‘Really?’ She gives the impression that she’s nothing less than immensely capable.
‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll tell you something, Kate.’ She drains her cup. ‘I didn’t have the dogs until three months ago. I wasn’t even a dog person really. They belonged to my best friend, Ruthie. She passed away and there was no one else to take them in—’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I exclaim.
‘We knew it was coming,’ she says, waving a hand, as if not wanting to dwell on it. ‘And we had some lovely times towards the end. It happened a year ago, just after Mum passed.’
I let the information settle. ‘So the house has been empty—’
‘For all that time, yes.’ A shrug and a resigned smile. ‘I must admit, Kate, I haven’t been very good at sorting things out. I’ve sort of been hoping it’ll all magically disappear. It’ssomuch to cope with by oneself...’ Shockingly, her eyes fill with tears.
‘Oh, Alice. I’m so sorry...’ Without thinking, I reach across the table to touch her hand.
‘It’s fine, really,’ she says. Then, in a brisker tone, she runs through what we’ll be doing at the house: ‘...So it’sgreatthat you have all that museum experience because we’ll be sorting through my parents’ furniture and knick-knacks, keeping track of it all...’
‘Yes, great!’ I enthuse.
‘I do remember your CV mentioned that you’re an avid gardener?’
It’s like a punch to my gut. Edie bought me some kind of lacy-leaved houseplant once. I’d murdered it within two weeks.
‘Erm, yes,’ I say, sweating now.
‘And didn’t it mention that you’ve overseen garden landscaping before?’
‘I can do that, definitely.’ Should I jump the train at the next station? Theonlygood thing about our home in Shugbury is that the garden is a plain old rectangle of grass, with a few hardy shrubs that haven’t seemed to need any tending. The testicle water feature looked after itself.
‘Well, there’s lots to do there too.’ Alice extracts a packet of dog treats from her bag and offers Penny and Martha one each.
‘No problem!’ I try not to appear rigid with panic.
‘Oh, I don’t mean tackling the whole thing yourself,’ she clarifies. ‘It’s far too big a job. No, we’ll be calling in a team, and I’d love you to manage that side of things...’
I gulp my G&T. ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’
‘I know it’s a lot to take on,’ Alice adds. ‘Far more than a normal companion’s role. But I went through it all with the nice girl at the agency and she was sure you’d be more than capable.’ She beams now, looking delighted at the prospect of us working together. ‘Oh, I’m so happy it’s you, Kate. It’s like fate really. You’reexactlythe person I need.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In Glasgow we change trains – and stations – for which the dogs are clearly grateful. As they attend to the necessaries along the short walk, I catch myself wondering if Vince has been looking after Jarvis properly. Has he been measuring out his raw food or dolloping it haphazardly into his bowl? Has he taken him for proper walks or just released him into the garden?
Jarvis is not your responsibility!I remind myself as we find our seats for the second leg of the journey. And what a journey it is as we leave the city behind: first a patchwork of fields stitched together with spindly fences; then undulating hills swathed in dense forest, and a flat green plain sliced through with the silvery curve of a river.
Three times, Mum had brought George and me on this very journey from our Glasgow home. I picture us now, tumbling off the train as we arrived at the pretty little Perthshire town, the three of us thrilled at the prospect of a fortnight’s camping – without Dad. No shouting, and no fear. I was just a kid for most of those holidays. Then there was that last time, when we’d moved to London and George had begged and begged to go back to that Perthshire campsite one more time.
I was fifteen by then and hadn’t even wanted to come. But, as it turned out, that time was the most special...
I’ve gathered that today, we are heading for that very same station. I’ve told Alice I’ve been there before; no reason not to, I reasoned. And now, as we step off the train, I’m glad I don’t have to pretend – because the pastel blue clapperboard station building is still there, just as I remember. ‘That used to be a bookshop,’ I announce.
‘The Railway Bookshop? That’s right!’ The smile lights up her face. ‘It was the only bookshop in town and I was never out of it. It’s long gone, sadly.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I say, vividly remembering the first time we’d arrived here when I was seven years old. We lugged a borrowed tent and sleeping bags on foot, all the way to the campsite way out in the hills – with George in his buggy. This time it’s a taxi, as apparently the house is a little way out of town.
‘It’s been a while now since Bea passed,’ the driver remarks. ‘Place has been all shut up for a year or so, hasn’t it?’ We’d no sooner climbed in than this genial middle-aged man had wanted to know why we were heading there.
‘It has,’ Alice says. ‘We’re here to clear the place out, finally.’
‘It’s so hard when your parents pass,’ he observes kindly. ‘You can only do these things when you’re ready. So, what’s going to happen to the place?’
