Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (17 page)

The takeaway tea had gone lukewarm in her hand as the questions went round in her head. What was she supposed to do? Go nuts trying to find a new job, work flat out for a year to get maternity leave, and then start trying again with thirty-five staring her in the face? Or just grit her teeth, do the tests and try to fix whatever it was while time was on her side? How much did she and Johnny want kids? Enough to risk everything, if one of them turned out to be infertile?

Natalie shivered, despite the sun glinting off the fountain’s jets. Marriage, career, house, friends – she’d taken all of it for granted. And now, suddenly, none of it was certain any more. All it took was one person, telling you one thing, and everything could stop.

She watched as a pack of dogs came into view at the far end of the park, the side that led up to the woods. Through her numbness, she recognised the woman leading them as Rachel, from the rescue shelter.

Was that Bertie, being dragged along at the back? She’d thought about him often since Bill had been to get Lulu, wondering if the right person had come, hoping that he hadn’t been taken away by someone careless or cruel.

Nat’s heart had twisted at the idea of him sitting howling alone, pacing his kennel, waiting for his owner to come back for him, still loyal despite everything. Still willing to give unconditional love.

Maybe that was what she should do, instead of beating herself up about her substandard womb. Give a stray dog some of her time, and love. Johnny really wanted a dog, she could tell. It was just her job that was standing in the way, and now she didn’t have one. If she couldn’t give him a baby, maybe a dog would be the next-best thing.

Natalie imagined Bertie curled up happily between her and Johnny on the sofa, and made a decision. Rachel’s green jacket was vanishing into the trees – she was too far away now to catch up with, and anyway, Natalie didn’t want her to think it was a snap emotional reaction. This was
her
one thing that was going to change everything.

She wiped the smudged mascara from under her eyes, and got out her mobile phone.

Rachel realised something astonishing, halfway up the hill towards the house on the return leg of the walk: she was actually starting to enjoy the daily dog wrangling.

She’d nearly got the knack of keeping the dogs together at the same pace, and the landmarks around her circuit were now getting familiar – the shimmering bluebell banks towards the town, the halfway stretch where the rough bridleway turned into the smooth path of the municipal park, the church spire and town hall tower rising into view.

Megan obviously thought her dog skills were improving, because this morning she’d entrusted her with Bertie, who had not
– Rachel looked back to check that he was still moving and not sniffing his way into the hedge again
– played up too badly, probably because Gem was on hand to nudge him into line, and even Rachel had realised that none of the dogs had the effrontery to resist Gem’s gentle commands.

Even better, through a complicated system of mime, she’d got the deli to bring her a takeaway coffee outside, so she could recaffeinate herself for the way back. It was a tiny taste of London, that double espresso hit, and it only made her feel half-homesick.

Rachel took a deep breath of the fresh air and closed her eyes against the sunshine, letting the dogs lead her uphill.

‘Things might work out, eh, Gem?’ she said out loud, with only a shred of self-consciousness.

When she’d turned into the orchard behind Four Oaks, and returned the dogs to their runs, Rachel found a welcoming committee at the kitchen table.

Megan was chatting away to a possible new rehomer on the cordless phone and making notes on her clipboard, while Freda sat drawing circles around the obituaries in the local paper.

George Fenwick was also there again, drinking tea and polishing off a fruit cake donated by one of the WI, while a couple of shy teenagers hovered by the dog basket where Zoe Graham’s Toffee was busy demolishing three cardboard rolls.

Rachel felt a small ripple of anticipation, seeing George leaning up against the Aga, his sleeves rolled up despite the cold air outside. George brought the outside in with him; he looked as if he’d recently been manhandling a cow or mending a horse, or some other manly countryside vet business. Rachel was a bit hazy on the details.

‘Ah,’ he said, when she walked in. ‘Longhampton’s most stylish dog walker.’

‘Don’t you have a business to go to?’ Rachel enquired, hanging the leads back up. It was quite flattering really, that he could be so taken in by one Marc Jacob skirt, reduced.

‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘I just called in to check on a couple of your inmates, and to see how your clearance sale was going.’

‘Not so bad, so far,’ said Rachel. She scrutinised his craggy face for signs of sarcasm, and found an infuriating mixture of amusement and something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘Lulu’s gone to Dr Harper as I’m sure Megan’s told you . . .’

‘And Chester’s had a couple of visitors,’ added Megan, hanging up the phone. ‘Nice couple from Hartley and a woman from Rosehill. Phone’s been red hot all morning, hasn’t it, Freda? We haven’t stopped since you went out!’

‘It’s those posters, Rachel. I saw your poster in the library, love,’ said Freda. ‘Very touching. Had the gardening club in
floods
.’

‘Good,’ said George. ‘Get the blue-rinse brigade matched up with those shopping-trolley-sized terriers, and sent straight over to me for vaccinations, please.’

‘George!’

‘He’s a businessman, Freda,’ said Rachel, shaking her head. ‘Don’t let that James Herriot routine fool you.’

‘And you’ll be pleased to hear that Bertie’s going to have a home check too,’ added Megan. ‘Who wants to do it?’

‘Anyone we know?’ Freda looked nosy.

‘The couple who came along with Dr Bill, actually.’ Megan was scribbling down the details. ‘It was the wife who rang – she seemed really excited. Natalie. There,’ she added, handing her the note, ‘they live on that new estate down by the canal. Can you do it tonight?’

‘No, I can’t.’ Freda sighed. ‘Oh, shame, it’s my bowls night, I wouldn’t have minded a look around one of those houses. Lovely, they are. Executive.’

‘You can do it, can’t you, Rachel?’

‘What?’

‘You just look round the house, check they’ve got fences, secure gates, that sort of thing.’ Megan made it sound a doddle. ‘I’ve got a checklist you can use. And just think about how happy you’re making Bertie! He’s been pining for a new home since he arrived.’

‘Well, yes, I’m pleased Bertie’s on his way out of here!’ said Rachel. ‘He really seemed to take to the wife – it was like he knew her from somewhere. It was like they clicked.’

Freda wagged a finger. ‘See? We told you you’d get the knack!’

‘No, Freda,’ George corrected her. ‘Rachel’s just a ruthless businesswoman too, she wants her runs cleared so Megan can get some fee-paying boarders in. Did she tell you about the new scheme she’s running? Adopt one dog, get one free? Like Tesco, but with the smaller dogs. Your Ted’s thinking about getting a couple of replacements for Pippin.’

Freda’s face registered shock, then crossness, and then she swatted George’s arm. ‘You’re having me on! He wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me. Ooh, you’re an awful man.’

George winked at Rachel, who stifled a smile, then furrowed her brow in disapproval. ‘Says the man doing two-for-one testicle removals.’

It was hard not to respond to George’s pantomime grumpiness. She wondered why she was the only one who bothered pitching it back to him – he seemed to like it.

‘But you should think about a dog, Freda,’ said Megan persuasively. ‘It’d be good for you, honestly. You
and
Ted. Help him to think about retiring.’

‘It’d take a very special little dog to replace Pippin,’ said Freda. ‘Did I tell you, Rachel, how he used to—’

Rachel’s mobile rang in her pocket and she flinched when she heard who was calling: her mother.

Val and Oliver had called daily but now he seemed to have given up, presumably to fix his marriage, but Val hadn’t. Rachel knew what she’d want to talk about as well: the current progress on the probate, and the whereabouts of silver brush sets and Acker Bilk albums, neither of which she’d quite got around to locating.

‘Would you excuse me?’ she said, grabbing the solicitor’s file, still largely untouched, off the breadbin. ‘I’ll just take this call.’

Conversation started up as soon as she reached the stairs, with George’s hearty laugh booming over the top, but she ignored the voice in her head wondering if they were laughing about her.

‘Mum, how are you?’ she said. Rachel knew she should have phoned earlier but there was a limit to how much red-hot news of new teeth and bowel movements she could stand.

‘I’m fine, Rachel.’ Val sounded slightly off. ‘How’s it going? Have you made any headway with the sorting out?’

‘Not really, I’ve been busy with the kennels.’ Rachel crossed the landing, and turned towards Dot’s bedroom at the front of the house. ‘Listen, I’m going to get those brushes now, all right? But I’m not supposed to dish anything out until probate’s cleared and I’ve paid the first bit of inheritance tax. It could take six months, you know.’

She threw the file on the bed, and began searching for the letter Dot had left for her. Val would be bound to ask about that. She’d forgotten all about it, assuming it would be specific bequests to the dogs. Instructions to leave Gem in charge of dog matchmaking or something. Files and accounts tumbled out until it appeared, and Rachel clamped the phone under her ear while she slit it open with a finger.

It was only one side of Dot’s neat handwriting, and didn’t seem to contain any bequest details at all.

Oh
great
, thought Rachel, but her mother was speaking again.

‘I wasn’t just ringing about that, Rachel! But are you managing? Do you want me to come and help you sort things out?’

‘No, I’m fine, Mum. These brushes, where do you think they’d be? Did she use them? Or will they be in a drawer?’

Rachel had only put her head around Dot’s door so far; it felt rather odd, poking around someone else’s most personal space when their toothpaste was still fresh. The dressing table was as Dot had left it, with her gold-cased lipsticks and tissues scattered about, and a dry-cleaning bag hung on the back of the door. Two tweed skirts, and a jacket.

The room smelled of old ladies, thought Rachel, looking around. Stylish old ladies, not the crumpled husks of women Val shunted from day centre to table-top sale. Dot’s room smelled of woollen clothes and old-fashioned perfume and powder compacts.

She twisted up the nearest lipstick, expecting to see a sugar pink colour: it was a deep carmine red.

‘They’d be on her dressing table,’ Val added. ‘They were my grandmother’s, family heirlooms.
Our
grandmother’s, I should say.’

‘They’re not here,’ said Rachel. ‘There’s just knick-knacks and some photos.’ She picked up the largest, in a silver frame, and studied it with interest. Everything downstairs showed Dot in her old age, surrounded by animals, looking somewhat weatherbeaten. This, though, was a young Dot at a formal function, looking positively sultry in a satin shift dress, leaning up against a handsome man in a sharp suit.
   

A
very
handsome man.

Rachel frowned with surprise. Was that actually Dot? This woman was quite a stunner. Her exotic dark looks were perfect for the dramatic sixties style; she was striking, like Eleanor Bron or Alma Cogan, and wasn’t afraid to play up her bold features with false lashes and jet-black hair piled high on her head.

And the man was pretty sexy too: full lips, thick hair, a sort of Mick Jagger-ish twinkle in his eye. He was glancing sideways at Dot with a proud expression on his face – with good reason, Rachel thought. He looked as if Dot had just cracked a particularly witty joke.

‘Who would this man be on Dot’s dressing table, Mum?’ she asked. ‘I thought Dot never had a serious boyfriend.’

‘Where did you get that idea?’ said Val, evasively.

‘From you?’ The frame was heavy too, hallmarked solid silver. It must have been someone special to have warranted the frame, as well as the prominent place.

‘Well . . . I’m sure I never said that.’

Rachel’s skin tingled as she looked into Dot’s hooded eyes, so like her own, and the penny dropped.
Dot
was the woman in the spare room chalk drawing. She hadn’t recognised her, because the only photo she remembered of a younger Dot was the one at Amelia’s christening, in which Dot looked like the lost Supreme in a tangerine trouser suit that her mother still clearly took as a personal affront.

There was a gap in her mother’s photograph albums – Dot appeared as an ankle-socked child with Val, then as a lanky teenager off to university, and then pretty much nothing until she hovered in the background in a few weddings and funerals, white-haired and clearly uncomfortable.

This was the Dorothy who was missing
– a Dorothy who hadn’t always lived in tweeds. A Dot who’d been quite clearly adored by someone hot enough to give Oliver a run for his money.