Arthur, after politely attending to his ablutions at the top of the garden by the compost heap, walked back towards me, sitting expectantly at my feet as if to sayWhat now?What now indeed? What did one do with a dog when one had to go off to work? Dean had promised me he’d take Arthur to work with him every day, that there were enough people in the garage’s busy office to walk and entertain him. And yet here we were, a couple of days into the working week, and the dog had already been left behind. I was just going to have to walk him and then take him up to Hudson House with me once my shift started that afternoon. One of my last shifts. I sighed heavily at the thought and Arthur looked up, cocking his head at me in surprise.
Sorrel would be gone as well very soon. Heading off to the new school in London. If all went well and she found the success she so deserved, I really couldn’t see my little sister ever returning permanently back to Beddingfield to live. But, most of all, I felt utterly lost now that Mum wasn’t next door as she had been all my married life. All my life in actuality. There to help with Lola, always there to keep my garden – for which I had little interest – tended and in bloom. I’d only to pop my head out of the kitchen door, especially at this time of the year, to see Mum doing something gardenerish in one or other of our adjoining plots.
I reached for the bread bin, slicing and popping two thick slices of a new home-made loaf into the toaster. Ten thirty. Almost time for elevenses.
‘Late breakfast?’ Dean was at my side at the kitchen table as, lost in thought, I spread a great dollop of lemon curd onto one toasted and heavily buttered slice and peanut butter on to the other. ‘Or an early lunch?’
Scarlet-faced, I jumped. ‘Jesus, Dean, do you always creep around like this?’
‘I’m not creeping,’ Dean said mildly. ‘I forgot to put my clubs in the boot. Playing a round this evening.’ (A round or around?) He paused, glancing meaningfully at my loaded plate. ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm to get some exercise, Jessie.’ He patted his own taut stomach through his blue mechanic’s overalls.
‘Thank you,’ I snapped. ‘I do know and I don’t need you to remind me of the fact.’ I stood up swiftly, not looking at Dean, and, slamming the foot of the kitchen bin into submission, threw what remained of my second breakfast into the bin’s gaping maw. Then, ignoring Dean, whose concentration was already gone from myself and back to his phone, I reached for my car keys and set off.
* * *
‘Erm, should we be allowing dogs into a care home?’ Bex, who, it was pretty obvious, was hoping to be promoted to manager of Hudson House once I’d relinquished the post (ifI relinquished it) was in a combative mood, eyeballing Arthur as though he were the devil himself.
‘Of course,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m sure, Bex, you’ve downloaded and read up current thinking and policymaking re a care home having a resident pet?’ I paused. ‘The Rover Report, I believe?’
‘Rover Report?’ Bex frowned. ‘Well, yes, of course I have… I mean, we have the fish tank – the fish have been resident for years. I suppose a dog is the next step?’
‘Absolutely. Now, if you don’t mind, Bex, would you take your bag, coat and laptop from my office and then, once I’ve done a bit of admin, I’ll take Arthur round to introduce him to the residents.’
‘Jess, darling!’ Ninety-year-old Clarissa clutched my arm firmly as I made for my office, Arthur shadowing my every step. Maybe Arthur thought he was going to be left at yet another house full of strangers, and I bent to pat him, still unsure how to talk to a dog. How to reassure him. ‘Oh, you’ve brought Monty?’ Clarissa went on, looking down and stopping suddenly as she realised Arthur was in tow. ‘Where was he? I’ve been looking for him all morning. Up to no good with that harlot next door again, was he?’
‘Sorry?’ I stared, a restraining hand on Arthur’s collar.
‘He will sneak out and try to get his leg over whenever he can with Fi Fi at number six. Typical of the French, putting it about whenever they can. They were always up to no good with the Germans, you know,’ she whispered conspiratorially. Clarissa reached for Arthur’s collar, frowning. ‘Where’ve you been to get so black? Never mind, we’ll give you a good bath later. Come on, you naughty dog, home with Mummy now.’
Arthur stood his ground, wagging his tail politely at the older woman but not taking his eyes from me.
Wanting to laugh, and storing up the little anecdote to relay to Robyn at a later stage, I headed once more for my office.
8
ROBYN
‘OK, listen up.’ Robyn jumped to her feet, moving to and seating herself on the makeshift stage at the far end of St Mede’s drama studio, and the twenty or so kids followed her over. ‘So, as I mentioned previously, the plan to move the performances ofGreaseto July has been agreed by all the staff.’
‘All?’ Isla Boothroyd shot a derogatoryhuuufffin Robyn’s direction. ‘Don’t think so, Miss. Mr Vaughn was having a right strop about it in maths. Trying to make out it was our fault you were wanting to shift it all. And to when, Miss?’ Isla was in a combative mood. ‘When’s it going to be now? My dad wants to know.’
‘Instead of the end ofthisterm we’re going to move it to the end of the summer term.’
‘But we’ll have left school, Miss. We go off at Easter, didn’t you know?’ Isla pouted. ‘I’m not coming back to this dump once I’ve left.’
‘We talked about this, Isla. There’s just you, Lucy, Daisy, Sam and Noah from Year 11. Everyone else is from lower down the school.’
‘Oh, so you’re going to replace us all then?’
‘No, absolutely not.’ Robyn put out a conciliatory hand to Isla. ‘I can’t do without you as Betty Rizzo, Isla, or any of you Year 11 kids, you know that. We’re almost ready to go with the performance.’
‘So why aren’t we then? Why aren’t we sticking to the original plan?’
‘Because we’re nottotallyready,’ Robyn soothed. ‘We want perfection, don’t we? Want to be at our very best, and Mr Donoghue agrees with me that we don’t want anything interfering with revision and your exam timetable. You three are all doing at least one practical subject where the exam is actually in April. I’ve checked and the dates we had in mind for the performances actually clash with your practical exams. The last thing we want is to put this pressure on you, and I don’t think your parents would be too happy once they realise this.’
‘Don’t think my dad will give a flying wotsit,’ Daisy said crossly. ‘He’s gone again, Miss.’
‘Gone where, Daisy?’
