The Dog Share

by Fiona Gibson

  He pulls a rueful expression. ‘I’d like to say I simply fell in love with it. But, actually, there was a time at my primary school when a whole pile of instruments were donated by some benefactor. So our head teacher decided to set up an orchestra.’

  ‘What did you choose?’ I ask. ‘The violin?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Choosing didn’t come into it. The woodwind, brass and the smaller stringed instruments were all snapped up quickly. But no one wanted the cello …’

  ‘Why not?’ I exclaim. ‘I love the cello—’

  ‘Yes, but it’s so big and unwieldy, you know?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Unlike a flute or a clarinet that could at least be hidden in a schoolbag,’ he adds. ‘But Dad and Mr Ross, the headmaster, were friends, and at some point they’d decided that I’d take the instrument no other kid wanted.’

  I smile in sympathy. ‘Poor you.’

  He smirks. ‘Yeah, I was pretty put out. But there was no arguing with Dad once he’d got an idea into his head. I suspect it was a matter of pride to persuade me to learn how to play it. So I started lugging it back and forth from school like, um …’

  ‘… A socially awkward cousin?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah.’ His handsome face breaks into an even broader grin.

  ‘One who’s refused to go home.’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  We’re both laughing now. ‘Bet you wish you’d been quick enough to grab a trumpet,’ I add.

  ‘God, yes.’ Arthur and Scout are way ahead now, dashing between the rock pools. The likeness between Ricky and his son is apparent: both are slim and tall with long, strong noses and intensely dark eyes. But Arthur’s shock of red hair must be inherited from his mum. Once again I find myself wondering about her; whether Arthur lives between their two homes or what their arrangement is.

  ‘Did your parents encourage you?’ I ask. ‘With your music, I mean?’

  ‘Mum did,’ Ricky replies. ‘Dad, not so much. That’s not a reflection on him, though. It’s just what the men in our community were like back then.’ His eyes glint with amusement. ‘I mean, they were hardly wandering about with their children strapped to their bodies in harnesses like they do now …’

  I chuckle. Back in York, our local park is filled with young fathers herding wild-haired children whilst doling out rice cakes and simultaneously growing their beards. ‘Maybe classical music wasn’t his thing?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yep, not at all. It wasn’t really mine either. But I s’pose I developed a kind of grudging appreciation of those old dead guys …’

  I smile as Arthur looks around and shouts, ‘What old dead guys?’

  ‘Composers,’ Ricky calls back, and as his son responds with an exaggerated shudder I’m aware that they’re supposed to be borrowing Scout – rather than having me tagging along – and I really should leave them to it.

  ‘Well, I s’pose I should get on with some work,’ I say with a trace of reluctance.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Shall we bring Scout back to you? We don’t even know where you’re staying—’

  ‘I’m at Cara’s at the moment. She’s the one who was walking Scout, the first time you met him …’ He nods. ‘How about phoning me when you’re ready?’ I suggest. ‘Then I can come and meet you.’

  ‘That sounds great.’ I can’t help registering his lovely, softly lilting Hebridean accent again. ‘And thanks for this,’ he adds. ‘For letting us walk him, I mean.’

  ‘You’re really welcome.’ With those deep brown eyes and wide, generous smile, he’s not exactly offensive to look at either, and it strikes me that I’d be quite happy to hang out with him and Arthur for their entire walk, thank you very much.

  I almost laugh out loud at how ridiculous I’m being as I leave the beach.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ricky

  ‘Is this going to be a regular thing, then?’ Dad wants to know.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘This walking her dog thing.’ He shudders as if it’s some weird kind of cult I’ve become involved with.

  ‘Well, we’re only here till Sunday,’ I reply as Arthur dips toast soldiers into his runny boiled egg (not that he calls them soldiers anymore; that’d be unthinkable now he’s eleven. He merely slices his toast into thin pieces suitable for dunking).

  ‘Aye, I know that,’ Dad says, gripping his mug of tea firmly. ‘What I’m saying is, it seems to be kind of a thing now.’

  ‘We just like it, Granddad,’ Arthur says as he jumps up from the table and makes for the kitchen door. ‘You should come with us sometime. When you’re all better, I mean,’ he adds quickly. Dad just mutters something under his breath. Still in pyjamas, Arthur darts off to get dressed so we can head out and pick up Scout – this time from Cara’s place across town – as we arranged with Suzy yesterday.

  I get up and wash up our breakfast dishes. ‘We won’t be long,’ I tell Dad. ‘A couple of hours or so max.’

  ‘Be as long as you like,’ he huffs, getting up from the table. I dry off my hands and follow him into the living room where he is flicking idly through the stack of Sgadansay Gazettes that sits on the nest of tables. There seems to be a kind of ‘holding period’ required before they can be safely thrown away. After all, you never know when you might urgently need to refer to a six-week-old article about the repainting of the town hall’s clock tower.

  ‘You know,’ I start hesitantly, ‘she’s actually okay.’

  Dad peers at me. ‘Who is?’

  ‘Suzy. Suzy Medley.’

  ‘Is she?’ he says, his voice laced with disbelief. Having selected a newspaper from the pile – seemingly at random – he installs himself in the ancient tweedy armchair and starts to leaf through it.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say, perching on the sofa arm. ‘But if you’re uncomfortable about it – about us walking her dog, I mean – all you need to do is say—’

  ‘No, no, don’t let me stand in your way,’ he declares, rattling the newspaper.

  ‘Dad, can we go now?’ Arthur has reappeared at the bottom of the stairs in faded jeans and a favourite scruffy old navy fleece. He’s clutching the orange tennis ball he found on the beach that first day we walked Scout. I know he’d prefer to walk him by himself, without me being there, and of course he’s old enough to manage that without doing anything stupid. But I’d reassured Suzy that I’d always be there too – and anyway, I enjoy being out with my son on the beach. And, admittedly, it’s good to get a little breather from Dad.

  I guess I’m enjoying getting to know Suzy a little too because she is nothing like I’d imagined. Yesterday, when we met up again after our dog walk, we’d chatted for a few minutes, waiting for Arthur and Scout to finish their stick game. ‘C’mon, Arthur!’ I’d called out. Either my voice was carried away on the breeze or he was feigning deafness. Or maybe I hadn’t shouted that loudly as I was happy to sit and talk to her. Whatever it was, I found myself sitting next to her on the rocks, finding out a little more about how the distillery purchase had come about.

  Suzy admitted that she’d always been a bit of a ‘soft touch’, as she put it, letting her ex-partner drift from one ill-thought-out scheme to the next. He’d even been a guide on ghost tours around York, she told me: ‘Which lasted about two weeks.’

  ‘What happened with that?’ I asked. By now she’d explained that he wasn’t her kids’ dad, and I was wondering why this obviously bright, attractive woman had involved herself with him in the first place. Obviously he was flaky and directionless. But worse than that, he’d basically run off and left her with a colossal mess to clear up.

  ‘He found it monotonous,’ she replied. ‘Same old spooky stories night after night. He couldn’t stand being given a script to follow. If there’s one thing Paul hates it’s being told what to do—’

  ‘So, could you have stopped him anyway?’ I asked. ‘Buying the distillery, I mean?’

  ‘I could’ve kicked up more of a fuss,�
�� she’d said with a shrug.

  I looked at her, finding it hard to imagine her as a fuss-kicking kind of person – although she’s not weak, far from it; that much is obvious. She certainly doesn’t match the image I’d formed in my mind from what I’d heard about this couple from Yorkshire who’d bought the distillery with seemingly no more knowledge of whisky production than how to fly in the air.

  I’d pictured someone ruthless and hard, caring only about profit and not giving a shit about the havoc she and her partner had caused here. But she’s not like that at all. Not remotely.

  In fact, I like Suzy Medley. I like her more every time I see her and I keeping thinking that maybe, in other circumstances, we might even have become friends. But I have no intention of saying that to Dad.

  I don’t plan to ask if she’d like to come on the walk with us either, when Arthur and I arrive at Cara’s as arranged. Cara welcomes us warmly, and when Arthur seems interested in her studio she takes us through to show us her work, and Suzy brings me a coffee and Arthur an orange juice.

  ‘I don’t normally do recognisable places,’ Cara explains when Arthur makes straight for a screen print of the lighthouse. ‘They’re usually more abstract. But I love the lighthouse. Don’t you, Arthur?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘It’s so bold and striking,’ Cara adds, ‘with the red and white against a blue sky. It looks the way a child would draw one.’ Arthur nods again and sips his juice. ‘I mean, a little kid,’ she adds quickly, as if worried that she might have sounded patronising. ‘Not someone your age …’

  ‘I’d draw one like that.’ Arthur smiles and turns to Suzy. ‘Have you seen it?’

  She looks almost apologetic. ‘It sounds mad but I haven’t yet. I’ve kept meaning to. But I’ve never been round to that part of the coast …’

  ‘D’you fancy coming with us today?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you’re probably busy but—’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ she says quickly. ‘I could do with a break from staring at my laptop.’ She looks at Cara. ‘D’you fancy coming too?’

  Cara shakes her head. ‘I’ll just crack on here. But you go. It’s a glorious day and it seems like a shame to miss it.’

  And so we leave Cara’s and head out of town, with Arthur and Scout marching ahead of us as if we aren’t even there. ‘Is your dad okay about this?’ Suzy asks.

  ‘About us walking Scout?’ I catch her hesitant expression. Her long dark brown hair is blowing around her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I just thought … you know. He mightn’t like it.’

  ‘Um, he’s accepting it,’ I say noncommittally; a tiny fib because I don’t want her to think she’s causing me any conflict with Dad.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ she asks. ‘Is he recovering from his fall?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘He’s amazing really, for his age. He just needs to take it easy for a little while.’

  Suzy nods and smiles. She’s wearing faded jeans, a baggy blue sweater and walking boots. Apart from her Yorkshire accent she could pass as a local. My mind is brimming with questions about her plans for the distillery – but I don’t want her to think I only asked her along so I could quiz her about it. I know most of the people who work there, after all. They’re forthright and outspoken, so I can imagine she’s had a fair old grilling already and I don’t want to add to that.

  ‘You and your dad seem pretty close,’ she remarks as the path veers away from the road and follows the edge of the coastline. Way down below us, waves are foaming pure white against the jagged rocks.

  ‘I s’pose we are, in a way,’ I say. ‘I mean, there’s only me. Mum died ten years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Suzy murmurs.

  ‘It’s okay. Dad does all right.’ Well, he did, but I’m not planning to get into that now.

  ‘Does he visit you often?’ she asks. ‘In Glasgow, I mean?’

  ‘God, no. Hardly ever. A couple of times maybe, since Mum died.’ I pause. ‘They’d come a bit more often then. Mum was better at dragging him off the island than I am.’ I catch her eye and she smiles. ‘Every three or four years, they’d make the journey down and stop off to see various relatives all over the country. It was a pretty major expedition – like a band embarking on a world tour.’ She chuckles. ‘But Dad can never relax in Glasgow,’ I add. ‘Even at my graduation he was on tenterhooks the whole time.’

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, he was convinced he’d be robbed at knifepoint everywhere we went.’

  ‘What, at your graduation?’ she gasps.

  ‘Especially there,’ I reply, laughing now. ‘With all the students and their proud parents, decked out in their finery with their jewellery and hats and those little decorative head things, what are they again—’

  ‘Fascinators?’ She crooks an eyebrow and her greenish eyes catch the sunlight, almost stopping me in my tracks.

  ‘Is that what they’re called?’ I ask.

  ‘I think so, yes—’

  We are both laughing now. ‘Well, he was convinced it was a prime picking ground for thieves.’

  As the lighthouse comes into view – a solid column of red and white, in stark contrast to the nearby spindly trees – Arthur stops and swings around to face us. ‘Meg took so many pictures of this,’ he announces. ‘Didn’t she, Dad?’

  ‘Er, yeah!’ I reply.

  ‘For her Instagram,’ he adds with a smirk. ‘She was always looking for stuff for her Instagram.’

  ‘Yeah, she was.’ I’m conscious of Suzy looking at me now. Christ, now I’m going to have to give her some kind of explanation. I can’t just let the name hover in the air like this, like some kind of mysterious spectre: Meg-of-whom-we-must-not-speak.

  Suzy slips her hands into her jeans pockets as we walk. ‘Erm, we actually came here with someone,’ I say. Arthur and Scout are forging ahead again now, making their way over the rocks close to the lighthouse. While Arthur bounds from one to the next without hesitation, Scout has clearly reached his limit and stops and sits, waiting expectantly, for Arthur to come back.

  ‘Did you?’ Suzy says.

  ‘Yeah.’ We walk in silence for a few moments. ‘She was, erm, someone I was kind of seeing,’ I add, aware how ridiculous this is starting to sound. We came here with someone. She was someone I was kind of seeing. I’m making it sound like I had psychiatric supervision. ‘It didn’t really work out,’ I add quickly, registering Suzy’s puzzled expression now and regretting even starting this. After all, what does she care about my personal situation?

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, er, we broke up—’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked …’

  ‘It was our second day here!’ Arthur shouts helpfully.

  ‘Wow,’ Suzy says, looking a little shocked. Christ, I hadn’t even realised he was within earshot. Whenever I ask him to pick up his dirty socks or load the dishwasher he doesn’t seem to hear a word. Yet when I’m having a private conversation from something like ten metres away he doesn’t miss a word.

  ‘She was meant to stay the whole week,’ Arthur adds.

  ‘Okay, Arthur, thank you!’ I call back.

  Suzy steps deftly over a jagged rock. ‘So, did she go home?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I nod. ‘Back to Glasgow.’

  She catches my eye again, looking as if she’s about to ask more, but then decides not to. ‘That’s a shame,’ she adds, and I nod, aware of something peculiar happening.

  I don’t usually share personal stuff. Of course I talk to my old college mates who are still kicking around Glasgow, and the friends I’ve met through Arthur’s mates, and his football and karate clubs, and my teaching. There are plenty of people to have a drink with, but we hardly ever discuss anything terribly important; in fact, most of them don’t even know about Arthur’s mum, apart from the obvious fact that she’s not involved in his life.

  With most men, if there’s somethi
ng that could potentially be a bit difficult or sad or emotional, they give it a wide berth – as if it’s a puddle of sick on the pavement after a Friday night.

  And yet, as Arthur and Scout jump from the rocks back onto the path, I realise that I want very much to tell Suzy what happened here, and during the weeks leading up to our trip. I want to explain how it had seemed like we were getting along fine, and how it had all gone wrong and she’d hated Dad’s pie and it had all come out about Colin – sorry, Brihat – and she’d left Arthur the aftershave for his birthday, and all of that.

  I’m not sure why it’s Suzy I want to tell. Perhaps it’s because I hardly know her, and she’s obviously smart and non-judgemental, and I don’t think she’ll assume I’m some sad fucker who’s such terrible company that his girlfriend could only endure twenty-four hours of holiday with him before legging it home.

  Or maybe it’s because she just seems like the kind of person you can talk to. And perhaps I don’t talk enough – to anyone – about the things that really matter.

  And so I take a deep breath and wait until Arthur is properly out of earshot. And then I tell Suzy all about Meg and me.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Suzy

  I know it can’t last because Ricky and Arthur are leaving on Sunday. But already, it almost feels like Scout belongs to all of us. To me, Cara, Ricky and Arthur. We all love him and he seems to love all of us. I wonder now if, as well as those millions of scent receptors, dogs also have the ability to love a whole bunch of people unconditionally, with no limits on numbers. He greets each of us with the same completely bonkers, tail-spinning display of delight. And it lifts my heart to see it.

  Ricky called this morning to ask if they could take him up into the hills, making a fun day of it with a picnic. ‘I think Dad wants us out from under his feet,’ he added.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said, surprised by how pleased I was to hear his voice again. How it makes me smile.