The Dog Share

by Fiona Gibson

  I haven’t even been able to remember everyone’s names yet. I could have name badges made for everyone, but fear that the very suggestion would see me being stuffed into a barrel and rolled out to sea.

  In reception now, I find the maintenance man – I think he’s called Stuart – up a ladder as he does something to the skylight. Feeling helpless, I clutch my notebook to my chest. ‘Can I hold that for you?’

  ‘Hmm?’ he mumbles because, I realise now, he has several nails clamped between his lips; nails he’s about to use for an important task. In interrupting him, I could have caused him to choke.

  ‘I, er, wondered if I could help?’

  ‘What with?’ he asks, having pulled the nails from his mouth.

  ‘Erm, anything really! I just thought, maybe … anyway.’

  He stares at me as if I’ve just asked him to accompany me to the ballet. Taking this as a ‘no’, I shuffle past the terrible display of puffin paraphernalia that still blights the entrance area, looking cheap and ridiculous and entirely out of place.

  Outside the building now I catch the waft of cigarette smoke from a young employee who, registering me, springs back in alarm.

  ‘Hi.’ I beam at her to show how un-scary I am.

  ‘’Lo.’ The woman – raven-haired with a complexion like cream – takes another quick draw of her cigarette.

  ‘Quite chilly today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  A cool silence hovers between us. ‘How are things going?’ I ask.

  She eyes me warily as if figuring out how to respond. Considering the business is virtually fucked and I’m probably going to be out of a job soon, things are going really, really well.

  ‘All right,’ she says. She drops her butt into a pot on the ground and scoots back inside as if I might horsewhip her for taking a few minutes out of her working day.

  I check the time on my phone. 3.30 p.m.; Christ, only a couple of hours have passed since Cara’s lunch. It feels like weeks. Is it possible that time has slowed down, almost to a halt? The morning was sunny and bright, but now the sky is darkening moodily, and the Atlantic wind is getting up.

  I hover at the main door, wondering whether to do the rounds of the distillery again, telling everyone in turn that I’m leaving for the day now, like some terribly drawn-out exit from a party, when no one cares anyway. I think they call it a ‘French exit’ when you just leave.

  So that’s what I do. Having slunk in to grab my bag from reception, I hurry back outside, thinking, that went well; clearly everyone warmed to my ineffectual comments, and will be wondering who the hell I thought I was. The Queen, touring a factory? Saying, ‘So how long have you worked here?’ and ‘Can you tell me what that machine does?’ I can sense salt spray on my tongue and relief emanating from the distillery now I’ve gone.

  Suzy Medley has left the building! Thank Christ for that.

  But then, after the deepest sleep I can ever remember, I wake with a renewed sense of optimism. The sun is already shining brightly and Scout is snuggled close to my side. I am due to drop him off at Cara’s today; she loved having him yesterday and was keen to invite him over again. I hope he won’t mind. Hang on, what am I saying? He was running around Sgadansay all alone for God knows how long. Of course he won’t mind.

  We set off on our walk before breakfast. The sky is a pale, cloudless turquoise and the bay is sparkling as if sprinkled with glitter. My mouth waters at the thought of bendy toast and poached eggs brought by the young waitress who chats to me a little now. While the hotel is hardly bustling, I have spotted the occasional, mainly elderly fellow guest, and the brisk, copper-haired woman on the front desk offered a treat to Scout yesterday. Just as thrillingly – terrifying too, considering the debts – Rosalind has emailed to confirm that Paul has agreed to sign his share of the company over to me.

  So, once the documentation has all been dealt with, the Sgadansay Distillery will be all mine.

  Am I really regarding this as significant and life-changing as the hotel receptionist offering Scout a biscuit?

  I don’t know what to feel anymore. Sometimes it seems as if my emotions are strapped to a roller coaster, and the shady-looking fairground guy is having a smoke and has forgotten to activate the stop button. Still, there’s much work to be done, so after breakfast I make call after call to our creditors, to update them on progress. Once that’s all done, and I’m craving air, Scout and I head over to Cara’s.

  ‘She’s looking forward to seeing you again,’ I tell him as we make our way through the winding streets. I catch the eye of a young woman holding her toddler daughter’s hand, and they both smile, and I realise I’m not remotely embarrassed at having been caught talking to my dog. Doesn’t everyone do that? It would feel weirder to not communicate.

  Scout greets Cara by running around in ragged circles as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. ‘Look at him! He’s attached to you already,’ I say as she beckons me in.

  ‘Well, it goes both ways,’ she says with a smile. ‘D’you fancy a cuppa or something? D’you have time?’

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ I say. So she makes us tea, quizzing me gently as I update her on distillery matters, then she shows me pieces of fabric she’s been printing: beautiful slices of dusky purple and green, evoking the hills.

  ‘These are wonderful,’ I say. ‘Are you going to make them into something?’ I sense myself flushing. They’re art, for goodness’ sake, and I’m talking about them as if they’re going to be turned into cushion covers.

  ‘I’ll mount and frame them,’ she explains. ‘I’ve just heard one of the galleries here is going to show them. You know the Bay Gallery?’

  ‘I’ve seen it, yes. That’s brilliant news!’

  ‘Oh, it’s a relief really,’ she says with a grimace. ‘I need to step things up here and open up the studio and start classes, like I did back home. I mean, I had so many plans when I first came here. I planned to get scarves and tote bags into production for the outlets I used to sell through. But, you know—’ She stops suddenly.

  ‘Well, you’ve been busy,’ I remark.

  ‘Yeah, busy going stark-raving mad.’ She exhales loudly.

  I study her face. ‘Really? I thought you’d settled in fine. You’ve done this place out, and it’s beautiful—’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place to go quietly round the bend,’ she says with an off-kilter smile.

  ‘I didn’t realise you felt like that,’ I murmur.

  Cara sips her tea. ‘Well, I didn’t want to blurt out all my woes when you have so much on your plate.’

  ‘Hey,’ I exclaim, ‘I’ve blurted out all mine to you.’ I pause. ‘Was it hard being here throughout the winter?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes.’ She nods. ‘I mean, I was prepared for it being cold and dark and wet – all that. What I hadn’t been ready for was the awful loneliness, you know? Feeling so isolated here, so cut off, with just Barney for company …’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  Her face brightens. ‘But you know what? I’m not just saying this, but things are getting better. Spring’s amazing here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s stunning.’

  ‘And it’s made me feel more hopeful.’ She pauses. ‘I’d been shutting myself away, working too much, not really making an effort to get to know people here. You know when I took those lost dog posters around town?’

  ‘Yes?’ I nod.

  ‘People were so kind and lovely and it turned out lots of the local shopkeepers and café owners had been curious about us – about me and Barney, I mean – and I think maybe I’d come across as a bit standoffish until then.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ I say truthfully.

  She shrugs. ‘I’m actually pretty shy, you know. You’d think, at thirty-eight, I’d have got over it …’ She places her mug on the old worn oak table.

  ‘Cara, I’m ten years older than you and I haven’t either.’

  Grinning now, she crouches d
own to fuss over Scout. ‘Anyway, I’m getting myself back on track now and this little man—’ she plants a kiss on his head ‘—he’s a brilliant little sidekick, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he really is.’

  Her smile broadens. ‘God, I’m talking as if he’s mine. I’m being ridiculous. I just so enjoyed being out with him yesterday—’

  ‘Cara, it’s okay,’ I cut in. ‘He obviously loves coming here too.’ I pause. ‘We can keep on doing this if you like, while I’m here on the island? Kind of sharing him, I mean …’

  ‘Oh, are you sure?’ She beams at me.

  ‘Yes, of course. I mean, we could work out something regular, or just see what suits us day to day?’

  ‘That sounds best. I’d love that,’ she enthuses, her cheeks flushed pink now. ‘I really would.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘let’s do that.’ I look down at my dog – or rather, our dog, for the duration of my stay, at least – and wonder now if he could possibly help to fill the Barney-shaped hole in her life. ‘We’re sharing you, Scout,’ I tell him. ‘I hope you’re okay with that.’

  And it feels fine, I decide as we leave, perhaps because he just arrived in my life, so really, he isn’t mine. At least, he could just as easily have been Cara’s if he’d turned up at her place, wet and quivering on that lousy night. He could have been anyone’s.

  I stride through the town, inhaling the delicious aromas from the bakery and then, a little further on, the heady scents from the blooms busting from their galvanised buckets outside the florist’s. Everything looks so fresh and alive, I can’t resist taking a few photos with my phone.

  The Seafood Shack man smiles and waves as I pass. I’m filled with happiness, and the emotion feels so rare and precious that I want to hold it close, to stop it blowing away on the breeze.

  I stop and select a picture on my phone. It’s not of the shimmering bay or the floral display, but of Scout leaping majestically across the beach with all four feet in the air. And right now – even though another trip to the distillery awaits me – I feel a little like that myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Medley Family WhatsApp

  Thought you’d like to see how much Scout loves it here.

  Frieda: Brilliant pic Mum. He’s so cute!

  I can’t take credit love. A friend took it. I’ve met a woman called Cara and we’ve set up a kind of dog share arrangement.

  Frieda: You’re farming him out already? MUM!!

  It’s not like that. Honestly – he loves it. I’m planning to spend mornings in meetings in my room and most afternoons I’ll be at the distillery. Cara’s dog died recently and she’s loving having Scout around and taking him for big walks. So it works for everyone.

  Frieda: Suppose that’s okay as long as she’s a nice person.

  Of course she’s a nice person! I wouldn’t leave him with just anyone would I?

  Isaac: Guess so. You were always picky about our babysitters.

  Frieda: After that time you found all those bottles in our garden.

  She’d had a party!

  Isaac: Just a couple of friends round she said.

  Let’s not dwell on that. But is it any wonder I hardly ever went out?

  Frieda: The others were nice, Mum.

  I did my best. Anyway how are things? Jobs going okay?

  Isaac: It’s full on and pretty shit.

  What, the Mexican take-away? I thought you said it sounded good. Didn’t Matis work there for a bit?

  Isaac: Yeah but it’s shit.

  Frieda: You haven’t set the microwave on fire?

  Isaac: No I’m being micro-managed.

  By who?

  Frieda: By WHOM :)

  Isaac: By my micro-manager.

  Frieda: Maybe you need micro-managing.

  Isaac: To put cheese and lettuce in a wrap?

  There’s a lot that could go wrong with that, Isaac.

  Frieda: Your wraps sound a bit basic. I won’t be going there.

  Isaac: It’s okay for Frieda serving scones in a teashop.

  Frieda: Hey it’s hard work!

  Isaac: Making sure they get the right kind of jam?

  Well I’m sorry you have to work, Isaac, but you know Dad and I support you as much as we can.

  Isaac: I know. I appreciate it.

  Frieda: We both do Mum. And everyone on my course has a part-time job.

  Isaac: But not as shitty as mine.

  Okay, better go in a minute. I’m nearly at the distillery.

  Frieda: How’s it going there?

  All right I guess. But I’m starting to realise it’ll take years to understand it all properly.

  Frieda: Aw you’ll soon pick it up!

  Thanks love, but I really need help. Remember I told you about the master distiller?

  Isaac: The old guy who flounced out?

  Well he left, yes, but it was understandable. And I need to get him on board again.

  Isaac: Get him on board? You’ve gone all management Mum.

  I am the management!

  Frieda: She’ll be asking for some blue-sky thinking next.

  Isaac: Or if either of us has a window.

  Ha-ha. The thing is, I have his home address. It’s still on the staff database.

  Isaac: Go see him then.

  I can’t just turn up can I? Out of the blue?

  Isaac: Why not?

  It’d be rude. I’ve no right to do that.

  Frieda: Maybe you could write him a letter?

  What would I say? I don’t want to make him angry or upset.

  Frieda: Mum, you’re the writer. You know what to say.

  Isaac: Remember all those thank-you letters you made us write after Christmas and birthdays?

  Yes and what a fuss you made every time! If I could’ve forged your writing and done it myself, I would have.

  Isaac: I wish you had.

  Me too, I’d probably look ten years younger now.

  Frieda: I hated writing those letters. It was so hard knowing what to put.

  Was it really that bad? I hope it hasn’t caused any lasting psychological damage.

  Isaac: I’m okay, I just get flashbacks sometimes.

  Frieda: Me too. What to say about those horrible pink shorts from Aunty Belinda? ‘How hard can it be!’ you always said.

  Isaac: Dear Aunt Belinda, thank you for the disgusting shorts. Mum took them straight to the charity shop.

  I really have to go now!

  Frieda: Good luck and write that letter.

  Isaac: Yeah, Mum. How hard can it be?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ricky

  I could have spun Dad and Arthur some yarn about an emergency back home. I might have been able to cobble together something about one of Meg’s parents having had an accident, or a fire at her flat or clinic, but I wasn’t comfortable with lying. And anyway, I figured, why I should I? There were hurried goodbyes, and Dad and Arthur just stood there, looking bewildered and shocked.

  I drove Meg to the ferry, even though she’d said she could quite easily walk, thank-you-very-much. She also insisted she’d be fine sitting for three hours in the waiting area, which consists of a few benches and a roof but only has a wall running along one side. Everyone knows the wind whips right through it. Even the small group of hardened teenage smokers who congregate there find it a bit too bracing sometimes.

  But what else could I do? We were hardly going to sit there huddling together for warmth. She hadn’t even wanted me to get out of the car. ‘No need to stop,’ she’d announced as we’d approached, as if she’d have preferred to open the door and hurl herself out while I drove past at speed.

  Back home, I gave Dad and Arthur a potted version of what had happened (omitting the parts about the naked photo, the copious lying and the shagging of her yogi lover). The rest of the evening, and the whole of yesterday, was predictably pretty grim, made all the worse when Ralph called to say that Brenna’s mum had passed away. So they’d been rig
ht not to go to Spain after all. Kai phoned Arthur and they had a chat in his room. I tried not to overhear but couldn’t help catching the occasional phrase: ‘She was really nice, your gran. Bet you’ll miss her.’ And: ‘Meg’s gone home. It’s really weird. I think she’s dumped Dad.’

  ‘Did you argue?’ Arthur asked later last night when I went up to say goodnight.

  ‘No, it was nothing like that,’ I said quickly, as if it had all been completely amicable. And now, a whole two days since she left, Arthur has taken to loitering around me with silent questions still hovering between us.

  I pause making sandwiches in Dad’s kitchen and turn to look at him. ‘D’you fancy packing this lot up for a picnic?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ he says without enthusiasm.

  Great! Fantastic! A picnic will make everything all right. ‘Dad,’ I call through to the living room, ‘how about taking our lunch to the beach?’

  ‘What?’ he barks. I glance through to see him sitting bolt upright, intently studying last week’s Sgadansay Gazette, which I know he’s read from cover to cover already.

  ‘Me and Arthur were thinking it’d be really nice to make the most of the weather today and pack a picnic. What d’you think?’

  He lowers the paper a little. ‘I’m all right, son. You two go ahead.’

  Bloody hell, I’m at a loss as to how to cheer up the funereal atmosphere that I feel responsible for creating, if only through my connection to Meg. But then, it can’t all be her fault, can it? I rack my brains for evidence that I dragged her here against her will and that’s why she’s left me. But then, she’d been seeing that bloke before I forced her onto the ferry that made her feel so sick, and before my father had failed to grasp the benefits of ear candling.

  It was probably happening the whole time we were together. I wonder if her boyfriend’s into polyamory too, and I was just too staid for her with my monogamous ways? Maybe they’ll cycle off into the sunset together, on their pushbikes with wicker baskets on the front, for copious herbal infusions with their numerous lovers. I bet Brihat doesn’t have a plastic tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser.