by Natalie Cox
It isn’t really, because in the film Harold is twenty years old (though, as Sian pointed out, he looks about twelve) and Maude is a sprightly seventy-nine, so it’s perfectly legal. It’s just unorthodox, I told her. In the film Harold and Maude meet at a funeral and become friends. Harold is young, disillusioned with life, and obsessed with suicide; while Maude is spontaneous, unconventional, and fun-loving. It’s true that she’s four times his age, but somehow, when they fall in love it makes sense. She shows him the meaning of life, and he realizes that life is worth living. It is tender and romantic and life-affirming, and by the end of the film Sian was completely won over. I had to lead her onto the tube like a blind person, because she was weeping buckets over the ending.
But . . . Gerry and Cal? Gerry must be twice his age. Though she is also warm, funny, kind, and perceptive—not to mention remarkably spirited for someone so old—and still attractive in a Dame Judi Dench kind of way. So why shouldn’t he be drawn to her? The thought depresses me, though I’m not sure why. It’s not as if I had any serious designs on Bovine Cal; he has been little more than a mild diversion this past week. But after my conversations with both Valko and Hugo, I’m beginning to feel like everyone around me is engaged in something vital and important, and that I’ve somehow missed the party.
Or maybe it’s just the prospect of waiting until my seventies to meet someone I really like.
* * *
When I get home, I definitely need a mood swing. I realize that, apart from brief walks with the dogs out to the paddock, I’ve done almost no physical activity since before the accident—and I know from experience that if I don’t exercise soon, I’ll go mad. Endorphins are right up there with caffeine and alcohol in my holy trinity of chemicals: all three are fairly essential to my sanity.
In fairness, I have to credit Lionel with this. Before I met him, I hadn’t taken proper exercise in years. But Lionel was fanatical about fitness and shortly after we got together, he started bugging me about going to the gym. The gym, for Lionel, was like a second womb; a complete ecosystem where he felt happy, comfortable, and sated. I swear he would have slept there if they’d let him—and he couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel the same.
For my part, I’d always been ambivalent about exercise in general, and indoor exercise in particular. The latter felt like a strange form of deprivation, a place where you were denied fresh air, natural light, and reasonable human behavior. Being surrounded by dozens of grunting, straining, sweating adults, all pushing themselves beyond the limits of endurance, made me uneasy. It also made me feel like an impostor. But I had to do something, so after a few months with Lionel, I grudgingly agreed to shop around.
At school I’d played field hockey, so I decided to join a South London women’s league. But I soon discovered that my teammates took their sport very seriously indeed; if I turned up shattered after work, or worse, hungover from the previous night’s excesses, glances of condemnation would be flung among them like angry pucks. Forget team spirit and jolly camaraderie: these women were out to win, and our occasional losses were usually followed by earnest debate and frenzied soul-searching. Even after winning matches, we rarely went out for drinks; my teammates would all cry off to get an early night, presumably so they could be fresh and ready to play hockey again the next day.
After one spectacularly bad performance on my part, I was demoted to a lower league, which I took as my exit cue from the sport altogether. When I threw my stick in the back of a cupboard, I was almost overcome with gratitude and relief. Then a friend from work talked me into rollerblading. He was in a club that met twice weekly by the Serpentine and it was urban, cool, and just the right side of edgy. But a little too edgy, I soon discovered. It became clear that blading wasn’t my destiny, either: I grew up before dyspraxia was even a thing, but it didn’t take a genius to work out I had balance deficiencies. And in spite of plastering my entire body with padded guards, after a few weeks my arms and legs looked like overripe bananas. In the end I decided that if God had intended me to roll, he would have given me wheels in lieu of feet.
So in the end I settled on running. I guess it was the path of least resistance. There were no expensive barriers to entry, little risk of injury, virtually no competition, no awkward personalities to contend with, no stuffy changing rooms, and no marching to someone else’s timetable. It was just me, my feet, and the horizon. And while I found it painful to begin with, over time I grew to crave it, both physically and mentally. I loved the solitude, the autonomy, and the sense of freedom it gave me. So running became one of my things.
Right now I would like nothing more than to sling on some trainers and hit the road, but I don’t have any gear—and anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s too soon after the concussion. So there is only one other thing I can think of that will produce the desired effect—and even though I know that both Jez and Bovine Cal would disapprove, I decide to have another go with the twins and the chariot.
It’s a clear day and although the mercury reads almost freezing, the wind is not as biting as yesterday. I pull on one of Jez’s heavy-duty coveralls and march all six dogs out to the paddock, then go back to retrieve the sulky and harness. When I return I truss up the malamutes and attach them to the frame. By the time I finish, Peggy, Malcolm, Hulk, and Slab are all lounging in a sunny corner of the paddock, watching us with interest, like little Roman emperors. I climb into the sulky, take up the reins, then carefully release the brake. The twins twist round and fix me with a stare. “What’s the problem?” I ask Remus. “Go on!” I snap the reins a little. “Come on, boys! Mush!” Remus paws the ground and whimpers, and Romulus gives a kind of massive shiver, as if his entire body disapproves. Just then I see Valko wobble up the road on his ancient, rusty bicycle. He cycles into the yard, jumps off, and leans the bike up against the fence.
“What do you do?” he calls over to me, looking puzzled.
“Taking the dogs for a run.”
Valko shakes his head. “Not here.” He motions to the paddock.
“Why not?”
“They no like grass.”
Oh. Who knew sled dogs could be so fussy? Grass, snow, tarmac . . . surely it’s all the same?
I climb out of the sulky and open the gate to the paddock, then lead the malamutes out onto the yard, where Valko is waiting. He looks at me doubtfully as I take my seat again.
“You know how to this?” he asks, gesturing to the sulky.
“Sure.”
“I think is not safe,” he says, shaking his head.
“And I think it’ll be fine. We’ll go on the track,” I say, motioning toward the dirt track down the road. I strap myself in, plant my feet on the pedals, and release the brake. In an instant the twins explode like rockets, shoulders straining, paws outstretched, and the sulky practically takes flight. But instead of turning left out of the farmyard, the dogs immediately veer right, and in the next instant we are bombing down the A road in the opposite direction from where I intended. I hear Valko shouting behind me and I look back to see him jump on his bike and pedal furiously after us in a vain attempt to catch up. The dogs are working hard, running flat out in perfect syncopation, and the sulky sails along smoothly behind them. I lean back and let the wind buffet me, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and delight; it is easily the most exhilarating thing I have ever done, and I find myself grinning madly.
I should have been a gladiator!
After a few minutes the dogs’ pace starts to slow, and as we round a bend in the road I see Stella’s pig farm looming ahead on the right, a neat cluster of white buildings next to a tidy cottage and a trim painted sign that reads HOLLYHOX FARM. As we reach her driveway, I tug sharply on the right-hand rein and the twins veer into her yard, coming abruptly to a halt in front of Stella’s barn, the sulky lurching to a stop. We sit there for a moment, all three of us panting, then I throw my head back and give a little whoop of pl
easure. The dogs’ chests are heaving and their tongues are lolling from the effort, but I can tell from the spark in their eyes that they enjoyed the ride as much as I did, and Romulus gives a little yip of his own. I reach down and set the brake, dropping the reins.
Stella comes out of the barn just then, wearing enormous dark green plastic coveralls and wiping her hands on a rag. She glances down at her watch and then beams at us. “Right on time.”
I give her a puzzled look. “For what?” I say, climbing out of the sulky.
“Jez always brings the dogs here for coffee on Thursdays.”
“Really?” I turn to look at Romulus and Remus. How on earth do they know it is Thursday? I can barely keep track of the time, much less the days of the week. Just then Valko comes cycling up the driveway, puffing with effort. He reaches us and climbs off his bike. “This is Valko,” I explain. “He was worried about my driving.”
“I fear for safe,” says Valko, shaking his head and pointing to the road.
“How sweet,” says Stella. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
* * *
We follow her inside to the kitchen and it is like stepping into a grotto: the walls and ceiling have been festooned with fresh-cut evergreen boughs and strands of tiny white lights. Sprigs of bright red holly and bunches of mistletoe have been tied to the boughs with green ribbon, and the scent of pine wafts around us deliciously. Valko looks around, wide-eyed. “Like dream,” he murmurs. I know exactly what he means, because the effect really is rather magical. Stella blushes.
“I get a little carried away at Christmastime,” she says. We sit at the table and she serves us homemade scones with rhubarb jam, and I marvel at the strangeness of circumstance: only ten days ago I sat hunched over a computer screen in a shabby office near Elephant & Castle punching in code, and today I am drinking coffee with a pig farmer and a Bulgarian migrant in a fairy-tale kitchen. It turns out that although Stella has seen Valko cycling along the lanes, she did not know who he was until now. And Valko reveals that much of his childhood was spent helping out on his uncle’s pig farm in Bulgaria.
“For me, pigs is first love. Before even . . . woman,” he says exuberantly.
“Really?” I ask. Stella and I burst out laughing and Valko looks from one of us to the other, before his face flushes beet red.
“No! No! Not this!” he cries with alarm.
Stella and I hoot even harder.
We stay for only a short visit, as I’m conscious that we’ve left the dogs back at the kennels in the paddock. I give the twins some water before we leave, then I carefully position them and the sulky at the opening of Stella’s driveway, facing toward home, before climbing in and taking up the reins. Valko takes up his post on his bike at the rear. “I go behind,” he says. “Just in cases.” I release the brake and Stella waves us off. The dogs know exactly where they are headed and need little encouragement from me, lurching off eagerly. They pull at a more sedate pace this time, but we still reach home in a matter of minutes. When we turn into the yard I’m surprised to see a smart, gray Mercedes sedan parked outside the barn and a well-dressed older woman peering into one of the kennel windows. I see with relief that the canine crew haven’t budged an inch in the paddock. Why would they, when movement is such an effort?
The woman turns toward us as we pull up. She’s in her early sixties, quite attractive, and immaculately groomed: her silver-blonde hair pulled back in a neat chignon, her eyebrows sketched in perfect dark arches, and her features suspiciously taut. She’s wearing a long wool coat in charcoal gray with what appears to be a real fur plume around the collar—in fact, it looks remarkably like Remus’s tail—and her boots are tall, black, and stylish, with killer heels. She waits for me as I climb out of the sulky, though I get the distinct sense that she is unused to waiting.
“Hello. May I help you?” I ask, approaching her.
“My name is Camilla Delors. I rang earlier this week. More than once, in fact.” My mind flies to Jez and the woman who disguised her voice on the phone.
“I’m afraid the owner is abroad at the moment.”
“I’m looking to kennel my setter over the holiday. The owner told me you were full.” Her tone is cordial but vaguely accusatory.
“We are,” I say, flashing my most courteous smile. The customer is king!
Just then Valko approaches with the four dogs on leads, whom he has retrieved from the paddock. He nods to us, then returns Slab and Hulk to their respective kennels and goes into the house with Peggy and Malcolm.
“You have eight kennels here,” Camilla Delors says, nodding toward the kennels. “But I see only six dogs.”
“That’s because two are at the vet,” I lie.
Camilla Delors frowns. She is wearing black leather gloves that match her boots and she holds one hand out in front of her for a moment, examining it.
“I only need five days’ care,” she says then. “He could board with one of the others, as long as they’re both crated.”
“I’m sorry, but we really can’t manage any more dogs just now. Not with the owner away. I’m sure you understand.” My tone is firm but placatory. Jez would be proud.
“Five hundred pounds,” says the woman. She is still examining her glove, studiously avoiding my gaze, as if I’m not really worth looking at.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s what I’m prepared to pay,” she says. “It’s more than generous.”
I stare at her for a moment. She is obviously used to getting her way. Everything about Camilla Delors smacks of entitlement: her hair, her clothes, her car, her attitude. Does she really think I can be bought that easily?
Obviously, the answer is yes.
“Fine,” I say. I have just more than tripled my holiday earnings; if I’d known, I would have ordered a bigger TV. “What sort of dog did you say it was?” I ask.
“An Irish setter. He’s a triple champion and very valuable. You do have a security system here, don’t you?”
As far as I know Jez doesn’t even lock the kennels at night. But for five hundred pounds, I think I can manage. “Yes, of course,” I say.
“Fine. You’ll have to take him now. I’ve got a charter flight from Exeter in less than two hours.”
“Less than two hours”? What was she planning to do if I refused? Leave him with the baggage handlers? I watch as she crosses to the Mercedes and opens the back door. Inside, a tall, chestnut-brown dog sits bolt upright on the black leather seat, as if it is used to being chauffeured. “Come!” she barks. The dog carefully descends to the ground, then stands obediently beside her. He is tall and lean, with exquisite deportment, and his coat is truly prizeworthy: long, silky, feathery fur that literally gleams in the afternoon sun. What shampoo does he use?
Camilla Delors then opens the boot and retrieves a small bag of dog food, which she places on the ground next to me, then pulls out a lead and attaches it to his collar, handing the other end to me. “He should have only this food, one cup twice daily. There’s a measure in the bag. And plenty of fresh water,” she adds.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Justice James Alexander of Welbeck,” she says in one breathless sentence.
I peer at her. Is she being facetious? Which of those does he answer to?
Camilla Delors merely raises an eyebrow, as if to say: Do you have a problem with that?
“Fine,” I say, deciding that I’ll call him Judd. “Does he require any special care?” I ask. And now it’s me who’s being facetious, though Camilla Delors does not appear to notice.
“He needs exercise, of course. Preferably on his own. And his coat should be brushed completely through twice daily. Otherwise it will mat.”
I hesitate. Until now, grooming has been a bit of a deal breaker. But then I decide that Valko can brush him. And as for being exercised alone, she’s got a hope; Judd
can lie in the corner of the paddock with the others.
“The main thing is to ensure that he’s here when I return,” she says pointedly.
“Of course,” I reply. She retrieves an envelope from her handbag and hands it to me.
“Half your fee up front. Half when I return. My contact details are inside. I’ll collect him at two o’clock on Boxing Day,” she says with clipped efficiency, turning away. She does not say good-bye, either to me or to her prizewinning pooch, but climbs into her Mercedes and closes the door with a decisive thunk. A moment later the engine purrs to life and she speeds off, leaving Judd and me to stare after her. I open the envelope and count five crisp fifty-pound notes alongside a plain white business card with her name and mobile number.
Valko emerges from the house just then and walks over to us.
“This is who?” he asks, motioning to Judd. I grin at him.
“Your new best friend.”
chapter
14
I install Judd in the Royal Suite. It seems only fitting for a triple champion. When I show him to his quarters he walks over to the pale blue canopied bed and sniffs at it, then lies down on the floor with a world-weary sigh. I don’t envy him. The life of a canine champion must be an endless parade of strange kennels, two-star motels, badly lit exhibition halls, desolate car parks, and peculiar humans with bad breath prying your mouth open to examine your teeth. All this, while maintaining an even temperament and impeccable deportment.
Once back at the house I flick to the page on Irish setters in the Dog Encyclopedia, thinking I might as well earn Judd’s fee. The entry describes the breed as highly sensitive working dogs who thrive on companionship and activity. It cautions that they should not be left alone for long periods of time, as isolation can lead to boredom, depression, or worse. What sort of worse? I wonder. Serial biting? Canine suicide? Camilla Delors must have known that Judd would be left alone in the kennel, so it’s not really my responsibility if his mental health plummets over the course of the next five days.