by Natalie Cox
“Hang on,” she says, “I need to check the price on that one.” She turns and walks down the aisle just as Cal enters the shop. I instantly drop down behind the till, pretending to fiddle with my shoelace as Cal strides past and disappears up the dairy aisle. A moment later the girl returns to the counter and holds up the gummy bears.
“They’re £1.99,” she says. “Is that OK?”
“Fine,” I say, stuffing the gummy bears into the plastic bag. Then I turn to see Cal heading toward me with a liter of milk. He is glancing down at his phone and still hasn’t seen me, but when he reaches the till he looks up and, for the briefest instant, I see something flash across his face. I cannot tell whether it is surprise or irritation or a mixture of both.
“How’s the PCS?” he asks after a moment’s hesitation.
“Fine,” I say. At once I color. “Well, not fine, in fact. Still suffering headaches. And dizziness. And all that.”
“I’m sure,” he says. He looks around. “Where’s Jez?”
“Already off.”
“Leaving you in charge.”
“That would be correct,” I say.
He sucks in his breath, glances down at the array of snacks and wine laid out before me, then looks up at me with surprise. “Throwing a party?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “No. Not at all. Just . . . laying in some supplies.”
“Right.” Cal raises a skeptical eyebrow, and I give a nervous laugh.
“You know,” I explain. “For the holidays. Thought the dogs deserved a few treats.”
Now he really is frowning. “You do know that chocolate is dangerous for dogs?” Once again his tone is just this side of schoolmaster.
Seriously? How could chocolate be bad for anyone? “Of course,” I say, stuffing the chocolates into a bag. “The dogs can have the crisps.”
He crosses his arms, clearly trying to work out if I’m serious, and I cannot help but stare at them. Who the hell has forearms that practically sizzle?
“Actually, salt isn’t brilliant for them, either,” he says. “Especially Slab. He’s got high blood pressure.” I drag my gaze back to his face and give him my coolest smile.
“I was joking,” I say. God, he’s irritating!
“Excuse me,” interjects the cashier just then. We both turn to look at her. She holds up a fistful of reindeer lollies. “These are on sale,” she says pointedly. “Five for five pounds?”
“Um . . . OK.”
“But you’ve got six,” she adds accusingly, as if I have deliberately tried to cheat her. The reindeers stare at me with bulging cartoon eyes.
“That’s fine,” I say crisply.
“Well, I’ll have to charge you £1.49 for this one,” she adds, holding up the sixth.
I hesitate, then snatch it from her hand and stalk over to the display, placing it back among the others, before returning to the till, my face newly alight. The young woman may have saved me a few pennies, but she has cost me my dignity.
Cal nods at the lollies. “Guess you’re all sorted,” he says.
“Guess I am,” I reply.
He fishes some coins out of his pocket, places them on the counter, and nods to the girl with purple hair. “Happy Holidays,” he says, raising the milk in a salute and walking out of the shop. I watch him climb into his car and drive off.
“You, too,” I mutter.
* * *
A few hours later I’m sprawled across the kitchen sofa reading Agatha Christie when I hear a rustling sound outside. In the next instant the door opens and a tall, thin-faced man sporting a scrubby beard walks straight into the kitchen without so much as a how-de-do. I bolt up off the sofa, dislodging Peggy, who gives an unhappy grunt, and position myself in a sort of tae kwon do stance facing him. The man has the look of a vagrant: sparse hair, sallow cheeks, an oversized coat, and scuffed shoes. He blinks at me with surprise.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I am Valko,” he says.
I relax. “Right. Of course you are.” I’ve managed to forget all about Valko in the intervening hours since Jez has left. “I’m Charlie. Jez’s cousin.”
The man bows formally, somewhat to my alarm.
“So . . . um, you’re here to walk the dogs? Right?”
He nods, as if to say naturally.
“OK! Well, Slab, Hulk, and the twins are outside in the pens, and Peggy’s right here,” I say, pointing to the beagle.
Valko looks doubtfully at Peggy, who is now splayed across the bottom half of the sofa with her overstuffed belly bared to the world.
“Though I should warn you, she’s not much for exercise,” I add. Valko frowns.
“Dog will have baby, yes?” He bends down to the beagle and gently splays his hand across her abdomen like a midwife, while Peggy opens one eye and regards him with something akin to alarm. What the hell is he doing?
“Yes. Dog will have puppies,” I say, lapsing into Euro-speak.
Valko stands up and turns to me with a shrug. “So I take others.” I look at Peggy and she almost seems to grin: clearly, she cut a deal with him earlier.
“Sure,” I say. “That would be grand. Thank you.”
“For . . .” He glances down at his watch. “Maybe half hour.”
“Fine. See you in a half hour.”
“Then we drink tea.”
I stare at him. I knew there’d be a catch. But he hasn’t exactly phrased it as a question.
“Tea,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely.”
* * *
Whatever else I think of him, I discover over tea that Valko’s manners are impeccable. He is polite and solicitous, enquiring in his fractured English about my family and my job and my reasons for coming to Devon, in that order. I parry his questions as best I can, not wanting to let him delve too deeply into my personal life, and ask a few of my own, though I am careful to steer clear of any M-words: marriage, Moldova, misery.
“You like to live in city?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. I love the ceaseless hum of activity, the sense of perpetual movement and energy, the knowledge that one is surrounded, at all times, by a throbbing mass of humanity. London is a rapidly beating heart that never stops. For a split second I consider articulating all of this to Valko, in pidgin English. But then decide I can’t be bothered.
Valko is frowning. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. “When I am in city, I cannot . . .” He places a hand on his chest and presses down, mimes being unable to breathe.
I shrug. “Yeah, the air isn’t so good.”
“No.” He shakes his head dismissively. “Not air. In city, it is like . . . I am in box. I am in box that is too small for me. And other people? They are in box, too. All around. I see them. In box.” He mimes peering over the edge of his box to look into the other people’s boxes. “I see them. But I cannot . . . be with them. It is only me . . . in box.”
I stare at him and an image forms in my mind: of my much-loved dark brown sofa, cushions sunk into the corners, an old plaid blanket my mum gave me coiled like a lumpy serpent on one end; beside it, the coffee table strewn with old newspapers, magazines, empty plates, dead mugs, and discarded tissues; behind the sofa a window, looking out onto other windows. And now it’s me who’s frowning.
“How long you stay here?” Valko asks.
“Until Jez gets back from holiday.”
Valko nods. “I see,” he says, pouring himself more tea from the pot, then carefully ladling two spoons of sugar into his cup, stirring slowly until it dissolves. “This is question.”
“What is question?” I ask, puzzled.
“Is this holiday?” he asks.
I frown. “Of course it’s a holiday,” I say. And for the first time I wonder: Is it?
“Maybe yes. Maybe no,” he says cryptical
ly, his voice trailing off. What is he talking about? The man is like some sort of Eastern European sphinx. And I’m beginning to wonder if his broken English is an affectation. Valko looks up at me and shrugs, as if to say: Who knows what the future will bring?
chapter
9
I have always disliked Ferris wheels. On the face of it, they appear to be the most well-mannered of fairground attractions: sturdy, sedate, benign, boring even. They do not produce screams nor shrieks of laughter from their occupants; they are not replete with offensive bells or whistles or sirens, nor are they garlanded with obnoxious flashing lights. But there is always that moment when you reach the highest point and the mechanism suddenly judders to a halt with an eerie clang, followed by a vast, creeping silence with only the wind to remind you of your folly; that’s when the seat begins to swing maniacally and your stomach plummets as you contemplate life far below. Ferris wheels are billed as genteel entertainment, but really they’re an elaborate form of mechanical chicanery: they lull you into a false sense of security, then leave you stranded high in the sky, with only regret for company.
That is exactly how I feel after Valko leaves. Stranded. Anxious. Regretful.
Everything had been going just fine: me, Peggy, the fridge full of pizzas, the flat-screen delivery just around the corner. Now as I look around at Jez’s kitchen, the thought that runs through my head is: What am I doing here? I should be at home in my flat in Nunhead, nursing my wounded pride, not shacked up with a pregnant beagle in a ramshackle farmhouse on the edge of a desolate moor with my least favorite religious festival looming on the horizon. I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down. Jez will be home in twelve days’ time, and I will scurry back to my bombed-out flat, my loathsome boss, and my disheveled private life.
Maybe yes. Maybe no.
* * *
Later that night, Jez rings me from the plane. “We’re about to take off,” she says excitedly. “Thought I’d better make sure you aren’t freaking out.”
“Nope, everything’s fine,” I say in my most reassuring tone. Of course I’m freaking out.
“Any last-minute questions?”
“No, all good here.” You’re definitely coming back, right?
“Can I bring you anything from Lapland? A souvenir?”
“No, thanks,” I say. Only yourself!
“OK. Well, if there’s anything else . . . ?” she asks tentatively.
“Jez?”
“Yeah?”
Come back! Please!
“Have a great trip,” I say.
“I’ll do my best,” she says gleefully.
* * *
In the morning I am woken by sunshine streaming through the window. Outside a robin twitters and the sky is a reassuring robin’s-egg blue. I take a deep breath and last night’s fears melt away. Devon is charming, the dogs are delightful, and this is definitely the easiest two hundred pounds I will ever make. Even if I have already spent it.
I rise and dress and after a quick breakfast I square up to my responsibilities as sole operator of Cozy Canine Cottages. First up should be the paying customers: Slab and Hulk will be my top priorities this morning. Then I remember the bag of little white rockets in the fridge and the thought of Remus and his lustrous fur beckons. Maybe Slab and his bottom can wait, I decide, pulling on my boots and coat.
I walk back behind the house toward the run where the twins are kept and as I approach, both dogs rise from where they’ve been sitting and stand to attention like canine drill sergeants. “At ease, boys,” I say a little nervously.
Remus cocks one ear ever so slightly toward me, but apart from that, neither dog moves a muscle. They look like tightly wound giant toys ready to spring, and something deep inside me seizes up with fear. Slab’s bottom rockets start to seem preferable and I almost turn straight round. But then I catch a glint of interest in Remus’s eye. He is watching me with extreme intensity: in fact, I would say he is scrutinizing me. I stand a little taller and lift my chin, looking him in the eye, then step toward the run and lift the latch. Exude confidence. I enter the run and turn toward them.
“Good morning,” I say in as cheery a voice as I can muster. Then I force myself to kneel down on one leg, my thigh juddering. In an instant both dogs break formation and come toward me, rubbing up against me repeatedly in a curious sort of greeting dance that practically knocks me to the ground.
I stroke them both for a moment, then Remus stops and stares at me expectantly, as if to say, What next?
I stand and attach each of them to their leads and let them out of the run, intending to take them to the paddock. But both dogs calmly pull me over to a stretch of grass behind the sulky shed and almost in unison, lift their legs against the fence to pee. Such gentlemen! They both squat and do their other business, finishing up almost simultaneously with twin-sized poops, then watch patiently as I dispose of the evidence. When I’ve finished I take up their leads again but both dogs pull me straight to the sulky shed and sit down next to it obediently.
“I don’t think so, guys,” I say, shaking my head.
No contact sports, no dangerous activities, nothing that will put you at risk of a further fall.
Remus looks at me and his forehead seems to furrow with dismay.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I say.
Remus blinks, all innocence and disappointment, then gives a small hopeful wag of his tail. I turn to look at the sulky and harnesses. In spite of her warnings, Jez did say it was easy. Perhaps we could manage a quick run.
“Well, maybe just a few times round the yard,” I say finally.
The diamond-shaped harnesses are actually quite simple. There’s a small opening for the collar, which each dog thoughtfully dips its head for, then a crosshatched section that runs down their back. As I slide it onto Remus he helpfully raises a paw and I realize that the bottom quadrants go around their shoulders and under their chest. Within a minute both dogs stand patiently, kitted out like little gladiators. “Right,” I say, standing. “That wasn’t so difficult.” I pull the sulky out of the shed and position it several feet behind the dogs, lowering the bar in between them, clipping each of their harnesses to the crossbar. As soon as I do I feel the dogs bristle with excitement. Their eyes shine, their mouths loll open and their chests seem to expand like inflated balloons. Romulus begins to paw the ground in a way that seems alarmingly eager, and for an instant my confidence falters. But then I think: How hard can it be? I sit. They pull.
“OK, guys,” I say. I lower myself gingerly onto the seat and set my feet in the braces that extend on either side, then take up the reins. “And off we go.” The twins turn and look at me expectantly. Clearly I have not said the magic word. I look down at the sulky and realize there’s a brake mechanism on the left wheel, which I now release. I feel both wheels bounce slightly as they spring into action, and before I can say mush the dogs are off at a run, pitching me sideways and almost hurling me right out of the damn thing. With one hand I grab the edge of the seat and with the other I pull back on the reins, shouting, “Whoa!” The dogs slow almost imperceptibly but do not break stride. They pull me the length of the yard and head round the corner of the house toward the front drive. I am thinking that if I can just steer them toward the paddock we can do a quick loop around then back again, when out of the corner of my eye I spy a dark blue Volvo station wagon coming round the bend of the road. I jerk the reins as hard as I can toward the paddock but the twins have other ideas, and are now pulling the sulky right out onto the lane; clearly they know exactly where their morning route takes them. I tug hard on the reins and start shouting when the Volvo comes up behind us, then slowly pulls alongside and I glance over to see Bovine Cal gesticulating furiously through the window, just as the twins pull me, bouncing off down a farm track on the left and we disappear round a bend girded by a small copse of trees.
I am still shouting at the twins to stop when I remember the brake. I reach down and grab the lever, pulling it hard, and the sulky bucks wildly, nearly flinging me like a slingshot right onto the twins’ backs. It skids on the dirt track, veers to one side, then grinds to a halt. Ahead of me the twins twist round, panting hard. Their chests heave and their tongues loll and Remus has a wildly confused look in his eye, as if to say: Did we do something wrong?
For a moment I cannot breathe. I think I have just seen my entire life flash before me: childhood, adolescence, adulthood. I am pretty sure I saw my own funeral. And not enough people were in attendance.
“OK,” I gasp, holding tightly to the reins. We are here. We are whole. And for this we must be thankful. Behind me I hear a car come around the copse of trees and the blue Volvo pulls up, grinding to a halt, twenty feet behind me. Cal turns off the engine and jumps out.
“Are you insane?” he shouts as he storms over to me. I compose myself and turn to him.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Can you be any more irresponsible? You could have been killed back there! They could have been killed back there,” he says, motioning to the twins. “Frankly, we all could have been killed back there!”
“Don’t be dramatic. You were never in danger,” I say huffily. Which is true. “Anyway, I was in complete control,” I add. Which is not true.
“Bollocks!”
“There’s no need to be . . . vulgar.”
Cal is literally heaving with anger. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, then gesticulates back toward the road. “You have absolutely no business taking that thing out on a public highway.”