by Natalie Cox
Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask Valko to give him a shampoo and set. That should perk him up.
* * *
After dinner Jez rings me to see how things are going, her voice crackling down the line from the frozen hinterland.
“All good here,” I say cheerily when she asks. No need to mention Malcolm. Or Judd. Or the extra fees. “How’s the North Pole?”
“Chilly!”
“And the Arctic anthropologist?”
“Extremely hot!”
I smile. “Sounds like the perfect combination.”
“Eloise is amazing. She’s got this fantastic research project with the reindeer herders up north. She’s taking me to meet them tomorrow and we’re going to camp for two nights in a real igloo!”
“Sounds exciting,” I say. And insanely cold.
“I just wanted to make sure you guys were OK. How’s Peggy doing?”
I glance over at Peggy, who for the past half hour has been steadily licking her own teats. “Peggy is fine. She’s engaging in a little personal hygiene as we speak.”
“And Slab?”
“Slab is . . . still alive,” I say brightly.
“Great. Give Peggy a cuddle from me.”
“Sure.” Unlikely. Peggy and I haven’t even held hands yet.
“I hope the twins are behaving,” says Jez guiltily.
“The twins are great.” And the sulky is awesome!
“I’ll be out of contact for the next few days while we’re camping,” Jez says.
“We’ll be fine,” I reassure her. All seven of us.
“You’re a lifesaver, Chaz.” It’s true. I really am.
Jez rings off and I glance over at Peggy, whose girth seems to increase by the hour. Over the past day she has become even more sluggish than usual and has developed a sort of glazed look in her eyes. This afternoon Valko frowned at her and said: “Dog will pop soon. Like balloon.” I reminded him that the puppies aren’t due until January—at least another fortnight away—by which time Jez will be back from her Arctic adventure. And I will be safely back in Nunhead.
* * *
The next morning I wake to a leaden sky and the sound of wind thrashing the trees outside my window. The temperature has plummeted even further during the night, bringing the promised blizzard one step closer, just in time for Christmas. It’s the twenty-first of December and I remember, with a sinking heart, that the Christmas pageant is being held this evening on the village green. In a rash moment I have promised Stella that I’ll attend, and have even offered Valko a lift in so he doesn’t have to cycle in the bitter cold. More fool me.
I rise and dress in extra layers. I now have the full run of Jez’s wardrobe and have abandoned any notion of a pilgrimage to buy clothes. Though her taste is completely different from mine, it’s sort of refreshing to see myself in someone else’s attire, like looking through a filtered lens at a not-quite stranger, one who surprises me each morning with possibility. Today I pull on dark blue corduroy jeans and a magenta cowl-neck sweater. Warm and functional, but something I would never in a million years wear in London, where my favorite outfit is a black pencil skirt and a cropped gray Agnès B tunic that I bought for a song at a sample sale in King’s Cross. Staring in the mirror, I wonder whether clothes really do maketh the woman. And if so, then who have I become?
Valko turns up just after breakfast, his nose pink from the cold. He bustles into the kitchen and shakes his head, jerking his thumb toward the outside. “Something not right in kennels. Too cold.”
“Really? But they were fine yesterday evening,” I say dismissively.
“Not fine now,” he says emphatically, shaking his head.
I sigh and bundle on a heavy coat and boots and we walk out to the kennels, where I discover that the temperature inside is subarctic. When I exhale I can see my breath. I find Slab and Hulk shivering in their respective beds and see, with dismay, that their metal water bowls are frozen solid.
Whoops.
I rush to the Royal Suite, where I find Judd curled in a tight spiral on the canopy bed. He doesn’t stir when we enter and for a moment I think that he has literally frozen. My insides lurch sickeningly at the thought of telling Camilla Delors that her dog is an ice-pup. But after a moment he raises his head to give us a beseeching look, his nose quivering with cold, and I am flooded with relief.
“The heating must be broken,” I tell Valko. “I’ve got a phone number for the boiler guy back at the house. I’ll give him a ring, but we’d better take them inside.”
Valko scoops up the two small dogs in his arms and I lead Judd back to the kitchen. He is so cold he can hardly walk, tiptoeing along on frozen paws beside me. I instruct Valko to deposit Slab and Hulk on Malcolm’s massive dog bed in the corner and I position Judd next to them, budging them up together for warmth. The dogs are so cold they do not even resist.
Peggy sits up with alarm and sniffs the air when we enter, while Malcolm turns and blinks proprietarily at his bed. But after a moment they both return to their former positions, apparently unfazed. I ring the boiler man’s mobile and it goes straight through to his message service. Owing to the cold snap, he’s not available to take my call at the moment, and his voice mailbox is full.
Of course it is.
Valko takes the twins for out for a walk while I stoke up the Rayburn in an effort to thaw the three dogs. Hulk is still shivering so I root around in the linen cupboard and find three old towels, tucking them in tightly around each dog until they look like canine sausage rolls. Maybe I should give them each a little dish of brandy? Just then I hear a knock on the kitchen door and look up to see Hugo peering in through the window. At once Malcolm is on his feet at the door, his giant muzzle pressed to the glass, tail lashing like a bull whip.
“Hello, boy,” Hugo says cheerily when I open the door. He bends over to pat Malcolm, who showers him with sloppy licks. “Sorry I didn’t make it round yesterday,” Hugo apologizes, as if Malcolm can somehow keep track of the days. He straightens and turns to me. “How’s he been?”
“He secretly adores us. He just doesn’t like to show it.”
“Sorry about yesterday. Constance dragged me halfway across Dartmoor to a point-to-point,” he says. “We didn’t get back until late.” Hugo turns and frowns at the three mummified dogs lying in a row. “Good Lord. What’s wrong with them?” He asks.
“The heating in the kennels broke. I had to bring them inside to thaw them out.”
He looks around. The room feels rather crowded, and smells of old dog. “Poor you. Isn’t there somewhere more . . . convenient you can stow them?”
“Like where? The bedrooms?”
“I suppose not. Well, it’s certainly very cozy in here,” he says unconvincingly. “Do they all get along?”
“Who knows? I think they’re too cold to fight. But I expect the Duchess will keep them in line,” I nod toward Peggy on the sofa, who at the moment is sprawled across a pile of cushions in a decidedly throne-like posture, looking out across the room imperiously. Hugo regards her for a moment.
“She does look like a fierce maiden auntie.”
“Except that she’s pregnant.”
“Ah. Not quite maiden then.”
“No. But Peggy is every inch her own bitch.”
I make us both a coffee and when we’re seated at the kitchen table, I ask him how things are going with his prospective in-laws. Hugo frowns.
“Difficult to say. I think they approve of me. But they aren’t very demonstrative. Constance is the same. When we first started going out she seemed perfectly indifferent for the first several weeks. I actually thought she disliked me.”
“What happened?”
“One weekend, when I didn’t ring her, she turned up at my flat and demanded to know why.” He takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs. “And we’ve been together ever sin
ce.”
“But . . . when did you decide to marry?”
“Well, I think we knew fairly quickly that marriage was in the cards. Constance is very decisive. She isn’t one to mess about.”
“But how did you know?”
Hugo frowns, considering this.
“It’s difficult to pinpoint, to be honest.” After a moment, his face brightens. “One day we popped into Harrod’s and Constance suggested we put our names down on the wedding registry.”
Seriously? I look at him askance.
“It was more romantic than it sounds,” he adds hastily.
“But . . . you never exactly decided to be with Constance?”
He frowns at me. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Was there ever a moment when you looked at Constance and thought: yes.”
Hugo raises an eyebrow and considers this for a moment. “There must have been,” he says. “Or we wouldn’t be together. But, honestly, I don’t remember it.” He gives an awkward smile. “Does that sound strange?”
I sigh.
“Actually, it sounds quite common,” I say.
Hugo gives me a sardonic smile. “I can promise you that Constance is anything but common.”
* * *
I ring the boiler guy about a thousand times over the next several hours and each time it goes through to his answering service. Peggy continues to clean herself like she has suddenly developed canine OCD, and late in the afternoon Malcolm shifts position so that he is facing her instead of the Christmas tree, which both of us find unnerving. In the early evening, when I try to coax them all out to the paddock for a wee, all five dogs look at me as if I am trying to make them walk the plank.
I’m almost relieved when it’s time to drive into the village for the Christmas pageant. Valko and I park on the outskirts of the center, where the streets are already chockablock with cars. A ring of trees circles the village green, and each one has been strung with dozens of tiny white lights. I am forced to admit it does look jolly. Crowds mill around the green: children bundled in colored parkas tumble about, grannies kitted out in homemade scarves greet one another warmly, and babies languishing in pushchairs chew the ends of their mittens. As we walk toward the green, Valko asks me to explain the purpose of the event. I shake my head. I have only the haziest idea what will take place: I was only half-listening when Stella told me about it. Something to do with farm animals and a race.
“God only knows,” I say.
Valko frowns. “So this is religious festival?”
“Not quite.”
I look around. A large fenced-off circle has been erected in the middle of the green, and the village folk are all clustered around the outside, waiting for the festivities to begin. Inside the fence, we can see about a dozen people dressed in identical bright green tunics, each tethered by a long rope to an animal, also wearing a green tunic. Both humans and animals wear green peaked hats: there is even a ferret with a tiny green cap attached to its head with a piece of elastic.
“Oh, dear Lord,” I mutter. “Elves.” One of my Christmas top tens. Valko looks at me as if I’ve whispered some sort of prayer. I point at the contestants.
“I think they’re meant to be elves,” I say. Valko looks bewildered.
“I do not understand. Why do animals wear clothes?” he asks.
“Why indeed?”
“This is normal English custom?” asks Valko.
“This isn’t normal English anything.” I crane my neck to get a better view. The animals appear to be in all shapes and sizes: there is a pig, a sheep, a cow, a cockerel, a duck, a dog, a cat, a Shetland pony, a llama, a rabbit, a ferret, and what appears to be a large antelope. Except it isn’t an antelope. I realize after a few seconds that it’s a reindeer and it is tethered to Bovine Cal, who looks suitably ridiculous dressed as an elf, but no more ridiculous than the reindeer beside him, whose hat has been carefully notched so as to allow its antlers to poke through.
“I do not understand,” says Valko.
“I’m not sure we’re meant to.”
After a minute, someone blows a whistle and the human elves shuffle slowly toward the starting line, each pulling on their tethered animal, some of which are more compliant than others. The cow plants its feet and bellows loudly, refusing to budge, while the ferret makes a mad dash around all the other animals, jumping momentarily onto the Shetland pony’s back and causing it to buck. The llama cranes its head right back and bares its teeth in a sort of sneer, while the cockerel paces back and forth nervously. Both the cat and the rabbit have to be more or less dragged into position.
“I think this is not real race,” says Valko doubtfully.
“Um . . . no.”
“So the purpose is?”
“A mystery to us both.”
An older man with a goatee and a red vest appears to be officiating. He has a whistle around his neck and is waving a clipboard. We watch as he marshals all the contestants toward the starting point, after which he announces the rules to the audience in a loud voice. Each contestant must make a complete circuit of the course, accompanied by their beast. Any carrying of beasts is strictly prohibited, as is any form of punishment. Food may be used as an inducement, but any interference from the audience is not allowed.
“And may the fastest elf win!” he shouts, blowing the whistle loudly. The crowd erupts into cheers and out on the green chaos ensues, with animals scattering in every direction. The dog pulls away from his owner and dashes across the green into the crowd, barking madly; the cat bolts from its handler’s grasp and skitters up a nearby tree; the Shetland trots off in the wrong direction, then stops dead; the ferret runs back and forth among all the other animals in a frenzied jig; while the cow, the sheep, the llama, and the rabbit remain obstinately still, munching on grass. The crowd continues to cheer like football hooligans—even though there is no actual race. It is the most demented event I have ever witnessed, and I instantly take a shine to it.
Meanwhile Cal is quietly coaxing the reindeer, step by step, around the ring, one hand on the animal’s halter and the other palming bits of something to eat, all the time whispering into its ear intently. The pony’s owner has retrieved it from the far side of the ring and is persuading it to walk in the right direction. Soon the Shetland is closing the distance on the reindeer’s lead, with the pig about ten paces behind, though the latter keeps pausing to snuffle about in the grass. But just as the pony draws near, the reindeer glances back and honks loudly, making a deep, guttural, grating noise that bounces across the green. The Shetland shies, spins round, and trots off quickly in the opposite direction, leaving Bovine Cal and the reindeer a clear path to the finish. Twenty paces behind them is the pig, which steps daintily along in second place, and a surprisingly compliant tethered duck manages to waddle into third.
When he reaches the finish line, Cal throws his arms up in jubilation and the crowd roars with approval. The entire event has lasted maybe three minutes. A burly, red-faced man wearing a black-and-green checked coat steps forward offering Cal a shot of whisky, which he quickly tosses back. I spy Gerry just beside the finish line, grinning broadly, and she, too, leans forward—and gives Cal a kiss. No one around the couple seems fazed, so it would appear that their romance is no secret, I conclude. It was a chaste kiss, but they would hardly have a congratulatory snog in public, would they?
I turn away with something akin to envy, just as Handsome Hugo emerges on the far side of the crowd, an attractive long-haired blonde clinging to his arm. The woman is leaning into him conspiratorially, chuckling about something. She is slightly taller than me, and everything about her is flawless. Hair, makeup, clothes, demeanor . . . The entire package is perfectly choreographed. She wears an expensively tailored ivory wool coat and a Russian-style white fur hat with a hot-pink mohair scarf, which matches her lipstick, wrapped around her neck
. I see, with dismay, that her prominent cheekbones are flushed prettily from the cold.
Even from a distance, I do not like her.
When Hugo spies me, his expression brightens; he quickly makes his way through the crowd to where I’m standing, with Constance in tow. She fixes me with a cool smile as he introduces us, and I have the distinct impression that, in her constellation, dog minder is roughly on a par with parking attendant.
“Did you get hold of the plumber?” Hugo asks. I shake my head.
“Afraid not.”
“Oh dear. What will you do tonight?” Hugo asks.
“Canine slumber party!” I say, grinning. Constance looks at me with disdain.
“Well, I can’t thank you enough. We can’t thank you enough,” Hugo says, squeezing her arm. “Isn’t that right, darling? We’re so grateful.”
“Eternally,” she says with glacial politeness.
“Do you come to this event every year?” I ask her. She scrutinizes me for a moment, as if trying to decide if I’m being facetious.
“My family started the pageant,” she informs me. “We still sponsor it. And Winston is ours, of course.”
“Winston?” I ask.
“The winner.”
“Oh! You mean the reindeer?” Now it’s my turn to be perplexed.
“Daddy rescued him from a traveling zoo years ago. He was in a terrible state. He lives on our deer park now.” She says this as if owning a deer park is no more remarkable than owning a caravan.
“Apparently he wins the race every year,” chips in Hugo. “So you know who to bet on next year!”
“I’m surprised you don’t lead him round yourself,” I say to Constance in a vaguely baiting tone.