I’m really regretting sending that photo of Elliot behind the café counter in his apron yesterday. It was mostly a picture of my scones, his face wasn’t even in it, but you could definitely see some t-shirt and forearms. Daniel had immediately messaged to ask for a full description of Elliot saying he knew he was our type just from the look of his wrists. I told himwedon’t share a type, which isn’t strictly true. We’re both conspicuously swoony for fit nerds but I made the mistake of deviating from that for Mack (who I’ll bet hasn’t worn a pair of sweatpants or pounded a treadmill in his life – plus he was more ‘swanky boffin’ than cute nerd) and look where that deviation landed me.
OK. Don’t rule out any out-of-hours encounters with that one. Perfect opportunity for a holiday flingette. Got to go. There’s 18 being discharged this afternoon and I’ve got to sort their meds. Love you, x
Love you too. And Daniel, be nice and eat Ekon’s cookie! x
It’s getting late and there’s only so much John Donne you can force yourself to read on a stuffy summer’s day indoors, so I turn the key in the door and cover the remaining scones for tomorrow. I might make some cupcakes in the morning for a change, with butter icing. There’s quite a lot of cash in the café till, which is really pleasing. Shame none of it’s for me – that’s the only drawback of this working holiday.
I’ll leave the day’s takings for Elliot to sort. It’s a good arrangement. He cashes up, stays out of my way, and everybody’s happy.
All I want to do now is get down to the beach all by myself and see what the waves feel like on these achy feet. It’s ridiculous that I’ve been at the seaside since Saturday and Istillhaven’t set foot in the Atlantic.
As I slip through the little door into the book shop I’m struck by two things. Firstly, Elliot’s shut up shop for the day as well, and secondly, he’s tiptoeing towards the sleeping Aldous with outstretched arms and wearing oven mitts.
‘Umm, what’s going on?’ I say.
‘Shh!I’m going to examine him.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’
‘What’s right with the poor little guy? He needs grooming for a start. That matting on his legs is horrible. And his breath! You’re not the one who has to sleep in the same room as him. And no dog ever subsisted on cheese sandwiches, scones and soup in the wild. God only knows what’s going on with his digestion. He hasn’t touched that organic dog food I brought him this morning; three quid that cost me, it’s the best you can get. Come over and help me hold him.’
‘Not likely. The visitor’s book says he bites.’
Elliot curls mittened hands on his hips and gives me a pointed look. ‘It’s not right leaving him like this, fending for himself, no stimulation whatsoever.’
‘Oh… all right then! But if he starts getting jumpy, I’m backing off.’
Elliot hands me a mitt and we both sneak up on the dozing dog. For a few moments Aldous doesn’t seem to notice we’ve each got a hand on his fuzzy little body. Elliot tentatively puts a thumb to Aldous’s jowls and lifts his lip to reveal surprisingly pink gums and next to no teeth. ‘Poor thing. How old did Jowan say he was again?’
The sound of Elliot’s voice rouses Aldous who immediately springs up, half terrified, half murderous, making a gummy snap for my mitt.
‘I’m out!’ I say, raising my hands to safety.
Elliot grapples with the dog for a good few minutes after that, trying to check his eyes while Aldous windmills his head around and around in the most exasperating way. Well, Elliot’s exasperated, I can’t help laughing. When he spreads one of Aldous’s paws out across his palm to check the state of his claws, the poor terrier yelps and screeches like he’s under attack, but Elliot persists, calm and steady. ‘I really need to feel his abdomen, Jude. Can you hold him?’
‘Uh, not really.’
The intent look on Elliot’s face makes me a bit ashamed. Here he is, trying to help a scruffy, neglected creature and I’ve contributed precisely nothing to the process.
Elliot lifts Aldous close to his chest, getting him in a kind of doggy headlock so he can’t possibly bite anyone. ‘Go on, I’ve got him, you feel his stomach,’ he says.
‘Must I?’
‘Quickly, he’s so distressed, his little heart’s pounding against my arm. He’s not used to being held by humans anymore.’
‘Oh… OK.’ I edge forward. ‘What am I feeling for?’
‘Any lumps or bumps.’
Even Elliot laughs at my grimace as I push through the dog’s fur, but the mirth is wiped clean away when he sees me react to the tangled knot of lumps pushing at the little guy’s belly.
‘Oh no!’ I murmur, checking again to be sure.
‘What can you feel?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s definitely not normal.’
The grave look on Elliot’s face tells me my chances of paddling in the wild Atlantic this afternoon are getting slimmer by the second.
