Someone Like You (34 page)

‘The thing, the big … thing,’ her mother had yelled in frustration. ‘Kitchen thing, for clothes, I don’t know what you call it, just stop annoying me. It’s broken.’

But when Emma had called round that evening, her mother seemed in perfectly good form and the washing machine was trundling away in the kitchen.

‘I keep telling myself there’s nothing wrong with her,’

Emma told Kirsten now, ‘but I can’t do that any more because I’ve seen it for myself: she’s not well. She’s got something, some dementia, something like Alzheimer’s, I know it.’ Emma stopped, weary from trying to convince Kirsten. ‘We’ve got to decide what to do about it. I didn’t say anything to Dad. I dropped Mum off and came back home. I didn’t know what to say to him. That’s why I’m phoning you. We’ve got to decide what to do together.’

A snort from the other end of the phone told her that Kirsten had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

‘There’s nothing to figure out. We all forget things. I can’t remember people’s names half the time. Mummy’s fine, I know it. You think I wouldn’t know if my own mother was sick?’

‘This isn’t a competition, Kirsten,’ stressed Emma.

‘We’re not having a game to see who diagnosed it first, to see who is the better daughter. We’ve got to do something.

Maybe Dad doesn’t know, maybe this has never happened before, but we’ve got to take some action.’

- ‘You can, I’m not going to. I think you’re overreacting.

Now, I can’t talk, I told you.’

With that, Kirsten hung up.

Emma stared at the phone in amazement. She knew Kirsten didn’t like facing painful things, had known it for years. Kirsten had taken two days to tell their parents she’d been suspended from fourth year in school for smoking; only the arrival of the official letter from the principal had forced her hand. But to deny there was anything wrong with their mother when it was so patently obvious there was … It didn’t make any sense.

Rampant kennel cough had affected what seemed like half of the dogs in the area. Leonie felt she would scream if she had to listen to one more painful canine cough or see the accompanying look of bewilderment on the poor animal’s furry face. Most owners were so good about bringing their dogs to the vet but there were always those terrible few who thought that animal healthcare was on a par with tearing up fifty-pound notes for fun. They’d paid out for the initial parvo-virus shots when their dog was a puppy and had never been seen over the threshold of the surgery since. They’d seen four cases of kennel cough that morning, although because it was the most infectious thing imaginable, Angie had examined the dogs in the surgery hallway.

They never admitted a dog with kennel cough.

The latest patient was very bad with it. Leonie didn’t know how the owner could have let it go on for so long.

It was such an unmistakable cough, you couldn’t listen to your dog coughing in that way without your heart breaking.

‘She’s never sick,’ the man had explained offhandedly when he’d brought in a spaniel who was obviously in agony with kennel cough. Her eyes were rheumy with ‘flu-like symptoms and each time she coughed, her small body was racked with what had to be painful spasms. ‘The last dog never got anything,’ the owner complained as Angie examined the dog with Leonie helping. Bloody miracle, Leonie thought venomously, if this was how well they looked after it. This poor little dog must have been sick for days and these bloody pigs wouldn’t bother their backsides bringing her in. Money couldn’t be the problem, either. The man dangled Saab keys in one hand and the sheepskin coat slung over his Lacoste shirt was hardly bargain basement.

Leonie longed to let him know just what she thought of him, one swift prong with the bovine rectal thermometer and he’d know all about it. She’s never sick. What a load of old…

‘Leonie,’ said Angie, who recognized the signs of rage in her friend, ‘would you hold Flossie for a moment while I listen to her heart and lungs?’

Flossie, dear little thing that she was, wagged her feathery tail in a friendly manner as Leonie held her expertly.

‘You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you,’ she said softly. ‘All you have to do is wait here for a moment and we’ll soon have you better. Good girl.’

The owner stood back and leaned against the wall. He looked bored, as if this entire trip had been a waste of his valuable time.

He even managed to sigh once and look at his watch.

Leonie and Angie’s eyes met over Flossie’s liver-and-white back. Angie’s eyes were just as narrowed as Leonie’s.

When the examination was over, Angie faced him.

‘I’m afraid your dog is very sick with kennel cough,’ she said icily. He didn’t react. ‘In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t bring her sooner. Most people come in at the first sign, your dog has been ill at least two weeks.’

The man stopped leaning against the wall. ‘Well, you know, Christmas and all that…’ he stuttered.

‘Yes. It’s easy to neglect animals because of Christmas,’

Angie said pointedly. ‘But a few more days and this would have become very serious. And she’s quite thin. Has she been wormed recently?’

The man had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I’m afraid we never think of things like that.’

Leonie couldn’t help it. ‘Why do you have a dog, then?’

she snapped.

Angie shot her a fierce look. They weren’t supposed to say things like that. Furious owners might never bring their poor dogs back to the surgery again if they were given grief when they did come.

Flossie’s owner was looking shocked.

‘How often you worm your dog or otherwise is your business,’ Angie said formally, ignoring Leonie for a moment. ‘To clarify matters, we are only obliged to inform the authorities when we think a dog is being neglected.’

He paled at the word ‘neglected’.

‘She’s a sweet little thing and the children love her,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to neglect her or anything.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Angie interrupted smoothly, ‘but she’ll need a course of antibiotics and I’d like to see her back here in a week to see how she’s doing and to worm her. Would that be possible?’

‘Of course, of course.’ He began patting Flossie anxiously and Leonie was pleased to see that the dog liked him.

At least he wasn’t beating the poor little thing.

He was the last client and when he left, Leonie tidied up as Angie wrote up the dog’s medical file, noting the antibiotics they’d used. As they’d both suspected, Flossie had been to the surgery four years before for her initial vaccination shots as a puppy and she’d never been back.

‘Too expensive, I bet,’ Leonie said with disgust. ‘Like that man with the pub.’

Angie nodded wearily. Every vet and nurse in the surgery had been horrified by the fabulously ostentatious owner of two city-centre pubs who’d refused to have his pet dog’s cataracts operated upon because it was ‘too bloody expensive’.

They’d all known that he could have easily afforded it, even though it wasn’t a cheap operation, yet he preferred to let the lovely German Shepherd go on banging clumsily into things until she’d stumbled out on to the main road and been killed. A regular in the gossip columns, he’d even had the nerve to mention he was upset about his beloved dog because he ‘adored animals and would do anything for them’.

‘Hypocrite. He’d have paid that much to get the headlights fixed on his bloody Rolls,’ Leonie had howled with fury when she’d heard. None of the staff members had felt themselves able to speak to the man again, even though he drove past the surgery on his way to work every day in his flashy ice-blue Rolls-Royce.

Angie swore she was going to throw broken glass in his way to see him get a puncture. In her angrier moments, Leonie said they ought to blindfold him and let him see what it was like trying to live in the dark.

‘Well, why the fuck don’t people like that get a goldfish?’

Leonie said now, wiping the examining table with disinfectant. She never swore, only when she was really angry or upset. ‘Then they could throw a few crumbs on top of the water every week and forget about the bloody things.’

‘Fish require lots of care,’ Angie reminded her mildly.

‘Yeah? I don’t care for fish, except on a plate with white wine sauce on it,’ Leonie replied. She couldn’t help it: she was furious with all these pigs who pretended to love animals and wouldn’t bother to care for them properly. No, they weren’t pigs. Pigs were animals and no animal would ever treat another creature in that way. When she thought of some of the lovely animals who came into the surgery, hobbling on fractured limbs, bitten out of their minds with fleas or half-starved, all because of sheer neglect, it was all she could do not to hit their owners, those feckless, useless people who thought that owning a pet was like owning a car that didn’t need petrol, water or oil.

‘Calm down, Leonie,’ Angie said gently. ‘You’re having a bad day. Go home, have a big glass of wine and forget about it. When the revolution comes, we’ll put all those crappy pet owners up against a wall and shoot them.’

Leonie managed to smile. ‘Only if I can pull the trigger,’

she agreed.

She and Angie closed up the surgery and she drove home, not particularly looking forward to that, either. Home was not the refuge it normally was, mainly because Abby and Mel were squabbling. Leonie sighed. A mere month ago, she’d have said it was hard to imagine Abby squabbling; the usual suspects in a grudge match were Danny and Mel, who fought like warring Medicis over everything from the last piece of toast to the control of the television remote.

Abby was the peacemaker, pacifying all parties in the endless war that went on between her siblings. But for some reason, Abby hadn’t been getting on with her twin for the past few weeks and their rows were frightening to behold.

Yesterday, they’d had a screaming match in the bathroom because Mel had dared to wear Abby’s glittery, bought-specially-for-the-Christmas-disco Tshirt.

Leonie was used to hearing Mel squealing like a four-year-old. But she’d been shocked to hear Abby doing it: ‘You cow, I hate you, hate you!’ followed by door-slamming, loud music, more shouting and more door slamming.

Tonight, not feeling ready for a repeat performance, Leonie parked the car outside the cottage and walked slowly to her front door. The paintwork was peeling again, she reminded herself as she did every evening. It was two years since she’d last had the cottage exterior painted and the lovely rich dark green of the door was getting shabby.

You didn’t notice it as much in the summer because the climbing roses hung so prettily over everything, hiding flaking paint and chipped stonework with a cluster of pale pink, glorious-smelling buds. But in the bleak winter, the place was starting to look shabby, Leonie decided. Dear little Flossie wasn’t the only thing to be neglected, she thought ruefully.

Inside, it was blissfully warm and blissfully quiet.

Nobody was screaming ‘spannerhead!’ at anyone else and Penny didn’t race frantically to greet her mistress, meaning somebody had kindly taken her for a walk. One more chore ticked off the list, Leonie smiled to herself.

‘Hi! Mel, Abby and Danny, I’m home.’

Silence. A note in the kitchen explained that the girls had brought Penny out.

Danny rang, he’s home late. Save dinner for him, Mel had added in her nicely rounded handwriting.

As if she’d cook dinner and not save any for Danny.

When did she not save dinner for him, Leonie asked wryly.

She had a waste-disposal unit for a son and all he did was eat. In the peace and quiet, she decided to do exactly what Angie had suggested: she opened a bottle of wine (Ł5.99

special from Superquinn) and poured herself a glass.

Dinner was going to be the chilli she’d taken out of the freezer that morning, baked potatoes and salad. Switching the oven and the radio on, Leonie sipped her wine, and scrubbed the potatoes under the cold tap. She half-listened to news updates and traffic reports, enjoying the rare solitude.

When Penny erupted into the kitchen via the back door twenty minutes later, barking delightedly at finding her beloved mistress there, a green salad was crisping in the fridge, the potatoes were beginning to sizzle and Leonie had laid the kitchen table for the three of them.

‘Hiya, Mum,’ said the twins in unison.

Mel hurried in without taking off her anorak or runners and threw herself on to the chair nearest the radiator.

Her heart-shaped face was flushed with the combination of exercise and cold air, her big dark eyes were shiny and the biting wind had coloured her lips ruby red. Even windblown, she was so pretty.

Abby hung up both her anorak and Penny’s lead before hunching down beside the radiator with her sister. You’d never have believed they were twins, Leonie reflected, looking at Abby’s round, open face with its solid chin so unlike Mel’s pointed little one. Although Abby was looking a little thinner, she suddenly realized. Nothing major, just a faint thinning of her cheeks. It suited her, Leonie decided with a jolt of pleasure. Perhaps Abby wasn’t destined to look like her, with the peasant’s face that no amount of makeup could really hide. Nothing would give Leonie greater pleasure than to see Abby turn into a swan. Being an ugly duckling was such a difficult burden to bear. Well, perhaps not an ugly duckling, she told herself. But large, solid and sensible-looking as distinct from petite, dainty and Bambieyed.

‘You’re both in good form tonight,’ she said, smiling at them.

‘Yeah, sorry about last night,’ Abby said apologetically.

‘Dunno what got into me.’

‘Steven Connelly!’ smirked Mel evilly. ‘Or you wish he’d got on to you.’

Abby pulled her sister’s hair in retaliation. ‘Cow.’

‘Ouch,’ yelped Mel. But it was a goodhumoured yelp.

They were friends again, thankfully.

Leonie sat down on a kitchen chair and sipped more of her wine. God only knew what year it was, but it certainly tasted like a good one.

‘Who’s Steven Connelly?’ she asked, knowing she wasn’t supposed to ask but unable to resist.

‘Who cares about him,’ Abby said primly. ‘He’s someone Mel thinks I fancy. We’ve much better news.’