by Natalie Cox
“Then how come you don’t let them in the house?”
“They prefer the outside. Plus, they take up a lot of space. And they smell. Anyway, three dogs in the house would make me the canine equivalent of one of those crazy cat ladies.” Jez grins.
“News flash: you already are a crazy cat lady.”
Jez shrugs. “Maybe so. This one’s Romulus.” One of the dogs comes up and rubs against her legs and Jez kneels down, stroking him fondly. The other approaches and, after the briefest hesitation, comes forward and nudges her for attention. “Hello, Remus,” says Jez.
“Seriously?” I raise a brow at her.
Jez shrugs. “I thought it suited them. They’re survivors. Cal found them on his doorstep one night in the dead of winter. They were only four weeks old. It was a miracle they didn’t freeze to death. He hand-reared them, then passed them on to me.”
I take a step forward and lower myself to the ground beside Jez. Tentatively, I put out a hand and touch the plush carpet of fur along Remus’s back. These two couldn’t be further from Pickle and Pepper, I grudgingly admit to myself. “So Bovine Cal rescued you, huh?” I murmur. The dog turns and pierces me with ice-blue eyes. I glance at Jez. “He seems so . . . self-possessed.”
“Malamutes are bred partly for confidence. They don’t see themselves as inferior to humans. They regard themselves as our equals.”
“I didn’t even know they were out here. When do you exercise them?”
“Early in the morning. Before you get up.” Jez nods over to a fancy two-wheeled contraption housed in a shed behind the cage.
“Is that a trap?”
“It’s called a sulky—it’s a kind of sled. They love it. They can pull it for miles. That’s how I exercise them.”
The sulky has two enormous wheels on either side of a low, padded seat. A curved metal bar extends out the front, attached to a sort of axle, and there is a small, metal hitching bar at its front. Two diamond-shaped harnesses hang next to the sulky on wooden pegs. “Is it difficult?”
“Well, it’s not for the uninitiated. It can be hard to control. Though admittedly, once you’re hitched up, the dogs do most the work. But don’t be fooled: the sulky can be dangerous if you don’t know how to use it, so just leave it alone while I’m gone.”
“What happens if you don’t exercise them?”
She grins. “They can get a little tetchy.”
“Like eat-their-carer tetchy?”
“Nah,” she says. “They’ll be fine if you just let them out into the paddock for a run a few times a day.”
I carry on stroking Remus. Unlike Peggy and Hulk, there’s something mesmerizing about him, and vaguely comforting. Truly, he would make a fabulous rug. I almost want to burrow down inside his fur and hide there. When Jez eventually stands up, I’m a little reluctant to follow.
“So, what do you say?” Jez asks a little nervously, nodding toward them. “Are you up for looking after them?” I look down at Remus and, once again, he fixes me with his glacial stare.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug.
How hard can it be?
* * *
On our way back to the house Jez explains that she’ll leave for London in the morning, just as soon as she’s fed and exercised the dogs. She’s booked a flight from Heathrow to Helsinki the next evening, with a connecting flight through to Lapland, which gives her a few hours in town to sort out her Christmas shopping and buy a killer dress.
“What does one wear to impress an Arctic scientist?” I ask.
“Clothes. Lots of them. Apparently, the temperature can drop as low as minus-thirty at this time of year.”
“Better pack your wool knickers, then.”
“Who has wool knickers?”
“Sheep.”
When we get to the kitchen, Jez reaches in the fridge and pulls out the small brown bag. “Um. About these,” she says tentatively, holding them up.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What about those?”
“Cal prescribed them for Slab.”
“Of course he did. Just to spite me.”
“Honestly, there’s nothing to it.”
“Forget it. Not a chance.”
“Just a quick shove up the bum and Bob’s your uncle.”
“Can I remind you that your dad is called Archie? And I’m not going anywhere near a dog’s bum.”
“Please?”
“Oh, come on, Jez. Can’t I just feed him some prunes?”
She shakes her head no, then sighs. “Fine,” she offers. “I’ll pay you.”
I hesitate. “How much?”
“Slab’s fee for the fortnight. It’ll be the easiest two hundred quid you ever made.”
“Did I just hear you say three hundred?”
“No, you did not.”
“Two fifty?”
“Two hundred. Take it or leave it. Valko would do it for free, so count your blessings.”
“What sort of person would do that for free?”
“A desperate person.”
“I’m desperate. And I wouldn’t do that for free. Who is Valko, anyway? And why didn’t you get him to look after the dogs?”
Jez sighs. “Valko is my Bulgarian neighbor. And he’s not really capable of looking after anyone. Least of all himself.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s depressed. His mail-order bride ran off with another man and he hasn’t really recovered.”
“People in England use mail-order brides? From where? America?”
“Moldova. Anyway, he’s been struggling to get over it.”
“When did she leave?”
“Oh Lord. Maybe three months ago?”
“What’s a Bulgarian doing in Cross Bottomley anyway?”
“Who knows? Valko pitched up here last February. He’s been working odd jobs around the area ever since. He lives in a trailer owned by a friend of mine. That’s how I met him. He helped me to install some new fencing last spring.” Jez holds up the brown bag again and gives it a little shake. “So, do we have a deal?”
I sigh. “Fine. But don’t expect me to groom them for that price. I don’t intend to groom myself over the holidays. Let alone them.”
“OK by me. And in spite of what he says, if you really have a problem, you can always ring Cal.”
“Right. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to get that call.”
“Trust me, his bark is worse than his bite.”
* * *
I don’t want to think about his bite. In fact, I don’t want to think about Bovine Cal at all. The man is infuriating. And I am perfectly capable of restraining myself from the province of male allure for two blessed weeks! I am not some hormonal-hyped fifteen-year-old. I’m thirty-one years old, single, and thoroughly self-sufficient. I do not need men, and I especially do not need veterinary man candy. What I really need right now is a distraction: a focus for all my energy. And the obvious one is right under my nose. Canines! While Jez is away, I will reverse the habit of a lifetime and bond with the animal kingdom. Instead of battling Peggy for the sofa each morning, I will get in touch with my inner beast.
Apparently, I’m not the first to have this idea. When I google it on my phone later that evening I find hundreds of sites devoted to the topic. Apparently, there are myriad of ways you can foster your inner animal: going barefoot, sleeping on the ground, embracing the sun (which means, among other things, eschewing sunscreen), and rolling and crawling on the floor are all on the list. I don’t really fancy the first two, at least not in the dead of winter, but I reckon I can manage rolling and crawling if the spirit moves me, though these strike me as rather closer to toddler than animal behavior. And I’m not sure rolling and crawling will bring me any closer to Peggy, who at the moment is snoring loudly on the sofa, apparently getting in touch wi
th her inner human.
“Valko’s offered to help exercise the dogs,” says Jez, coming into the kitchen.
“I thought you said he wasn’t trustworthy?”
Jez shrugs. “Well, he’s capable of taking them into the paddock. And he wants to help. So I think you should let him.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. He’s lonely, Charlie.”
I sigh. “Fine. Hang on, you’re not trying to set me up with him, are you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Hell, no!”
“Good.”
“He’s not that bad. Anyway, he’s part of the Cozy Canine package.” She disappears into the office—and sirens start up in my head again.
What else is part of the package?
A few minutes later I hear a car pull up outside. Jez pokes her head out of the office and peers out the back door. She frowns, pulls on a coat, and goes outside to investigate. A moment later I glimpse her talking to a sandy-haired man in an open-topped dark green sports car. And while I’m not an expert, the car looks like it might be worth more than my flat. It’s a sunny day, but it is still the dead of winter, so I wonder what sort of nutcase would drive with the top down in December? I crane my neck to get a better view and just then the man shifts to one side to reveal an enormous white dog, the size of a small pony, seated in the front passenger seat of the car. I watch as the man points to the dog, and then I see Jez shake her head. Clearly, whatever he’s selling she isn’t buying, or vice versa. I pull on my coat and step outside just in time to hear her reiterate her refusal.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we are absolutely full to capacity this Christmas.”
At the sound of my approach the man turns to me with a plaintive look that would melt an iceberg, though clearly not Jez. In that moment, I see that he is not only desperate, but desperately beautiful: high cheekbones, Roman nose, golden blond hair. To compound the effect, he is impeccably dressed in a handsome dark blue peacoat and a plaid cashmere scarf that almost screams of wealth and breeding.
Heigh-ho!
But Jez is not just immune: she’s annoyingly resolute. She apologizes and shakes her head again. I glance over at the giant dog, who is seated ramrod straight, staring at us with enormous, unblinking hazel eyes, in a manner that could almost be described as august.
“I promise you, he’s really no trouble at all,” insists the man, running a hand through his hair. “He’s an absolute prince of a dog.”
“Yes, sir, they all are,” says Jez, smiling.
But they don’t all have owners like this one! I squint at the dog and decide there may well be something vaguely noble about him. And, anyway, what’s one more quadruped when you already havefive?
“Hello,” I say, giving a cheery wave. “I’m Charlie.”
The man turns to me with a perplexed but hopeful smile. And lo! He has dimples! Two perfect adorable thumbprint indentations on each side of his square-cut jaw. He thrusts a hand out toward me like he’s reaching for a lifeline. “I’m Hugo. And this is Malcolm.” He motions toward the dog. “And we really are desperate. You would be doing us the most tremendous favor.”
I turn to Jez with a hopeful look and am just about to insist it’s no bother when she shakes her head once more. “Any other time we’d be absolutely delighted,” she says firmly. “Please do think of us again.” And with that she guides poor, handsome Hugo back into his car with a helpful arm, shuts the door, steps back, and waves him off. With no alternative, handsome Hugo starts the engine and pulls out, driving off with a forlorn wave. Such nice manners, even in the teeth of disappointment, I think. Even my mother would approve.
After he’s gone, Jez turns to me and shakes her head. “Dane owners! They act as if they’re bloody entitled.”
“Was he Danish? I swear he sounded English.”
“The dog. Great Dane.”
“Oh. But the owner seemed nice,” I suggest tentatively.
“They all seem nice. Until they aren’t.”
And he looks even nicer, I think wistfully, watching the convertible disappear down the lane.
Jez walks back into the house, leaving me to wonder whether it is something in the water that explains the magnetism of Devon men.
chapter
8
When I go downstairs the next morning, I spot a bright red wheelie bag packed and waiting beside the back door. I can hear Jez talking on the phone in the office. “Sorry, we’re absolutely jammed,” she says vehemently. “Afraid we’re booked solid over the holiday.” I hear her put the phone down and a moment later she practically comes skipping into the kitchen.
“Funny, you don’t look sorry,” I say with a grin.
“She’s called three times now. I’m sure she disguised her voice the third time, but it was definitely the same woman.”
“Persistence pays.”
“Not this time! She can bloody well look after her own dog! This Christmas, it’s my turn to go on holiday.”
“If a trip to the North Pole in the dead of winter constitutes a holiday.”
“Lapland!”
“Same difference.”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” says Jez with a sly smile.
“Enough with the smut! I haven’t even had my coffee.” I pour myself a mug and sit down at the table, picking up the newspaper. Jez is an absolute dervish of activity: she whirls around the house for another twenty minutes before eventually throwing a plastic folder and a set of keys down in front of me.
“Right! Here’s everything you need! The keys to the house, the kennels, and the Škoda, and a sheet of emergency contacts—owners’ details, Cal’s number, doctor, hospital, boiler guy, Gerry, and Valko. Keep an eye out for him. He may come by later.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to the crossword. “I’ll be sure to memorize them all,” I add, picking up a pencil.
“And here’s a list of what everyone eats,” says Jez. “Just in case you forget.” She hands me a typed page and I scan it quickly before looking up at her.
“My name’s not here.”
“You’re not a dog,” says Jez.
“I still have to eat, don’t I?”
“Help yourself to the contents of the fridge and freezer,” says Jez. She turns and grabs her coat off the hook and picks up her bag, before turning back to face me, her eyes blazing with excitement. “Well? Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”
I stand up and give her a hug. “Of course I am,” I say. “And let luck be a lady,” I add with a grin.
Jez laughs. “But not too much of a lady,” she says.
“Enough! Get out of here before I change my mind about the suppositories.”
“Happy Christmas,” says Jez.
“Just go.”
* * *
After she’s gone, I sit back down and glance over at Peggy, who’s asleep in her usual spot on the sofa. “Hey,” I say. “Guess it’s just you and me now.”
The beagle opens one eye, regards me for a second, then shuts it.
“So, what you do you reckon? Should we hang out?”
The beagle shifts her massive bulk beneath her, stretching her forepaws out.
“What’s a four-letter word beginning with J that means reject?”
Peggy takes a deep breath and sighs.
“If this relationship is going to work, you’re going to need to put a bit more welly into it,” I say. Peggy’s eyes remain firmly shut.
I look back down at the crossword, and suddenly the answer bites me like a snake. It’s a verb I’m looking for—not a noun.
And the answer is jilt.
* * *
Later that morning I drive the Škoda into the village to stock up on food. The plan is to lay in a fortnight’s worth of snacks, chocolate, booze, and frozen meals, then hunker down in front of the telly until Christmas is no more
than a distant memory. The only hiccup is the telly, or lack thereof. I have no intention of spending the holidays watching seasonal repeats on my phone. So, after some prevaricating, I decide to spend all of my earnings from Slab’s bottom-maintenance on a new telly, which I order for overnight delivery. Who knew that you could get a twenty-two-inch flat-screen full-HD Slim Smart LED television with built-in Wi-Fi and Freeview delivered to your door in less time than it takes to finish the Sunday Times crossword? We live in a miracle age.
Once my online shopping spree is over, I drive to the village shop and park right in front, nodding to the teenage girl behind the till as I go in. With relief I note that eyebrow piercings and purple hair have finally managed to find their way to rural Devon, even if they are a few decades late. I grab a wire basket and roam the aisles, loading it with crisps, sweets, and various types of chocolate; the selection is a bit thin, and the shop is missing some of my favorites (how do these people survive without Ferrero Rocher?) but I manage to fill the basket in no time. Depositing it by the till, I grab a second and fill it with Chilean chardonnay, frozen pepperoni pizzas, and some random meat pies for variety. On my way back down the aisle I spy a rack of chocolate reindeer lollies on sale and on impulse I grab a handful. Who says I don’t have the spirit of Christmas?
When I’m finished, I hoist both baskets onto the counter with a grunt and survey my haul, deciding that I’ve done a fine morning’s work. Even Carl would be proud, I think. But the purple-haired cashier seems unimpressed. “Do you need bags?” she asks, barely managing to conceal her boredom.
“That depends on whether you’ll let me borrow the baskets.” I flash my most winning smile, but the girl merely reaches under the counter and pulls out a handful of eco-unfriendly blue plastic bags.
“They’re twenty pence each,” she says, which is practically extortion, but I nod and begin to unload the baskets. After a moment I hear a car outside and look up to see a battered blue Volvo pull up and park. Uh-oh. My insides lurch as Bovine Cal gets out and heads into the shop. I look down at my purchases: they aren’t exactly an advertisement for healthy living. I frantically begin stuffing items into the bags as fast as the cashier can ring them through. I grab a large package of gummy bears and suddenly the girl reaches out and snatches it off me.