Walking Back to Happiness (10 page)

Coco whinnied in surprise and shot back to Diane’s side, her own tail protectively between her legs. It didn’t stop the dachshund from sniffing and leaping around her lady parts.

‘Oh, naughty Hector, it’s your girlfriend! Hello, Coco!’ exclaimed the woman – to Diane, Juliet noticed.

‘Now then, Coco,’ said Diane – again, to the woman. ‘Be nice.’

Be nice? thought Juliet.
Be nice?
Allow yourself to be hit on by a grizzly dachshund carrying on like a boozed-up Premiership footballer in a nightclub? Why are they talking through the dogs, like puppets? Why don’t they just say, ‘Hello, Diane! Hello, Pam!’?

Minton was hovering uncertainly around Coco, unsure of his responsibilities. Hector, unlike Minton, had an impressive pair of hairy testicles and looked the type to know what to do with them.

Juliet flicked her eyebrows at her mother, waiting to be introduced.

Diane looked a little flustered, then said, ‘Oh, sorry – this is Hector, Juliet. And this is Minton! Minton’s from Four Oaks Dog Rescue, on the hill.’

‘Really?’ said the lady on the other end of Hector’s lead. ‘So’s Hector! What a small world. We’re almost related!’

Has my mother really just introduced my dog to another dog and not the owner? marvelled Juliet.

‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ Hector’s still-nameless owner went on, ‘but where does Coco go
on holiday
?’ She mouthed ‘on holiday’ under her breath as if it was a euphemism, and glanced guiltily at Hector at the same time.

‘Sometimes she goes up to Rachel at Four Oaks, but normally Juliet looks after her,’ said Diane.

‘Oh, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.’ The lady’s mac heaved with the force of her sigh. ‘Rachel’s all booked up and I don’t like letting him go somewhere he’s not been before. It’s just for a few days. I tried to get one of those Animal Aunts, you know, the people who pop in and feed them and play with them . . . My sister’s in hospital,’ she added, to Juliet. ‘Hector doesn’t like being left on his own.’

‘Well, if it’s just dog-sitting for a few days, Juliet could probably help you out,’ said Diane. ‘That’s what she’s doing for me – I’m minding my grandson two or three days a week, so Coco’s round at Juliet’s with Minton.’

Juliet opened her mouth, but it was too late. The woman was nearly exploding with gratitude.

‘Would you? Really? It’d only be for a few days. He’s such a good boy. If he gets his walk at lunchtime, he’s happy to doze the rest of the day in front of the telly.’

Hector was now sniffing intimately at Minton, who hardly knew where to look. He turned his eyes to Juliet, pleading with her to help.

‘I’m not a registered dog-sitter,’ she began, but no one was listening.

‘Let me give you my phone number, and some dates . . .’ The woman was scrabbling in her bag for a pen and paper. ‘Oh, it would take a weight off my mind. There’s only me that can go with Una, and they won’t let dogs anywhere near the oncology unit, obviously . . . I’d be back by five.’

Juliet’s resistance weakened. Oncology unit.

‘There!’ The woman handed her a piece of paper. On it, she’d written two phone numbers, Hector’s name and also his Kennel Club name, Grizzlehound Capt Caveman.

Juliet had to ask her what her own name was.

‘Me? Oh, Barbara. Barbara Taylor,’ she replied, with surprise. ‘Sorry, I want to call you Mrs Minton, but you’re . . . ?’

‘Juliet Falconer,’ said Juliet. ‘And this is Diane. Diane Summers.’

Her mother tried to disguise it, but Juliet could tell this was news to all parties – apart from Coco and Hector.

Juliet waited until Mrs Taylor and Hector were out of earshot before she turned to her mother and hissed, ‘What was that about?’

‘It’ll get you out of the house,’ said Diane. ‘And it’s a good turn.’

‘Please don’t organise me,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m a grown woman. I’m perfectly capable of organising myself.’

Diane said nothing, but threw the ball for Coco and Minton in a particularly pleased-with-herself manner that made Juliet wonder if she’d been trying to engineer the meeting for a while.

Chapter 7

Lorcan knocked on her door the next morning as promised, in between
Crimewatch Roadshow
and
Cash in the Attic
.

He was wearing a Black Sabbath tour T-shirt that showed off some scratches on his wiry arms, and a heavy pair of boots over his jeans. There were bits of leaf in his hair and some green smudges, and he seemed to be making an effort to be super-polite.

‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ he asked, as Minton investigated the muddy leg of his jeans on the doorstep. ‘I can come back later, if you want – just holler over the fence.’ He jerked a thumb towards it. ‘Emer wants her ramblers cut right back before she’ll give me any lunch.’

‘Have you no gardening gloves?’ said Juliet, looking at his scratched hands. Ben had skin like a rhino and even he wouldn’t go near rambling roses without gauntlets.

Lorcan shook his head and his curls bounced. ‘Nope. I’ve got roadies’ hands. Like asbestos. Roisin came out with some oven gloves, bless her. I’m nearly done now, though.’

‘I’ll lend you some,’ said Juliet. ‘My husband was a gardener and he wouldn’t leave the house without his. He once got a thorn under his nail that went septic, and every time he saw someone without gloves on, he . . .’

The pang. The swift, dark pang that bloomed under her ribs whenever she said something that Ben’d never say aloud again. Even the seriously tedious anecdotes she never thought she’d miss.

Quickly, while Lorcan’s face was still registering confusion, Juliet opened the door wide and changed the subject. ‘Um, come on in. Now’s as good a time as any.’

‘Right.’ Lorcan gave her a brief, searching look, which she hoped wasn’t going to turn into some kind of awkward apology.

‘Sorry about the other night,’ he began. ‘I was—’

‘You caught me at a bad moment,’ said Juliet, quickly. ‘It was rude of me to assume. Probably not even your type. Let’s forget it.’ He met her eye, and looked about to say something, but Juliet held up a hand. ‘And that’s not an invitation to tell me what your type is. Just tell me about my house.’

‘OK,’ said Lorcan. He rapped on the door frame. It didn’t make a great noise. ‘You know this probably needs to come out? I noticed the other day, while I was talking to your mam. And your locks aren’t fitted properly.’

‘Aren’t they?’ Juliet chewed her lip.

‘No, you need a five-bar one. This is wobbly, look.’

Ben had mentioned something about locks – they were chalked on the to-do list in the kitchen. Already her chest was tightening with resistance; she didn’t
want
someone telling her all the things that needed to change

‘You want to get those fixed sharpish, in case you’re not valid. Insurance companies can be bastards like that.’ He gave the lock a tap. ‘I can sort that out for you pretty easily, though – won’t take long. Put your mind at rest. And your mam’s.’

Oh
great
. What,
exactly
, had Diane said to Lorcan on the doorstep about her building requirements? She’d probably bribed him to report back on what needed doing, so she could check up.

She’d never hear the end of it if it got back to her parents that Ben hadn’t quite got round to fitting proper locks. She heard herself say, ‘Could you do that, please?’

‘No problem,’ said Lorcan, with a dazzling smile. ‘I’ll do it today.’ He turned the smile off, self-consciously. ‘If that’s OK?’

Juliet nodded. Damn, she thought. I should be doing my builder poker face. This was definitely one of ‘Ben’s hassles’ – bluffing for workmen. She was probably giving off all the sucker signals, whereas Ben would have been tapping the door frame right back, making up stuff about lintels. And what about the insurance? Was she supposed to have told them Ben was dead? Had she done that? Or had Mum?

Minton stopped sniffing Lorcan’s legs and returned to Juliet’s side, leaning against her shin. He regarded Lorcan with suspicion, but didn’t growl.

‘I know it’s a cheek asking,’ said Lorcan, ‘but is there any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘Tea?’ Juliet was off tea. She’d drunk so much hot sweet tea in the past eight months that her insides were probably the colour of a reproduction mahogany sideboard.

Lorcan nodded. ‘Now Emer’s a manager’s wife, she’s only got this ridiculous coffee machine yoke. Does everything apart from grow the beans. It’s so complicated she has to get her eldest, Sal, to turn it on for her. I keep telling her, the lifestyle police aren’t going to come round and bust you for having a fecking teapot!’

For some reason, Juliet felt a desperate giggle bubble up through her tears; she had no idea why – it wasn’t really funny; she wanted to cry, not laugh. Maybe it was just something about Lorcan’s face. The rise and fall of his accent made it sound as if he was on the verge of delivering some wicked punch line, even when he wasn’t. And she’d had very little sleep.

‘Tea. OK.’ She led the way, past the still-packed boxes of books stacked by the stairs into the back kitchen.

‘Funny how two houses next door can be so different, eh?’ said Lorcan. He leaned against the fridge, as she put the kettle on and got two mugs out of the sink. After what he’d said the previous night about being single and not bothering, she wished she’d got round to washing up her breakfast dishes.

‘Different in what way?’

‘Oh, you know. Someone’s knocked through yours, making all this nice light. It feels twice the size.’ He waved a scratched hand around, assessing the airy space between the kitchen and the back room. ‘Emer’s . . . Well, that old dear’d been in there on her own for years. It’s all teeny tiny rooms, and bookshelves, and corners. Looks cluttered even when it’s tidy. At least you’ve got the blank canvas. I’m having to swing the old sledgehammer around.’

‘It was like this when we moved in, half done. It was one of the reasons we could afford it – the last owner started to renovate from scratch, then had to move for work.’ Juliet got the teapot out. ‘But thanks for the vote of confidence. My mum and dad tend to focus more on the unfinished floors and the wires.’

‘Ah, now, I’m not saying you haven’t a lot on your plate, but the basics are done for you. And it’s a nice house. Happy feeling.’

The kettle boiled. Juliet didn’t pick it up. ‘Do you think so?’

He nodded. ‘I see all sorts of houses. And this is a happy house.’ Then, realising his mistake, his expression changed. The sunniness left his eyes and he covered his whole face with one big hand. ‘Jesus, I didn’t mean . . . I’m so sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s a stupid thing to say. Again. You idiot.’

Calmly, Juliet poured the boiling water into the pink-hearts Emma Bridgewater teapot, the wedding-list gift from her Auntie Cathy, who had got drunk at the reception and told her mother it was a shame Juliet hadn’t aimed higher than a gardener. Unlike high-flying Louise and her Peter, who’d ‘end up like Bill Gates, mark my words’.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s fine’ came out on autopilot; she’d said it a lot, usually while serving hot sweet tea to well-meaning visitors. ‘We thought it was a happy house too, when we bought it. It’s not the house’s fault things have been less happy since then.’

Lorcan wiped his hand down his face and peered over the top, contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. Your mother filled me in on your loss. She didn’t say when, though?’

‘It was last October. It’s not like measles. You don’t suddenly look cured.’

‘No, I didn’t mean—’

‘Would it be easier if widows wore a black armband?’ Juliet went on crossly. ‘Or a mourning veil, so people can remember?’

‘I’m really sorry,’ pleaded Lorcan, but Juliet was on a roll.

‘Maybe one of those little ribbon pins, in black?’

He raised his hands. ‘Enough! I get it!’

Juliet deflated suddenly. ‘Ben didn’t die here, if that’s what you mean about this place being happy. He died in the street round the corner.’

She realised she was clutching the biscuit barrel tightly to her chest. At one point she was refilling it daily for all the visitors, throwing chocolate digestives in it like a Roman offering, so people had something to do when they ran out of consoling comments.

Stop it, she thought, and pulled off the lid. ‘Biscuit?’

‘Thanks.’ Lorcan didn’t bother with the ‘No, I shouldn’t’ routine; he took three at once. ‘Had you been married long?’

‘Five years.’ Juliet mashed the teabags against the side of the pot, too impatient to wait for it to brew naturally. Now she’d let the bitterness pop out like a boil, she didn’t want to make small talk about her dead husband with this very alive man. Death was awkward; her strange single-but-not-single situation was awkward. He was making her feel awkward, and unspecifically annoyed.

How can I make this quick? she was thinking, when Lorcan coughed and spoke.

‘So, kitchen plans?’ he asked. ‘Freestanding units, or fitted?’

Juliet looked up and saw he had a little notebook like a sketchpad and was methodically scanning the kitchen, his head bobbing like a bird as he took in the details.

‘The walls need skimming and painting, and tiles. What did you have in mind for the floor?’ Lorcan stopped scribbling and raised an eyebrow.

‘I . . .’ Juliet paused. ‘I don’t know.’

They hadn’t talked about the kitchen floor. Ben’s plans for the garden were beautifully detailed, but his plans for the house had been vague. ‘It’s all in my head,’ he’d said, when she’d pressed him for a budget or some details she could start searching eBay for. His head, of course, was no longer accessible.

‘You could put tiles down, or do some underfloor heating?’ suggested Lorcan. ‘That’s what Emer’s after.’ He grinned. ‘Nice in the winter for the dog. For the paws, you know.’

‘Minton wants an Aga,’ said Juliet. ‘Apparently he put in a request. He’d also like a heated towel rail in the bathroom.’

‘Expensive taste for a ratter, haven’t you?’ Lorcan said solemnly, and Juliet realised Minton had followed them in and was sitting at the top of the stairs, his back straight in observation. ‘I suppose you’ll have ideas about removing that cat-flap in the kitchen?’