The Pets at Primrose Cottage

by Sheila Norton

  When I picked up his collar and lead from the floor, I caught sight of his identity disc.

  P – O – N … I read, frowning at the name engraved on it. Oh dear. He wasn’t even called Bingo. No wonder he’d ignored me when I called him.

  ‘Pongo?’ I tried, quietly – and he came trotting over to me, wagging his tail like a good doggy.

  Note to self: next time, write down the name of the pet as soon as you’ve been told it.

  I gave Pongo another quick walk before I left him to go home for my dinner. Pat had suggested that this would make sure he’d had enough exercise and should then rest quietly on his own for the evening and through the night. We stayed on the road, though, for the second walk – a brisk march up to along Fore Street up to Town Square and back again. I didn’t see the point of going through the whole mud-shower-clean-up process twice in one day. I slowed down slightly past Bilberry Cottage, of course – I just couldn’t stop staring at it – but as nothing ever seemed to look any different there, I just sighed and went on my way.

  Lauren was looking worried when I arrived home.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked her, my heart missing a beat at the thought that someone had told her about my lies. The rest of them, that is – the ones I hadn’t already told her myself.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, giving me a half-smile. Then she shook her head. ‘Well, not really. I’m a bit concerned about something I’ve just heard.’

  Oh no, I thought. Here we go. She’s going to ask me why I’ve been lying about Holly being my daughter. Or about my house burning down, and my parents’ commitment to aged relatives and refugee children.

  ‘What?’ I asked shakily. She wouldn’t throw me out of her house, would she, just for making up stupid stories? Not unless I couldn’t pay my rent?

  ‘Well, it seems there’s been another break-in in town.’

  ‘Another one?’ I said, frowning. This was the first I’d heard about it.

  ‘Yes. Sorry, you wouldn’t know, but there’s been a lot about it in the local paper. It’s been going on since Christmas. They think it might be the same person – or people – responsible for all the break-ins. They seem to follow the same pattern. An empty house, no lights on, a back window forced—’

  ‘And does much get stolen?’

  ‘So far, mainly jewellery and cash, so the police think the burglar is on foot and gets in and out of the house as fast as he can. That’s how he gets away with it. But it’s a horrible shock for the people to come home to find their house ransacked – drawers pulled out, things thrown around, and sometimes expensive jewellery stolen, or things that have sentimental value.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’ I had a sudden flashback to seeing that man outside in the dusk the other day. ‘Where was this latest break-in?’ I asked her, holding my breath.

  ‘Over the other side of the river.’

  I let the breath go. Nothing whatsoever to do with the stranger in the street. I really mustn’t let my overactive imagination run away with me.

  ‘The poor old dear who lived in the house was in hospital at the time,’ Lauren continued. ‘Can you imagine coming home to that, after having an operation? Poor old thing.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I agreed. ‘Well, I hope the police catch him soon.’

  ‘Yes, and we all need to be careful. Make sure you lock all the doors properly when you go out, won’t you, Emma.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dinner was ready then, and everyone was talking about other things – their days at work, what their pupils were doing, Holly’s birthday and how many children she’d invite to her party – and the subject of the break-ins was dropped. And it says a lot about my selfish concerns with my own situation that I didn’t even give it another thought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The neighbour in the purple hat pounced on me again at Pat’s bungalow the next day, before I’d even got the key in the door.

  ‘He’s been at it again,’ she said. ‘Bloody barking and howling all night. Bloody nuisance, that’s what he is. Doesn’t like being on his own, if you ask me. Didn’t Pat ask you to stay with him at night?’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ I said. ‘She said he’d be OK as long as I gave him two good walks during the day. And I did,’ I added defensively. ‘I don’t know why he’d be barking at night.’

  ‘Well, I’m warning you, I’m going to call the police about Noise Nuisance if you can’t put a bloody stop to it,’ she said with a satisfied nod, and with that she turned and went back inside her own house, banging the door after her.

  Great. Not the start to the day I’d been hoping for. But as I let myself in, I could already hear Pongo howling loudly, and I suspected the angry neighbour was probably right – if he wasn’t used to being left in the house on his own at night, it was obviously upsetting him. Poor Pongo, I thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for his sensitive doggy soul. I wondered whether I could leave some lights on when I left that night, and maybe a radio playing. It was gratifying, at least, that he stopped his noise as soon as he saw me, and bounded straight up to me, lying at my feet as if he was asking for a hug.

  ‘All right, boy,’ I said softly, crouching down to stroke him. ‘I’m here now. You’re all right.’

  I went through the same procedure as the day before, letting him out in the garden and calling him back in when once again he was cornered by the big scary tabby cat that had to be shooed away. It seemed like the cat made a point of waiting for him in the middle of the path, just to upset him. But at least Pongo did come back in when I called him, now I’d got his name right.

  I played with him for a while with his toys, thinking about the long night he’d endured on his own, crying for company. I could understand the neighbours being annoyed, to be honest, if he’d been howling and barking non-stop, but I decided it really wasn’t fair for poor, timid Pongo to be left alone. I grabbed his lead, and he ran around me, barking with excitement now, and despite the noise and my anxiety about the police, I had to laugh. He was getting used to me. Perhaps he even liked me. Perhaps I was becoming an animal-whisperer, one of those people animals instinctively trust. Well, I seemed to make a mess of my relationships with people so perhaps I’d concentrate on dogs and cats from now on.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s go up Castle Hill today,’ I said, fastening Pongo’s lead.

  The walk went much better than the previous day, now he was recognising my commands. He actually was a very obedient dog, if he was called by his right name, and perhaps if I worked on imitating a bit of a Devon accent he’d feel even happier. I felt more confident, and more in control, and yes, definitely like a proper dog person. To my relief there was no sign of the guy who’d reminded me of Shane this time. At least, I told myself I was relieved, but a little voice in my head asked why, if I so much wanted to avoid seeing him again, I hadn’t chosen a different walk.

  If I had seen him, he’d certainly have been impressed with my fitness regime, anyway. Pongo and I not only walked up Castle Hill, we walked twice round the castle too before coming back down. I felt fit and strong and pleased with myself. I was so thirsty after my exertion I even contemplated going into Ye Olde Crickle Tea Shoppe on the way home, but I wasn’t sure whether Annie allowed dogs in, and the thought of falling down ye olde steppes and having Pongo tumbling down on top of me decided me against it.

  When we arrived back in Moor View Lane, I lingered, as usual, outside my favourite cottage for a while, but Pongo was pulling me on, so I’d actually crossed the road and was almost back at Pat’s house before I heard a car pull up behind me. I turned round, and saw in surprise that it had parked right outside Bilberry Cottage. Slowing down again, pulling Pongo back in towards me, I watched as a young man got out of the car and started taking photos. Not just snaps on a phone, but proper, careful photographs with what looked like a real camera. Intrigued, I stopped a little way round the bend, behind a hedge, and peeked back down the lane. Yes, he was definitely taking pictures o
f Bilberry Cottage. He crossed the road, took another picture from further away, crossed back, and then suddenly turned and aimed his camera down the lane – lowering it just as quickly when he caught sight of me peering around the hedge, watching him. I jumped back out of sight, my pulse racing again. It was him! The guy from Castle Hill who’d reminded me of Shane. I felt my face flaring hot with embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking of, watching someone taking photos? Wasn’t that exactly what I’d come here to hide from? What was wrong with me?

  Pongo was pulling on his lead again, and I hurried the rest of the way along the lane back to his home. Calm down, Emma, I told myself, as I let myself back into the bungalow. From what I’d seen, it was fairly obvious that this guy must be an estate agent. I was pretty sure I’d been right – Bilberry Cottage was being put on the market. Not that it made any difference to me, of course. Unless I got a proper job instead of hanging around with people’s pets every day, I’d be lodging with the Atkinsons for the rest of my life. But he’d seen me watching him. Would he have recognised me from our meeting on Castle Hill? Perhaps not, as I had a different dog with me now. I sighed. Short of going out in public wearing a mask, as well as dyed hair and a woolly hat, I didn’t know how else I could escape people’s attention.

  I went home for dinner again that evening, as I’d done the previous day, but told Lauren I had to go back to ‘work’ to do a night shift. It was no good, I couldn’t risk leaving Pongo on his own all night again, keeping the neighbours awake. The last thing I wanted was that woman calling the police, and anyway, I felt sorry for Pongo. I’d have to sleep on Pat’s sofa.

  ‘A night shift, after you’ve worked all day?’ Lauren said, looking worried.

  ‘Yes. It’s just … kind of an emergency. Lots of staff are off sick. I’ll be doing it for the rest of this week and next week.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound good, Emma. You’ll be exhausted.’

  ‘I’ve got the mornings off, though,’ I lied. What was one more little lie added to the rest? Lauren and Holly were always out all morning, so they’d never know I wasn’t coming home. On the other hand, if I did want to come back briefly to shower and change and have breakfast, she’d never know that either. I could even bring Pongo with me. That way he’d spend even less time on his own.

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Make sure you go to bed and sleep for the whole of the morning, then.’

  She still looked worried, and I felt guiltier than ever now. Why didn’t I just tell her I was actually pet sitting, not working in a care home? I could pretend it had all just been a misunderstanding, or that the care home job hadn’t worked out. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Actually, Lauren—’ I began, but at that moment Holly started crying upstairs about some toy she’d broken, Lauren went off to sort her out, and the moment was lost.

  Fortunately, spending time with Pongo was helping to take my mind off my worries. I was beginning to appreciate now what an intelligent and affectionate dog he was. He watched me, tail wagging, as I moved around his house, his eyes bright with curiosity, his expression alert and attentive. Already he seemed to have accepted me as his substitute human, and every time he came trotting back to me obediently when I called him, I felt a rush of pleasure and pride. As well as our two walks every day, I made a point of playing with him in the garden as often as possible now that the remainder of the snow had melted. He’d fetch a ball over and over again, never tiring of the game. To my surprise, I found that now he was responding to my commands (and I was using his correct name), if he got overexcited and started barking during our games I only had to say ‘Quiet, Pongo!’ and he’d stop. Another victory to me. And another good reason to stay with him overnight.

  The night times were no problem at all. I found a spare duvet and pillow in Pat’s airing cupboard and snuggled down on her comfy sofa in the lounge. The first night, Pongo whined for a little while out in his bed in the kitchen, and eventually gave a couple of frightened yelps. I opened the door to the room, and softly called out, ‘Quiet, Pongo!’, and he looked up at me in surprise, obviously having assumed I’d gone home and left him alone again. He got up and trotted out to join me, tail wagging, and after a moment’s hesitation I gave in and brought his bed into the lounge, next to my sofa. We both slept peacefully for the rest of the night and I wondered if I should ask Pat, when she came back from holiday, whether she’d considered having him sleep next to her bed, to save the neighbours’ complaints.

  When we woke up in the mornings, I’d feed Pongo and then take him for his first walk of the day – back to Primrose Cottage, making sure I arrived after the Atkinsons had all left. Fortunately Romeo and Juliet made a dive for it out of the cat-flap as soon as they heard the snuffly sounds of a dog entering their home, so I didn’t have a fight on my hands. I couldn’t believe how well behaved he was now, while I showered, changed and had a quick breakfast – then we were on our way again, completing our walk with a march up Castle Hill or along the river.

  By the second week, I felt completely at home in the bungalow in Moor View Lane with Pongo. I’d even made up a little fantasy for myself that this was actually my own home, and Pongo was my own dog. I got so carried away with it in my head, I sometimes almost believed it, and managed to forget Pat would be back soon to reclaim her life. In my fantasy, my imaginary husband (who unfortunately always looked a bit like Shane – why couldn’t I get his image out of my mind yet?) was at work but would be thinking about me, of course, and would be desperate to get home to me at the end of the day. It must be so nice to have someone desperate to see you, I thought, wistfully. It had been years since Shane had made any pretence of still feeling like that about me.

  Even my parents and my sister seemed to have shaken me off without much regret. I’d sent emails to them every now and then since I’d been in Crickleford, but had only had a few brief responses. Occasionally when I was in a part of town where there was a decent phone signal, my mobile would suddenly come to life announcing a text message from my sister. Usually just a dutiful ‘Hi, how are you?’ But I got the distinct feeling that they were all as relieved now that I was hidden away in Devon, as they were when I was out of sight, out of mind, in America.

  ‘That’s what comes of being the black sheep of the family’, I told Pongo, stroking his ears as he gazed at me adoringly.

  Who needed humans anyway, I thought. It seemed to me that animals were far more loyal.

  That night, I was in the middle of another dream about the California beach house, when I woke up to the sound of Pongo, beside me, growling deep in his throat. I sat up on the sofa, disoriented for a moment.

  ‘Quiet, Pongo!’ I muttered, reaching out to stroke his head. I thought he must have been dreaming too – perhaps having a nightmare about that big tabby cat – but to my surprise, I quickly realised he was not only awake but sitting upright, his head down, his ears flat against his head.

  ‘What’s up, boy?’ I said, reaching out to turn on the lamp – but suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen, a thud followed by … surely that wasn’t footsteps? And Pongo was up in a flash, throwing himself against the closed door of the lounge, head back, barking fit to bust. Still half befuddled by sleep, all I could think was that for some reason, Pat had come home early, and that I had to stop Pongo barking before Purple Hat next door called the police. I jumped up, ran to open the lounge door, and Pongo flew out ahead of me towards the kitchen, still barking furiously. I ran after him, calling out as I ran. ‘Quiet, Pongo! For God’s sake, what’s the matter?’

  And then I saw. The kitchen window hanging open. The young man, white-faced in the light from his own torch, which was lying where he’d apparently dropped it on the floor. He was shaking with fear as Pongo, up on his back legs, held him against the wall, growling fiercely and threateningly.

  ‘Get ’im off me!’ he yelled. ‘He’s gonna kill me! Get ’im off me, I don’t like dogs!’

  And then we blin
ked at each other in surprise. It was young Josh from the library.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The police arrived quickly, which was just as well for Josh, as I had no intention of calling Pongo away from him until they were there. I took pity slightly – but only slightly – when I saw that Josh had wet himself in fright.

  ‘I’m scared of dogs,’ he said, actually starting to cry.

  ‘You shouldn’t break into people’s houses, then,’ I said, then added quietly to Pongo: ‘OK, leave him alone. Sit. Stay,’ – and, giving me a look of disappointment, Pongo obediently sat – on the boy’s feet. I was very impressed by this, but I didn’t think Josh would have tried to run away at this stage anyway.

  In fact I was very impressed by everything about Pongo’s reaction. As we waited for the police, I patted his head to reassure him, but there was no trace now of the cowering scaredy-dog I’d come to love and pity. How amazing, I thought to myself wonderingly, that his cowardice had completely vanished in the face of an actual threat.

  ‘Good boy, clever boy,’ I repeated to him gently as he continued to rumble with angry growls at the terrified Josh. To Josh himself, I said nothing. I just wanted him to be scared of Pongo for as long as it took for the police to arrive. It served him right.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’ one of the police officers asked me in concern as soon as they’d got hold of Josh and handcuffed him. ‘I expect you’re a bit shaken up.’

  ‘No, I’m just cross,’ I said, shaking my head at Josh. ‘You’re just a kid! What’s wrong with you? Breaking into people’s homes, causing all this trouble and upset to people?’