by Natalie Cox
“Do you mean match?”
“I am only . . . passport.” He spreads his hands. “To new life in Britain.”
“She came here?”
“After one half year she fly to London. I meet her at Heathrow with flowers, chocolate. She bring me socks she make herself,” he says, jousting with his index fingers in an effort to mime knitting. “And to begin, she is nice. She is . . . kind.” He shrugs. “Well . . . a little kind. I bring her to my caravan and she make it . . . more like home. We are happy. For some little time. I think.”
He frowns and my heart twists for him. “And then?” I ask.
“She begin to be . . . not happy. First, it is she do not like my food. Then she do not like my cloths.” He pinches his threadbare jacket. “Then it is place we live. The people beside us. The rain.” He rolls his eyes.
I refrain from saying that she has a point with this last one.
“Until she like . . . nobody. No one thing. But most of all . . . she not like me.” Valko seems to shrink with this last admission, as if his clothes are suddenly two sizes too large, and I understand that this mail-order woman has somehow reduced him to a pint-sized man.
“I’m sorry, Valko,” I say.
“In end, she stay in bedroom. And I stay on sofa. She will not talk to my face. Only use Skype. Even though there is only . . . thin wall between us.”
“Oh, Valko,” I say sympathetically.
“Then one day she leave. With cow man.”
“‘Cow man’?”
“The man who come with milk,” he grumbles.
“She ran away with the milkman?” I ask, incredulous.
He nods, and I wince. Mail-order brides and milkmen: Valko is living inside a tragic cliché. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” I offer half-heartedly. “Maybe the Internet isn’t where you find true love.”
Though it seems to have worked for Jez.
“Then where?” he asks. I shake my head.
Beats me.
* * *
After Valko leaves I get a call from the courier service delivering my flat-screen TV. It seems that the parcel was accidentally sent to a warehouse in Motherwell instead of Launceston. “Motherwell?” I ask. “Isn’t that in Scotland?”
“It always has bin,” says a man with a heavy Scottish accent. I can practically see him chuckling down the line.
“So when will it be rerouted?”
“I assume yoo’re awaur there’s a’ blizzard up haur,” he says. I am, of course, aware that the much-vaunted storm has already hit the northern parts of the country. But we live in the twenty-first century. We have the means to clear transport routes, surely?
“So what does that mean?” I ask tentatively.
“’At means yur telly will be delayed.”
No kidding. “Any idea how long?”
“Ach. Yoo’ll be lucky tae see it afair Christmas now.”
Nooooo. “But . . . is there an actual scheduled date of delivery?”
“I think we’re operatin’ purely in th’ realm of theory haur at this point,” he says.
Brilliant. A philosopher-courier. Just my luck.
“What’s your best guess?” I ask.
“Ye want me tae guess?” He sounds bemused, as if guessing is somehow beyond his remit.
“Yes.”
“Well, if I was tae speculate,” he says slowly. “I’d say it was oan indefinite delay.”
Perfect. My date with Audrey has been indefinitely postponed.
* * *
Later I escort the dogs out to the paddock and watch as Slab makes several valiant but unsuccessful efforts to purge himself. But each time he crouches down, his entire body begins to tremble uncontrollably, and he looks over at me imploringly, as if wanting me to intervene. Seriously? I kneel down beside him and place a steadying hand on either side of his fragile hips to try to support his frame. “Come on, Slab,” I plead. “Concentrate.” Slab strains and strains and finally something starts to emerge at a glacially slow pace. Hallelujah.
Though at the current rate we could be here all night. Just then I hear the sound of a familiar diesel engine behind us. Both Slab and I glance over to see the dark blue Volvo pull up beside the paddock. The engine dies and, after a split second, Bovine Cal climbs out. “Is he OK?” he calls over. Slab freezes, halfway through his business, poo dangling like low-hanging fruit from his bum. It is not a pretty picture.
“Um . . . maybe?” I call over.
“What are you doing?” Cal asks, coming over to the gate. I hesitate. He will think I am bonkers.
“Just . . . lending a hand.”
Cal opens the paddock and walks over to us. He is looming over me with disapproval. “Did you use the suppositories?”
That would be a negative. “He had one yesterday. Or maybe the day before,” I add.
He gives me a withering look. “So you thought what exactly? That you’d do it for him?”
“I just thought he might need a little support. That’s all.”
Cal stares down at us for a moment, then much to my surprise, he throws back his head and laughs.
“Constipation is no laughing matter,” I say in an admonishing tone.
He nods and turns away. “Hang on for a second,” he calls over his shoulder, trudging back to the car.
“We’re not going anywhere,” I reply.
He fetches the backpack from the front seat before returning to us, then reaches inside and pulls out a box of surgical gloves, snapping one onto each hand with brisk efficiency. When he finishes he reaches toward Slab’s bottom, then pauses, turning to me.
“This is the part where you might want to look away,” he says.
Yep. Too right. Still holding on to Slab’s hips I avert my eyes, while Cal proceeds with relieving the dog of his burden. It takes several moments until he gives the all clear. “Think that should do it,” he mutters. He bags the excrement in a black sack, then removes the gloves and places them inside, tying the handles shut. We both stand and Slab wobbles off gratefully to sniff the grass.
“Thank you,” I say.
Cal nods.
“Look,” he says. “I have to pass by here a few times a day. I can check on Slab if you’re worried.” His tone is suddenly more conciliatory. I wonder if he is feeling bad about his outburst over the sulky. Or maybe he’s just worried about Slab. I nod.
“Do you want to come in and wash your hands?” I ask. I call to the other dogs and we walk back to the house.
As we go inside, Cal gestures toward Malcolm. “Where did he come from?”
“The owner’s staying nearby. He needed somewhere to park him for a few days over Christmas.”
Cal raises an eyebrow. “You’re keeping him in the house?”
“He’s deaf,” I say, lowering my voice slightly, as if Malcolm might hear. “And very sensitive,” I add in a loud whisper. “So I’ve agreed to keep an eye on him.”
Cal looks at me quizzically, then goes to the kitchen sink and turns on the hot water. I watch, mesmerized, as he pours a liberal quantity of washing-up liquid on his hands and kneads them together over and over, slathering suds halfway up his arms. His soapy forearms are nothing short of exquisite. Eventually he shakes his hands dry over the sink and turns to me expectantly. I stand there, openmouthed.
“Tea towel?” he asks. I grab a clean tea towel out of a drawer and hand it to him, trying not to stare as he rubs his hands and forearms dry. Vigorously. Finally, he hands the towel back to me. I have to stifle the urge not to sniff it. “Thanks,” he says with a nod. There’s an awkward moment of silence while his eyes drift around the room, alighting on the neon orange Frisbee atop the Christmas tree.
“Cool tree,” he says. And I feel a little clink of surprise. I am not at all sure what to do with Nice New Cal.
“Thanks,” I say. “Wo
uld you . . . like something? A cup of tea?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Sure.”
We drink tea at the kitchen table and Cal quizzes me about my life and work in London. I give him a much-pared-down version of recent events, including the explosion, but omitting any mention of Lionel and the breakup. In turn I ask him about his practice, carefully steering clear of any questions about his personal life. If Cal is taken, I really don’t want to know—I’m only here for a few days—no need to spoil the illusion. (Though I’ve already clocked the absence of a ring, which, of course, means very little these days.) He tells me that he started the practice two years ago with another vet, but now runs it on his own after his business partner moved out of the area. “Must make it difficult to take time off,” I say.
He shrugs. “There are locum services I can use. And anyway, when you’re starting up a new business you expect to put in a load of time. I don’t really mind.”
“So, what’s so special about cows?” I ask.
“I love all animals,” he says. “But there’s something special about cows. My uncle had a herd of Friesians when I was growing up and I used to help look after them during the holidays. They’re clever. And loyal. And each one has its own personality. A herd of cows is like a village. There are feuds and scolds and secret alliances. It took me years of working with them before I understood how complicated their society is. Sometimes I prefer it,” he adds with a sardonic smile.
“Maybe because, at the end of the day, you can go home and leave it all behind?” I suggest.
He nods. “Probably.”
“When I was a child I stumbled onto a huge ant colony in a bit of derelict land near our house,” I tell him. “I used to stop and watch the ants on my way home from school: coming and going, harvesting food, building the nest, guarding against marauders. It was all so purposeful and orderly. And cooperative! They all just pitched in and did their job. Sometimes I just wanted to be a part of it—all that enterprise and community.”
He gives me an odd look.
“You wanted to be an ant?”
I lift my chin.
“Don’t underestimate them. They have very complex social structures and can communicate with each other. Just like cows,” I add for emphasis.
“Fair enough. But I can think of better things to be,” he adds. He pins me with his gaze then. “So have you still got a thing for bugs?” he asks, the corners of his mouth curling upward. The question feels oddly loaded.
“Actually, I’ve moved on to mollusks,” I say.
He laughs out loud, which makes him look even more handsome. But I am sure he is taken. So I rise and go to put the kettle on for more tea.
“So when will your flat be fixed?”
“No idea. The agency rang this morning to say they still don’t have an estimate for the repairs, much less the insurance report. Think it might be a while.”
“Will you stay on here until it’s done?”
I glance over my shoulder at him. His expression is completely neutral: I can read nothing in it one way or another.
“I definitely have to go back to work after the holiday. So I guess I may be sofa-surfing for a while.”
He nods and looks around the room. Darkness has fallen since we came inside and I am wondering if it would be indecent to offer him a glass of wine this early, when Malcolm suddenly rises to his feet and goes to the door, ears alert. Just then we both hear a car door shut in the driveway. Cal turns to me with a puzzled look and nods toward Malcolm.
“I thought you said he was deaf?”
“He is.” I shrug. In the next instant we hear a knock at the door and I see Hugo peering through the glass with his chiseled good looks: he really is a West Country Adonis. I glance over at Cal. What did I do to deserve two buff men on my doorstep in the course of a single afternoon? I go to the door, where I have to budge Malcolm to one side with my entire body in order to open it.
“Hello,” Hugo calls in a cheery voice. He greets Malcolm affectionately, kneeling down so they are muzzle to muzzle. Malcolm is beside himself with excitement, lapping at Hugo and clamping his massive paws one by one onto Hugo’s shoulders in a doggy embrace, while I watch in amazement. The Dane has not shown the slightest bit of enthusiasm for me and I am more than a little offended. Cal, meanwhile, has stood up and is already putting on his coat, making way for my next gentleman caller. When it rains it pours!
Hugo eventually stands and nods to Cal. “We’ve met, haven’t we? You’re the local vet.”
Cal nods. “Last summer. At the show. I’m Cal.”
“I knew it,” says Hugo triumphantly. “You were absolutely heroic with those goats.”
I turn to Cal with an enquiring look.
“There was a small fracas,” he explains. “Nothing serious.”
“He’s being modest,” says Hugo. “Who knew goats could be so terrifying?”
“Pedigree goats can be a little highly strung,” Cal says.
“It was Armageddon!” says Hugo.
I turn to Cal and say, “Bold.”
“Just doing my duty,” he replies.
“Well, I gave you full marks,” says Hugo. “So did Constance.”
For an instant I see a shadow flicker across Cal’s eyes.
“How is Constance?” he says, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Very well. Throwing herself into nuptial planning as we speak.”
“Ah yes. I heard. Congratulations,” says Cal. His face is suddenly a mask of impassivity.
“Constance and her mother seem to be approaching the whole operation like a military campaign,” continues Hugo. “And I appear to be quite incidental. Just another squaddie.” He barks a laugh.
“Knowing Constance, it will be a flawless occasion,” says Cal evenly.
I peer at him. How, exactly, does he know Constance?
“I’ve got to run,” Cal says then. “Thanks for the tea.” He nods to us and we watch as he departs.
Farewell, Nice New Cal, I think a little wistfully. Who knows which Cal will turn up next?
* * *
Once he’s gone, Hugo indicates Malcolm with a nod. “He looks in top form,” he says.
“Trust me, he’s been pining terribly.”
“Well, it’s good for him,” says Hugo brightly. “He’s been entirely too dependent on me these last few months. I fear he’s been . . . overindulged,” he declares. Hugo has clearly no intention of taking Malcolm away. I sigh and offer him a cup of tea, then, at the last second, suggest we have wine instead. He looks at his watch and frowns. “But it’s only half past four,” he says, a little taken aback.
“Really? I had no idea,” I say peering outside at the dark. “I thought it was much later. Dog-sitting is just so . . .” I break off, searching for the right word.
“Exhausting?” he asks earnestly.
Exactly. Though it’s not the mutts that tire me out. It’s the men. I nod, and Hugo’s forehead crinkles with concern.
“You poor thing,” he says.
An hour later we are two glasses each into a bottle of Chianti, and Hugo has related much of his life story. Or the story of his love life, at any rate. Turns out he has been almost married three times before (Seriously? Three?), but each betrothal was thwarted by forces beyond his control, he explains obliquely. “What sort of forces?” I ask. My mind runs to extraterrestrials, jihadists, or maybe even El Niño, but it turns out he’s referring to jealous ex-boyfriends, overreaching bosses, and too-exacting parents.
“Really? But you seem like the perfect son-in-law! What sort of parents could possibly object?”
“Mine,” he replies with a shrug.
“Ah.”
“My mother has impossibly high standards,” he explains with what appears to be genuine regret. I’m about to ask which one of his ex-girlfriends fell a
foul of his demanding mother when he suddenly brightens. “But she loves Constance,” he adds.
Of course she does. Constance is fiancée number four and she comes garlanded with a veritable shopping list of enviable traits, apparently: she is clever, beautiful, rich, and naturally blonde. I know this because he has already showed me her photo and I shamelessly asked. On top of that she’s practically royal; her family is descended from German nobility.
“So I have every reason to be optimistic,” he says with an awkward laugh. Then he turns to me. “The thing is . . . I’m not very good at bachelorhood,” he confesses. He makes it sound like some sort of weekend sporting activity, like shooting or polo. “I wanted to marry the first girl I fell in love with.”
Blimey. But why shouldn’t he be the marrying type? Just because he’s got Y chromosomes doesn’t mean he’s genetically programmed to roam. “Which one was that?”
“Bonnie,” he says. “We were only seventeen. But we fell madly in love. The way you do when you’re young, you know?” He gives an embarrassed smile.
Did I? I didn’t. At seventeen I struggled to even fall in like. But it wasn’t for lack of trying: I had dozens of crushes on boys from afar. But as soon as I got within striking distance, something went awry each time. Between the age of fourteen and eighteen, my conversations with boys were either impossibly awkward or impossibly dull. It was as if my incompatibility with the adolescent male of my own species was somehow predetermined; like one of us was feathered, the other furred.
“How lovely,” I say, deeply envious. Because I will never, ever be a seventeen-year-old madly in love, and that is a shame.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to inhale the memory. “Bonnie made me laugh more than anyone else has before or since,” he says wistfully. “She was utterly without guile or self-interest. She was gentle. And kind. And fun. And I thought that I would spend the rest of my life with her,” he says simply.
Wow. “What happened?”
“Maman. She persuaded me that we were too young. That we needed to get an education, start a career. That we had our entire lives ahead of us, and we shouldn’t squander opportunity.” He gives a melancholy smile. “So we squandered love instead.”