“But it’s the big skies that really make it magical,” says Sally. “They’re peaceful and exhilarating at the same time. Feels like you’re in an art installation or something. I get such a kick out of just being in that landscape, even in a car. I keep the windows open—in winter too. The air feels fresher when the sky’s bigger. Have you ever noticed that?”
“Mum’s literally the only person on the planet who works in order to commute rather than the other way round,” Toby tells Corinne.
“Well, and we need the money,” Sally says.
“Can I ask you something else?” says Corinne. “Sorry if it’s upsetting, but…how did your first dog die? He’s become a bit of a legend in the village, you know.”
“Furbert?” Sally is surprised. Most people who don’t have pets aren’t especially interested in other people’s. “He ate a peach stone that pierced his lower intestine. They operated on him and got it out, but the wound had become infected. Sepsis. That’s what killed him.”
“So it wasn’t parvo, then?” Corinne says in a peculiar tone of voice. “He didn’t die of parvo because you hadn’t given him his vaccines? Is parvo even a real thing?”
“Yeah, it’s real, but it’s not what killed Furbert,” says Sally. “He was tested for it and the result came back negative. What killed him was some selfish, oblivious git who dropped a peach stone.”
Sally doesn’t want to hear the answer but knows she’s going to ask anyway. “Where did you get the parvo story from?” The worst, stupidest thing she has ever done is tell the whole miserable tale to Lesley Gavey, of all people—and, as if that weren’t bad enough, she’d then gone on to blab about the stress of Furbert occasionally nipping at people. Would Lesley have had the idea of framing Champ for a bite he didn’t commit (it must have been her idea, not Tess’s) if Sally had kept her mouth shut on the topic of Furbert? Now, clearly, Lesley had told Corinne a false version of the story of his death—a version that portrays Sally as a negligent, uncaring mother.
“I heard it from Vinie Skinner, who got it from Lesley Gavey,” says Corinne. “I didn’t believe it, though. It’s obvious how much you love your dogs. There’s no way you’d neglect their health stuff.”
“I did,” Sally blurts out. “I ignored the reminder from the vet about Furbert’s annual vaccine—for more than two weeks. I should have rung straight away and made him an appointment for his booster jabs, but he’d always been so strong and healthy. I was totally going to sort it out, as soon as I had a spare minute.”
“Sal, do we really have to—?” Mark starts to say.
“I just kept putting it off, though. There never seemed to be enough hours in any day, or any week.” Sally speeds up, wantingto get it all out before anyone can stop her. “And then when Furbs suddenly got ill and the vet said the symptoms sounded like parvo and asked if he was vaccinated, I was sure they were right and ready to hate myself forever. What could be more important than making sure he was protected? What the hell was wrong with me, thinking it could wait?”
“But it wasn’t parvo.” Mark inserts the line into the conversation as if he’s had it prepared and waiting in the wings for some time. “The test came back negative and it turned out to be a peach stone. So it wasn’t Sally’s fault.”
She waits for him to deliver his next few lines:It was no one’s fault. Just one of those things. No one can stop a dog from sometimes eating something dodgy, no matter how hard they try.
If Sally ever gets her hands on the person who dropped that peach stone… She and Mark agree that it’s more likely to have been a visitor to Swaffham Tilney than a resident. Almost no one who lives in the village is the litter-dropping sort; even the children wouldn’t dare, for fear of being seen by an adult who might use what they’d witnessed to blacken the reputation of the child in question’s parents.
Mark had forbidden Sally from going house to house asking all the neighbors if they’d had any guests recently who might have taken a piece of fruit outside.
Corinne turns her music back on without making any further comment about Furbert or his death, and soon Mark, Ree, and Tobes are asleep. Sally closes her eyes but can’t seem to drift off; it feels as if her eyelids are clutching each other.
No one speaks again until they pull up outside what looks likea gigantic dolls’ house: a wide, looming Georgian mansion with a huge door at its center and five enormous windows in a row on either side of it. Three stories at least—and there are probably rooms in the attic too. “Don’t tell me this is your house,” Sally says to Corinne. “It’s, like, three times the size of your main one.”
“Main what? Oh—no, I don’t have a main home. I’m very clear on that. They’re all equal. Of equal importance to me. In fact, the one in Swaffham Tilney…” Mischief has crept into Corinne’s voice. “Want to know why I called it Ismys House?”
She pronounces it “Is-mice.” Sally’s been saying it wrong, calling it “Is-Miss.” It’s probably a family name, a mother’s or grandmother’s maiden name, she guesses.
“I’m sure you can keep a secret,” says Corinne. “Actually, it isn’t a secret now that Ronan and I are divorced. Tell whoever you like! ‘Ismys’ is an abbreviation.”
“Of what?”
“I wanted to call it This Is My Smallest House—because it is! That would have been hilarious. Ronan wouldn’t let me, though, so we compromised. ‘Ismys’ is the middle section of ‘This Is My Smallest.’”
“So is this one your biggest?” Sally nods at the mansion up ahead. “I assumed we were going to a tiny, white-painted stone cottage.”
“My place in Devon has about the same square footage, I think,” says Corinne. “Anyway, here we are.” She claps her hands together and yells suddenly, “Wake up, Lamberts! Let’s get you inside.”
Champ makes a sort of yodeling noise from the boot: an extended yawn that might be a “Hey, don’t forget I’m here too” or perhaps a tired, doggy version of “Yay!”
“We’re here, Champy,” Sally calls out to him over the groans and stretches of her waking husband and children, opening her door at the same time. “We’ve made it. Safe at last,” she whispers to herself, just in case saying it into the silence of the night can help to make it true.
16
The second time Mum encountered Lesley Gavey was just over a month after the first sighting. Shukes was on the market by then and Mum had put herself in charge of showing him off to prospective buyers, determined only to sell him to someone who would love him “as much as we do and always will.”
(I’m assuming you’ve noticed that the Hayloft, our new house, was not given a nickname by Mum. At no point did the Hayloft get “himmed.”)
