
‘He was crying in the barn,’ Jessica says. ‘So we let him out for a little bit. Then he was crying in the scullery too. He doesn’t like being shut inside, Mummy. Daddy wouldn’t have shut him inside.’
My heart squeezes at that. Then the Finnegans appear at the doorway behind me and I don’t need to turn to see their horrified looks. I can feel them blazing into my back.
‘What was in here?’ I ask. ‘What’s missing?’
Mrs Finnegan inches forward, keeping a wary eye on the dog.
‘He won’t hurt you,’ I assure her. Though he might want to shag her if I recognise the glint in his eye.
‘Everything’s gone,’ she says, eyes wide with shock. ‘Nearly everything. There was some make-up, tissues, a small purse . . .’
‘Call the vet!’ I yell at Tom. ‘Call the vet!’
Hamish is licking his lips. Can I detect lipstick on them? I turn my attention back to Mrs Finnegan and her now empty handbag. ‘Anything else?’
Then, again, there’s the unmistakable sound of a mobile phone. This time it’s the more romantic ‘Stop, Look, Listen to Your Heart’. No mention of listening to the contents of a dog’s stomach.
‘Oh no.’ I fall to my knees on the floor. ‘Not again.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hamish is on the vet’s operating table. I brush away my angry tears and push my hair back from my face. ‘I want you to put him down,’ I say.
The phone in Hamish’s stomach rings again. The dog wags his tail in time with the soulful tune.
Guy’s face darkens. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve had enough of him.’
‘He’s a great dog, Amy. He’s just a bit . . . lively.’
‘He has no brain.’
‘Granted,’ Guy concedes. ‘But that’s no reason to consider putting him down.’
I won’t be swayed. ‘You won’t believe what he’s done.’
‘Well, I can hear that he’s dined on another mobile phone.’
‘It’s worse than that. That bastard mutt has just cost me the sale of my house.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘I haven’t got one decent pair of knickers left in the house. He’s chewed them all to ribbons. Even my Janet Reger ones.’ And Will bought me those for our last anniversary. They were my favourites. And I’ll never be able to replace them. That thought alone is enough to make me want to weep.
‘You can buy underwear for three quid a packet in Tesco’s. Move on. Start buying your pants there. I don’t see that as a big deal.’
‘You’re not me!’ I wail.
‘Amy, you’re not thinking straight. I’ll say it again. That’s no reason to destroy a perfectly healthy dog.’
‘He’s not good for my health.’
‘I’ve told you that I’ll have him for a few hours twice a week. More if I can manage it.’
‘And what about the rest of the time?’ My voice is getting steadily higher and I realise that the queue of people in the reception area that I’ve barged past can probably hear me, but I don’t care. I want this dog done – and now. ‘How do I cope with him for the rest of the time? I can’t afford to keep bringing him to see you.’
‘It’s probably a bad time to point out that I haven’t yet billed you for any of my calls.’
I fold my arms. ‘And it’s probably a bad time to tell you that I don’t expect to be a charity case.’
Guy’s jaw takes on a determined set.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘You want this dog put down then you can do it, because I certainly won’t.’
He hauls a surprised Hamish off the table and yanks an even more surprised me by the arm. Guy marches us through the reception area, past a slack-jawed Cheryl and the assortment of open-mouthed owners with their assortment of cats, dogs, hamsters and rabbits and out into the car park that’s to one side of the practice. Opening his car boot, he pulls out a double-barrelled shotgun from under the floorpan and brandishes it in my direction – which makes me jump. Hamish barks happily.
/> Guy thrusts the gun into my hands. ‘Have you used one of these before?’
‘No.’ I can barely find my voice.
He gestures at the barrel. ‘That’s the dangerous end. That’s the trigger. Point that bit at the dog. Pull that.’
‘What?’ Now I think that the vet is the one who’s lost his mind. ‘I thought you gave them some sort of lethal injection or tablet.’
‘That’s just for sick dogs,’ he snaps at me. ‘If they’re perfectly healthy then we just blow their brains out. Or, in this case, you do.’
‘I can’t do that,’ I say, horrified.
‘But you expect me to?’
If this is what it takes, then so be it. My hands tremble as they lock round the gun. Sweat comes to my brow and I lick my lips nervously. ‘This is ridiculous. I can’t shoot a dog in your car park.’
Guy is unmoved. ‘Is there a better place?’
A lump sticks in my throat. I can do this. I’ll show him. Gingerly, I point the gun at Hamish. He thinks this is great fun and bounces up and down in front of me, joyously.
‘I’ll ask you one last time not to do this, Amy,’ Guy says calmly. ‘Think of your children. They’ve just lost their father. How will you explain this to them?’
My hands start to tremble. Hamish lies on the ground, rolling over to present his stomach and giving me a great view of his bollocks. Maybe that’s where his brains are, after all. My arms are shaking so much that I can hardly hold up the shotgun. Hamish wriggles on his back, his tongue lolling stupidly.
What the hell am I thinking of? Have I gone mad? I can’t do this – I just can’t do it. And Guy knew that. Of course he did. Lowering the gun, I sink to my knees on the gravel. All my fight seeps out of me. My whole body is shuddering uncontrollably. ‘I can’t manage,’ I say, sobbing loudly. ‘I feel so alone. I don’t know what to do. I can’t manage without Will.’
Guy kneels next to me in the dirt and the gravel. He puts his arms round me. ‘Ssh, ssh. Don’t cry. Everything will work out fine. It’s early days yet. You’re bound to feel like this.’