‘Ah, give her a break. She must be going through hell. And she’s kind of right.’ Regan didn’t want to admit it, but she was moving on. She felt awful, but life did go on and with each day it seemed less and less likely they were going to find the hit and run driver. She felt guilty that it was no longer her number one priority, but it was the truth.
She had the business, she had Elvis and she had a multitude of other stuff going on which had all pushedpoor Kevin down the list. She felt shitty about it. Kevin was her friend and maybe there was more she could do. She crouched down to stroke Elvis but he was busy rolling on the sheepskin so she left him to it. ‘Can you hold the fort, Malcolm? I’m going to do some more door knocking.’
All the businesses she approached were really keen to catch the driver but unfortunately most of them had their CCTV trained on their property. She’d walked right down to Valley Gardens looking for stores with cameras on. Two shops and a pub did have working cameras that caught a glimpse of the road and they all pledged to check the films for the night of the accident and get back to her. It wasn’t much but at least she could go back to Bernice with a clear conscience and show that she hadn’t given up on Kevin – someone who was important to her too.
She walked back up London Road because, where she could, she avoided Ditchling Road. It was odd, but she could picture Kevin and Elvis lying there and it freaked her out, so it was best to avoid going that way. She racked her brains for what else she could do to help. Perhaps they could get a still image of the car from the nursery and put that on a poster. It may be enough to trigger someone’s memory or better still flush out the driver if they had any shred of conscience at all.
Back at the stall the slow old lady was perusing the jars. ‘Still no damson?’
‘No, but you can try the others if you’d like?’ said Regan, slipping back behind the stall.
‘You get some toast and I will do, love,’ said the old woman with a cackle.
It was Regan’s turn to cook, and she was trying her best. She’d gone for bought pasta and sauce, but she had chopped her own basil to go on top and grated the cheese. Unfortunately, she had also managed to grate one of her knuckles, but she doubted any had actually gone in with the cheese.
‘Emergency, emergency,’ said Charlie as he came through the door, although his jovial voice didn’t match his words.
‘What’s up?’
‘Mrs Tiggy-Winkle called me. She’s having a bit of a crisis and she needs our help.’
‘But I made dinner.’ Regan pouted. She gave her sore knuckle a suck.
‘It’s okay. I said we’d be over in about an hour. So I’ll have a quick shower, we’ll eat, and then we can go. If that’s all right with you?’
She didn’t catch what he said at the end because he’d pulled his shirt off whilst he was talking and she’d been transfixed. It wasn’t the most ripped body she’d ever seen – he wasn’t all carved abs and baby oil – but he was lightly toned, with nice muscle definition on his arms and a neat trail of hair running down his taut middle and disappearing into his trousers.
‘Hellooo,’ said Charlie, waving a hand in front of Regan’s eyes. She blinked rapidly. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. I mean Charlie. Shower, food and hedgehogs. Got it.’ She smiled, spun around and promptly walked into the doorframe.
Dinner had been a success and Charlie had ladled on oodles of praise, which Regan lapped up. They decided to risk leaving Elvis on his own for an hour. He’d managedto doze at Regan’s feet for most of the day and he was in a good routine with his toileting, so it felt like it was time to give it a go. They chatted in the car, mainly about Elvis, like parents having their first taste of freedom after the birth of a new baby.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle appeared at the door cradling what looked like a woolly hat. ‘Thank you both so much for coming to my rescue. Now, I’ve got them all ready for you and I’ve got an instruction sheet I made a few years ago when we had a similar crisis.’
Regan was peering into the woolly hat. A tiny, pale hoglet was wriggling about in the middle. ‘Oh, wow. He’s so tiny.’
‘He’s a newborn. Yours are slightly bigger, but still need to be fed every two hours.’
Regan looked from Mrs Tiggy-Winkle to Charlie, and then at the hoglet. ‘Our what?’
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle stepped aside. ‘Sorry, didn’t I explain?’ Charlie and Regan shook their heads in perfect synchronised confusion. ‘We’ve been overrun with orphaned hoglets.’ Regan couldn’t suppress the ‘aww’ sound that escaped. ‘My daughter has some, my neighbour has two and volunteers have the rest, but I had more come in this afternoon and I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope. You see, if they aren’t kept warm and fed every two hours they’ll die.’ She stepped back to reveal a hessian bag and a wooden crate on the floor with a small fleece blanket inside. ‘There’s syringes and Esbilac formula in the bag, along with fresh bedding and a tepid hot water bottle. The instruction sheet I mentioned is in there too. Next feed will be nine o’clock.’ She turned back to the bemused pair. ‘Any questions?’
‘Um, when do you want them back?’ asked Charlie.
‘I’d like you to keep them for as long as you can.’
They looked at each other. ‘I’m busy the next couple of days but then I’m off for four,’ said Charlie.
‘Terrific,’ said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle brightly. ‘Call me if you have any problems. But I’m sure you’ll be fine. Good luck!’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Charlie had fussed about making sure the hoglets were safe in the crate in the passenger footwell and Regan noted her own subdued, extra-careful driving on the way home. When they got back to Charlie’s, Regan went in first to calm Elvis before they brought in the new arrivals. The house was surprisingly and thankfully all intact and he greeted her with much excitement, celebrating her arrival home with a quickie with his sheepskin. While he was occupied, Charlie brought in the hoglets and their paraphernalia.
He put them down on the table in the living room, and they both sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at the crate. A tiny nose was poking out. It twitched.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Regan.
