Sunshine and Spaniels (3 page)

Polly put her hand on Cat’s shoulder. ‘Joe’s not a toad. It’s summer, and he loves summer. The whole Rosalin-and-Alex thing is further in the past, and I think his business is doing OK, despite losing Alison’s custom just now.’

‘But Chips is a dog.’

‘Yes, I know. Look, Cat, there’s something I haven’t—’

‘Joe hates dogs.’

Polly was looking in the direction of the café, chewing her lip. ‘It’s not that simple,’ she said. ‘Joe’s had a hard time of it, and maybe he’s realized he was an arse when you first moved in. He’s trying to make it up to you.’

Cat nodded. ‘He’s helped me with Twitter, he’s given me great advice, thought of the whole Pooches’ Picnic idea. He’s been really helpful, actually.’ Polly laughed. ‘No need to sound so surprised. He’s trying hard, and whatever impression he’s given you, he doesn’t
hate
dogs. He’s giving credit where credit’s due.’ She pointed at Chips.

Cat waggled her fingers and the Border collie raced up to her. She pulled a few treats out of her bag. ‘That, Chips, was brilliant. Maybe some of Mark’s cheekiness has rubbed off on you after all?’ Chips gave a single, cheery bark. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asked. Chips pressed her damp nose against Cat’s leg. ‘Yeah, I do too. Come on, let’s see if anyone still wants to talk about dog walking, or if they’re all convinced I’m completely incompetent. Coming, Pol?’

They made their way across the grass, saying hello to the few people who remained. Most had drifted off after Mr Jasper’s intervention, whether embarrassed to stay, or just seeing it as the perfect time for lunch. The sun was high in the sky, baking down on them all. Cat thought the dogs could do with going inside and cooling off. Maybe they’d all be happy to have a bucket of water thrown over them.

She could see Captain and his perky-eared papillon, Paris, on the veranda of the Pavilion café, talking to the owner George. And she could see Joe through the glass, helping to clear up. Cat really had to thank him for all he’d done. She’d found herself doing that quite a bit lately, and was starting to think she would have to change her opinion of him as a grumpy sod. She let Chips go ahead of her, but a dog started barking behind them and, intrigued, Chips changed course.

‘Chips,’ Cat called, ‘come on, let’s go inside.’ But the Border collie was intent on her new pursuit.

A small sandy-haired dog was haring across the grass towards Chips, running as fast as its tiny legs could carry it. At the last minute it jumped, its floppy ears flying, and came to an untidy halt next to the collie.

It continued to make a high, squeaking noise like a broken bicycle horn, and started running backwards and forwards. A classic Zoomie dog, Cat thought.

She approached the puppy, cautiously at first and then, when it seemed intent on tiring itself out, she pulled it into her arms, lifted it up and stroked its head, calming it. It was a cocker spaniel, and Cat thought it could only be about six months old. She turned its collar around and found a heart-shaped name tag.
Olaf,
it said, followed by a phone number.

Cat scanned the park. It was still busy, the grass dotted with groups kicking footballs and having picnics, but Cat could see no one who looked frantic, as if they’d lost someone important. Olaf. That name was familiar, and not just because it belonged to a snowman she’d heard about non-stop at the nursery. The nursery – that was it! She remembered Alison telling Emma to say goodbye to her dog; the little girl fighting back tears.

‘Where’s Emma?’ she asked Olaf, who was shivering, depleted of exertion and confidence. ‘Where’s your family?’

‘I think you might be looking for these two?’ It was Joe, ushering a couple of young girls towards her.

‘Olaf!’ the older one squealed. They were both crying loudly, and looked ragged despite their bright sundresses and sandals.

‘Is he yours?’ Cat held the puppy out to the older girl. She recognized four-year-old Emma, and there was something familiar about her sister too, despite her being too old to attend nursery. ‘Hey,’ she said gently, ‘there’s no need to cry. He’s had an adventure and now he’s tired, but he’s fine.’

‘And you did well to keep up with him,’ Joe added. ‘I saw how fast he was going. Maybe you two need to think about careers in athletics.’

The older girl started to sniff, restraining her tears, and reached out to take her pet. She cuddled him against her, and Olaf nuzzled her cheek. Cat thought she was probably about ten or eleven, skinny, with long, flyaway mousy hair and freckles. Emma was still sobbing, one hand gripping onto her sister’s dress.

‘You’re Emma, aren’t you?’ Cat asked.

The little girl nodded through her tears.

‘I’m Cat, from the nursery. Do you remember me?’

Again she nodded, then gulped and wiped her eyes with her hands. ‘Alison made you leave because you were too funny.’

Cat tried to hide her grin, which wasn’t easy when Joe was rolling his eyes.

‘Alison and I weren’t always best friends, Emma, but I loved all of you, and I miss you.’

‘We miss you too,’ Emma said. ‘And your puppy.’

‘But you’ve got one of your own. Olaf. Is this your sister?’

The older girl gave her a small smile. ‘I’m Lizzie. I’m ten.’

‘Nice to meet you, Lizzie. I’m Cat, and this is Joe. Were you bringing Olaf to the park?’

They both nodded, Lizzie’s eyes cast down to the ground. ‘Mum said could we take him out, because she’s busy with Henry. That’s our brother.’

‘He’s only ten months,’ Emma added, ‘and a handful.’

‘Shhh,’ hissed Lizzie. ‘Mum said not to say.’

‘Your mum told you not to say anything?’

‘About how stressed she is,’ Lizzie blurted, then gasped, her eyes filling up with tears again.

’That’s OK,’ Cat said reassuringly. ‘I won’t say anything. Do you want me to come with you and explain about Olaf to your mum?’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, it’s OK. We can take him back. Mum doesn’t need to know he got off the lead.’

‘You
took
him off!’ Emma squealed.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Cat said, trying to head off a squabble between the girls. ‘Our event’s done now, and I’d like to say hello to your mum again. Do you live close by?’

‘Number twelve Primrose Terrace,’ Emma said proudly.

‘Of course!’ Cat said. That’s where she remembered the older girl from – she’d passed them in the street on more than one occasion.

‘What?’ Lizzie asked, her slender brows lowering.

‘I live on Primrose Terrace too. Oh, this is perfect. I’ll just go and get Chips, and we’ll all walk back together.’

‘Of course,’ Joe said brightly. ‘We can’t get away with not knowing about one of our neighbours, can we?’

Cat shot him a sideways glance and went in search of Polly and Chips.

Chapter 2

The primroses that characterized Primrose Terrace lasted all the way through the spring, filling the wide grass verges opposite the houses with whites and pinks and blues, as well as the more common yellow. It looked like an intricately weaved carpet, and Cat wondered who tended to them, making sure they bloomed so spectacularly every year. She wondered whether the primroses had given the terrace its name or if it was the other way around.

The houses only ran along one side of the road. Opposite them, and beyond the colourful verges, was a high, redbrick wall shielding the back gardens of the seafront houses from view. Cat loved knowing that, just beyond those houses, was the endless expanse of glittering blue or churning grey water.

Their party of three grown-ups, two children and two dogs passed Jessica’s extravagant house at number one, reminding Cat that she hadn’t seen the author at the Pooches’ and Puppies’ Picnic, either superglued to Joe or anywhere else; then the bed and breakfast, a couple unloading suitcases from a VW Beetle outside; then Mark’s slightly shabbier house. Chips climbed the stairs and Cat thought she probably shouldn’t take a strange – albeit passive – dog to someone else’s house, especially when they had a baby.

‘Could you get Chips settled, Polly? I’ll come and check on her later.’

‘Of course.’

Cat handed Polly Mark’s key and Chips’s lead.

She lost Joe as they passed number nine.

‘I’ve got some work to catch up on,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Emma and Lizzie.’ He bounded up the steps, leaving Cat, the girls and Olaf standing on the pavement.

‘Right then, it’s just us chickens.’ They made their way down the road, to number twelve.

‘We didn’t paint it,’ Lizzie said, ‘but we think we’ve got the prettiest house on the street.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ Cat said.

Number twelve was pale pink, with the same white window frames as the other houses, and a white front door. Someone had, presumably a long time ago, painted a design of pink daisies round the edges of the door, but it was so faint now Cat could only just see what it was. There were cuddly toys lining one of the upstairs windows, looking out at the street, and the downstairs curtains were shut, despite it being the middle of the day. It was a very pretty house that, Cat thought, with a few extra touches, could really stand out.

‘I’ll check with Mum,’ Lizzie said. Emma followed closely behind, almost bumping into her sister. The door was ajar, and Lizzie pushed it open and slipped inside, followed by her sister. Cat waited, drumming her fingers on her arms. She thought she could hear someone shouting, but then the door swung open and a woman about Cat’s age appeared.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was breathless and clipped, her irritation clear. ‘Can I help?’ She had reddish-brown hair tied back from her face in a scrappy ponytail, green eyes and no make-up, a silver stud glinting just above her lip. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes red-rimmed. ‘Now’s not a good time.’

Cat wiped her hand down her dress and held it out. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Cat. I used to work at Emma’s nursery, and I met her and Lizzie in the park today.’

‘They weren’t meant to go to the park,’ she rushed. ‘They were meant to walk up to the end of the road and back, that’s all. And then – I couldn’t leave, because of Henry, or what if they came back and I—’ She stopped and took a deep breath, shook her head. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘There isn’t a problem,’ Cat said. ‘I found Emma and Lizzie in the park with Olaf, and I thought…’

The other woman folded her arms. ‘You thought what? That they shouldn’t have been out without their mum? I told them not to leave the terrace, but there was some bloody dogs event in the park. I don’t need you – or anyone else – telling me how to do things.’

‘I’m not, I promise.’ Cat glanced up the street, hoping to see Polly’s instantly likeable face, but for the moment Primrose Terrace was quiet. ‘I wanted to say hello. I moved into the street at the beginning of the year, and I can’t believe we’ve not met properly yet. Also, it sounds like it’s partly my fault. I put on the event in the park, for dogs and their owners.’

‘Great, brilliant. Thanks for that. I don’t have time for a neighbourly chat, I need to see to Henry.’ She stepped back and moved to close the door, but Cat put her hand out.

‘Look – can I ask your name?’

‘I have to go.’

‘Please. They were so worried they’d upset you. I think they were trying to help.’

‘What would you know? Girls,’ she called, turning away, ‘wash your hands.
Now.
No complaints.’ She faced Cat again. ‘Look, Cat, is it?’

Cat nodded.

‘Thanks for bringing them back, but I need to get on.’

‘It’s just that—’ Cat stopped, wondering how to broach the subject.

The girls’ mother eyed her suspiciously. ‘What?’

‘Lizzie and Emma might have mentioned that…that you could do with some help.’

The young woman’s eyes widened. ‘They
what
?’

‘The thing is,’ Cat hurried, ‘I run a dog-walking business now, and this event that Lizzie noticed – well, she mentioned that sometimes, with the baby, it’s hard for you to get out. With Olaf. Hard for you to all have time together.’ She swallowed and crossed her fingers behind her back. This had potentially been another of her Worst Ideas Ever, and she didn’t want to patronize the woman or make her feel that she was a bad mother. She didn’t want to get the girls in trouble either.

The young woman looked at her for so long that Cat thought she might have somehow become invisible, but then she pushed the door open wider, and Cat could see the hallway beyond. ‘They said that, did they? About spending time together?’

Cat nodded.

The girls’ mother rubbed her eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘I’m Frankie,’ she said quietly. ‘They shouldn’t have done that, gone to the park. They know the rules.’ She gestured for Cat to come in.

‘They’re back though,’ Cat said, ‘and they’re fine.’

‘It’s bloody hard at the moment, with Henry and my shifts at the restaurant. My two girls are basically sorting themselves out, and I know it’s not fair – they’re still so young.’

She led the way into the living room, which was similar to the one at number nine, except that everything was bright, a myriad of colours. The sofas were red, the distressed wooden coffee tables dark purple, and the white walls were barely visible, covered in kids’ drawings, chains of seashells, a living scrapbook of Frankie and her family. Toys, magazines and clothes in various sizes covered every surface, a pale pink gauze hung across the doorway into the kitchen, and the threadbare carpet was hidden beneath a round, rainbow-swirl rug. It wasn’t tidy, but it was vibrant and full of life.

‘It’s not conventional,’ Frankie said, ‘but so what? The kids love it.’

‘I love it.’ Cat took a step towards the wall and ran her finger gently across a snail made out of pasta. She felt a lump form in her throat as she realized how long it had been since she had rolled her sleeves up and covered things in paint, or glue, or Play-Doh. ‘I miss working at the nursery.’

Frankie sat on the arm of the sofa and glanced at Lizzie, who was holding her baby brother. He was gurgling quietly, podgy hands reaching up towards the ceiling. Emma was in a dog basket in the corner of the room, Olaf climbing all over her. Both girls had fresh tear stains marking their cheeks.