The Dog Share

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘But this new branding,’ he cuts in, ‘with the little bird. Was that your idea?’ He has swept-over grey hair with distinctive grooves in it, as if it’s been combed with a fork, and has a way of addressing me as if I am ten years old. I can handle being patronised right now – at least he doesn’t call me a fucking idiot – and I’m buoyed up enough to explain, ‘It wasn’t actually, but rather than focusing on the mistakes that have been made, I’m keen to start with a clear slate and look to the future.’ Meaningless management speak, perhaps; the kind beloved of a former boss at the recruitment consultancy where I worked, joylessly, for several years. But I actually mean it.

  He clears his throat. ‘Well, I have to say, it’s good to deal with someone who’s actually communicating with us …’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ I say. ‘You can call me absolutely anytime.’

  ‘That’s helpful to hear,’ he says gruffly as we finish the call.

  During the past few years I’d started to notice Paul’s head-in-the-sand approach to the more challenging aspects of life. At first I’d viewed this as a positive trait; I’d even enthused to friends about how ‘free-spirited’ he was. In contrast, Belinda once admitted that she’d been attracted to Derek because he’d seemed ‘solid and dependable’. Whilst they were precisely the qualities I looked for in a washing machine, they’re not what I look for in a man, and I was thrilled to meet someone for whom life was basically about having fun. Paul lightened me up and reminded me that life wasn’t all about persuading the kids to eat peas and dealing with an endless torrent of household admin. He was like a breath of fresh air to me.

  We’d caught each other’s eye at a mutual friend’s party. The music had been pretty much limited to ‘ironic’ Nineties boy bands, and Paul spun me a yarn about having been in a boy band himself. He certainly had the looks, I decided; but of course he’d been winding me up, and by the time we’d agreed to share a taxi home, he’d had me in stitches laughing.

  We kissed in the taxi. I don’t mean proper snogging; Christ no. I was forty years old and Paul was forty-two, and anyway, there wasn’t time for any of that as my road had appeared far too quickly (how had we arrived there so fast?). It was just a tender kiss on the lips that lingered for just long enough to send my head into a spin.

  It was all I could do to not grin inanely as I strode in to be faced with the babysitter. ‘Fun party?’ she asked, packing her college work into her bag.

  ‘Yeah, it was pretty good,’ I said, trying to convey that I’d done nothing more exciting than stand around nibbling pretzels. Four years I’d been single since the split from Tony, and our divorce had come through a couple of years ago. Here was the promise of thrilling adventure – and I jumped right in.

  Scout nudges at my ankle to signify that another walk is required. It’s just gone 11 a.m. as we circuit the town, and as we arrive back at the hotel, Cara texts me: Hope your journey was okay. Horrible weather for your crossing yesterday! D’you fancy popping over for lunch sometime? It would be lovely to see you.

  Love to, I reply. When’s good for you?

  Today would be great, if you’re free? About one-ish? My heart lifts at the prospect. I’m planning to spend the afternoon at the distillery and if there’s anything I could do with seeing today, it’s a friendly face.

  I pat the bed – Scout’s cue to jump up and join me – and pull him in for a belly tickle as I tell him, ‘Guess what? You and me have a date.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘This is lovely,’ I exclaim as Cara sets out a spinach tart, plus bowls of potato and green salad on the worn oak table. ‘But you needn’t have gone to all this trouble for me.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she insists. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  ‘Better not,’ I say reluctantly. ‘I’m due at the distillery after this.’

  ‘And you don’t want anyone to think you’re filling your days with boozy lunches,’ she says, pulling a mock-stern expression.

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  Cara smiles and sits opposite me. It’s not just the lunch that’s surprised me, but also her living quarters here, which are far nicer than the impression she’d given. Tucked away to the rear of the former teashop, the combined kitchen and living room are sparsely furnished with a quirky mix of brightly painted furniture, and the exposed brick walls are painted chalky white. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, gazing around. ‘So bright and joyful. You said it was a wreck of a place …’

  ‘Well, it was pretty shabby when I moved in,’ she says, tucking her bobbed hair behind her ears. ‘But the landlord said I could do what I wanted so I ripped out some horrible old units and stripped it back to the bones – like a bare canvas.’ She laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘If that doesn’t sound too pretentious.’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t,’ I say. As she greeted me and Scout warmly at the side entrance, I have yet to see her studio, which is housed in what was the original tearoom at the front.

  ‘So, how’s Scout been settling in?’ she asks as we start to tuck in. ‘Does he like his new home?’

  ‘Oh, he’s been brilliant,’ I reply, checking her expression. ‘I’m so sorry about Barney,’ I add. ‘I hope it doesn’t feel weird or upsetting for you, having Scout here.’ As soon as we’d arrived, and he’d conducted a preliminary sniff-around, he’d settled happily on Barney’s plush floor cushion.

  ‘Not at all,’ Cara says firmly. ‘You know, I realised the end was coming and I wouldn’t have wanted him to go through more months of illness, being prodded and poked and God knows what.’ Her eyes moisten and she musters a brave smile. ‘I had to make the decision that it was better to say goodbye.’

  ‘That must have been awful for you.’ I put down my fork, unsure of what else to say.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she continues with a quick shake of her head. ‘These past six months, since I’ve been here, were probably the best of his life. Running wild on the beaches, and up into the hills … he couldn’t have wished for a better time, really.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ I murmur.

  She clears her throat. ‘I did have to put away all his things – his chewy toys, his cushion.’ She glances towards it. ‘I just put it out again today for Scout.’

  ‘Oh, that was kind of you,’ I say, taken aback yet again by her generosity. ‘And thanks for putting those lost dog posters around town—’

  ‘That was no trouble. And at least you can be pretty sure that no one’s looking for him now.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s good to know. So I guess he probably isn’t from the island, which means someone must have left him behind here. That’s the only explanation I can think of.’

  Cara nods. ‘He’s so lucky to have found you.’

  ‘I’m lucky too.’ I smile. ‘And actually, I’m happy to be back here. It might sound a bit mad but it seemed less daunting somehow, having him with me this time.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can imagine,’ she says. ‘So, how long are you planning to stay?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. I’m booked into the hotel for a week but I’m sure I could extend that. I mean, it’s hardly thronging with guests …’

  She grimaces. ‘Bit bleak, is it?’

  ‘It’s okay actually,’ I say truthfully. ‘It’s the first time I’ve slept in a single bed since I was twenty-one, but I’m not complaining.’

  Cara chuckles. ‘And what about the distillery? What’s happening there?’ I fill her in on my meetings with Rosalind, the tricky business of Paul and his part-ownership of the company, and my virtual meetings with the creditors, many of whom Paul had simply stopped paying, due to the disastrous cash flow situation.

  ‘Wow,’ she murmurs, placing down her fork. ‘It’s a lot to take on. How d’you feel about it all now?’

  ‘Terrified?’ I say with a hollow laugh.

  ‘I’m not surprised. God, I wouldn’t know where to start …’ She gets up and we clear the table together.

  ‘Any
way,’ I add, ‘the distillery’s going to dominate my every waking moment from now, so let’s not talk about that. How about your work? What’s that like?’

  She smiles brightly. ‘Would you like to see my studio?’

  ‘Of course, yes. I’d love to.’ She leads me through to the arched doorway to the former tearoom. Like her living area, it’s all exposed, whitewashed brick with beautifully printed fabrics tacked to the walls. There are hand-painted vases of cheery daffodils and fabric swatches attached to an enormous cork pinboard.

  ‘These are lovely,’ I exclaim, going over to admire the prints more closely. ‘There’s something incredibly soothing about them.’ They are mainly in the island’s colours of blues, heathery purples and faded greens.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cara says. ‘You can probably guess where my inspiration’s coming from just now.’

  ‘Well, I can see they’re based on the landscape here, but they’re almost abstract, aren’t they?’ I wonder now if it’s presumptuous to comment when I know very little about art – apart from the fact that, in galleries, I always zoom towards the modern stuff. And now I’m picturing Paul and me, on the Sgadansay ferry when the whole debacle began. ‘It looks like one of those old religious paintings,’ I’d told him, as we surveyed the view. ‘All it needs are some floating cherubs and a scattering of naked muscular gods.’ While I can appreciate the genius of those incredible paintings, I’m more drawn to bold, contemporary images like these.

  ‘That’s exactly what I try to do,’ Cara says. ‘I like playing about with shapes and colours and there’s no shortage of inspiration on the island …’

  ‘So you’re glad you moved here?’ I ask.

  She hesitates for a moment. ‘Most of the time,’ she says. As she doesn’t seem keen to elaborate further, I look around the studio again. At one end is what I assume is her screen-printing equipment, and behind it are neatly ordered shelves bearing jars of brushes and bottles of paint, or perhaps inks, in vivid colours. At the other end is a day bed made up with plump pillows and a dazzling, clearly handmade patchwork quilt. I’ve never been in a real working artist’s studio before and had imagined Cara’s to be splattered in paint and with dirty rags strewn everywhere. However, there are only a few daubs of colour on the grey polished concrete floor. I suspect she likes her life to be neatly ordered and find myself wondering again what it’s really been like for her to move to the island, alone, without knowing a soul.

  ‘D’you sell your work here?’ I ask. ‘On the island, I mean?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she replies. ‘I get by through licensing designs to companies and selling through my online shop.’

  ‘I’m so impressed,’ I tell her truthfully, ‘that you’ve come out here and created all of this.’

  ‘Oh, I s’pose I’m quite proud too,’ she says with a self-deprecating laugh as Scout potters through to find us.

  I crouch down to greet him and he jumps up at my knees, panting expectantly. ‘This has been lovely,’ I say, ‘but I guess we’d better face the distillery team …’

  ‘Well, good luck,’ Cara says.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile at her with a rush of gratitude. ‘And thanks so much for lunch today. You can’t imagine how much it’s helped to see a friendly face.’

  ‘It’s helped me too,’ she says as she sees us out. ‘I can end up talking to the walls here, working all by myself.’ I look at this slightly built woman in her crisp white T-shirt and skinny dark jeans and wonder now just how lonely she’s been during the past six months.

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say.

  ‘Erm, I was wondering,’ she adds, ‘if you’d like a bit of help with Scout now and again, while you’re here? If you’re busy with meetings and spending time at the distillery – stuff like that. I mean, if you need someone to walk him—’

  ‘Oh, I love our walks,’ I say, ‘and I’m planning to take him to the distillery with me. I can’t imagine anyone would mind …’ I break off as it dawns on me that Cara is asking not just to offer her help but because she wants to spend time with Scout. ‘But actually,’ I add, ‘if you’re sure, that’d be great. I still have my regular work to keep up with, and it means I could do a full day—’

  ‘You have an actual job as well as the distillery?’ she exclaims. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask—’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘The distillery part wasn’t planned. My real job – at least, the one I chose for myself – is writing obituaries.’

  ‘Wow, I bet that’s fascinating! But how are you finding the time?’

  ‘I manage,’ I say, ‘and my writing work helps me, actually.’ I pause and shrug. ‘At least, with that part of my life, I feel like I know what I’m doing.’

  She ruffles the top of Scout’s head. ‘He could stay with me now if you like. That way, you could fully focus on what you’ve got to do this afternoon …’

  ‘Actually, that’d be brilliant,’ I say.

  She grins and turns to address Scout, as if to ensure that he fully approves of our plan: ‘Hey, little man, we’ll go for a beach walk, okay? You and me are going to have such fun.’

  As I stride through the town, I try to quell my nervousness by reminding myself of all the good stuff that’s happened. After all, we’ve only been here for a day, yet I’ve already conducted a couple of meetings from my little room in the eaves and, crucially, seem to have made a real friend here – as has Scout.

  My heartbeat quickens as I pass the bow-fronted bookshop with its cheerful red exterior, the blue-and-white chip shop, which seems to be bustling at all times of day, and an old-fashioned pharmacy, its gold-lettered signage glinting in the early afternoon sun. Such a beautiful town, utterly unspoilt and apparently barely changed for decades. In the distance, the ferry is making its slow, stately journey towards the mainland.

  ‘Proper Scotland’, as Mum called it, when she’d grilled me about why Paul and I were set on visiting this far-flung island. It strikes me now how different my life would be if I’d insisted that we hadn’t visited Sgadansay after all, but holidayed in Majorca instead. Maybe Paul’s wild notion of buying the distillery would have been forgotten, along with the wine club membership and his short-lived attempts to play the trumpet.

  However, it happened, and I am slap-bang in the thick of it, and now my mouth is sandpaper-dry as the distillery comes into view. I’m conscious of breathing deeply, of pushing back my shoulders and walking tall as I stride towards the entrance.

  Don’t get emotional, I tell myself firmly as I open the door and walk in.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ricky

  Until our last visit I’d never really noticed Dad ageing, but since he left the distillery he hasn’t seemed like his usual hearty self. Although I’ve managed to persuade him to come on our walk to the lighthouse, it seems to be taking more out of him than usual. But then, he’s seventy-eight, I remind myself. And everyone grows older – even Harry Vance.

  ‘I miss Bess,’ Arthur remarks.

  Dad nods. ‘Aye, me too.’ I glance at him as we walk; it’s the first time I’ve heard him acknowledge it. But of course he misses her. He’d no more have been spotted out minus his trousers than without her trotting along at his side.

  Arthur turns to me. ‘D’you think we’ll ever see that dog again?’

  ‘Which dog?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘The one I was playing with last time we were here—’

  ‘That was weeks ago,’ I remind him, surprised that he’s still thinking about him. ‘He’s bound to have been found or handed in somewhere by now.’

  Arthur shrugs and seems to scan the scrubby ground to our right, as if almost expecting to spot him. Occasionally, at times like this, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision in not letting him have a dog of his own. After all, plenty of people with full-time jobs manage to have pets too. Maybe we could have found a way to make it work.

  The lighthouse comes into view and Arthur brightens. ‘Look, Meg!
There it is …’ Like with the seals on the rocks, he seems keen to show off the island’s attributes to her. I’m grateful to see a glimmer of his childlike enthusiasm again.

  ‘That so cool,’ she remarks, pulling out her phone and taking numerous photos as we approach. Bright white with a solid red stripe, it’s perched on the jagged rocks that my friends and I would scramble over when we were kids and – with a lack of much else to do – even as teenagers.

  When we’re close enough, Meg takes a selfie in front of it, presumably for her Instagram, #lighthouse. She seems to be enjoying herself, which is something of a relief as she was pretty subdued after dinner last night.

  Maybe she’d been craving the city already, after being on Sgadansay for something like six hours. When I’d suggested an evening stroll to the harbour she’d muttered something about needing to make a phone call. She’d proceeded to conduct it down at the bottom of Dad’s back garden, lurking by the wheelie bins like a guilty smoker. ‘Client stuff,’ she’d said, by way of a vague explanation. What kind of client stuff did she need to discuss at 9 p.m.? However, the mood is brighter today, the sky a wash of clear blue, and everyone – even Dad – greets my suggestion of a pub lunch with enthusiasm.

  By the time we arrive back in town, and step into the cosy fug of the Anchor, the usual handful of regulars are either clustered around the bar or tucking into controversial pies and chips at the scuffed tables. The deep-fat fryer has clearly been busy. We briefly chat to Rab the fisherman, Len the taxi driver and Mrs Pert, who still owns the hairdressing salon Mum used to frequent. Nothing seems to ever change here.

  While Arthur, Dad and I order fish and chips (they really are excellent), Meg requests a salad, which comes laden with copious coleslaw. But at least there’s greenery too – at least, a couple of token leaves – and the pub’s ancient interior is clearly deemed worthy of her Instagram feed as more photos are taken.