Mutts and Mistletoe

by Natalie Cox

  “Oh, we leave that to Cal. Cal and Winston have a special bond. He helped rehabilitate him. Isn’t that so, Cal?” She looks past me, and I turn to see Cal materialize out of the crowd beside me, still wearing his elf suit. Which up close looks surprisingly fetching on him, I have to admit. Who knew elves could be sexy?

  “Isn’t what so?” he asks.

  “You and Winston; you were made for each other.”

  Cal looks at her, and the space between them suddenly crackles with enmity. Whoa. What have I missed?

  “Winston is much too good for me,” says Cal, holding her gaze.

  Hugo frowns and Constance slips her arm proprietarily into his. “Time to head back, darling. Mummy and Daddy will be waiting.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says obediently. “Good night.” He nods to us both, and Constance smiles pertly as she pulls him away.

  Cal turns to me. “I see you’ve met the local landed gentry.”

  “I’m speechless in the face of such charm and breeding.”

  Cal laughs and once again I can’t help but notice that Jolly Cal is even more attractive than Brooding Cal. Strike that thought! Because he is taken.

  “Old friend of yours?” I ask. He shrugs.

  “I’ve known Constance all my life. Her father’s done a lot for the village over the years,” he says evasively.

  “Apparently this is all down to them.” I motion to the surrounding event.

  “Constance’s father started the pageant, and she organizes it now. Though you won’t see her clearing up at the end,” he adds wryly.

  “I see.” Actually, I don’t quite see; what’s the real story here?

  “But that’s being churlish. In the interest of full disclosure . . . Constance and I have a bit of history,” he admits. Bingo.

  “I see.”

  “Ancient history,” he adds.

  “The follies of youth?” I ask.

  “Something like that.” Cal looks decidedly uncomfortable. I decide to change the subject; I’ve heard quite enough about Constance for one night.

  “So why is it called a pageant?” I ask.

  “Well, you can hardly call it a race.”

  “True. But why elves?”

  He colors. “I’m afraid that’s Gerry’s doing. She’s got a thing for elves.” He looks down with embarrassment at his costume. Up close I can see that it is rather beautifully made of soft green felt, with immaculately turned edges and hand-stitching round the seams.

  “The elf look suits you,” I say. “You should wear it more often.”

  “Well, Gerry would like that,” he says. Now it’s me who flushes.

  Let’s not go there.

  “Apparently you and Winston are unbeatable.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a contest. Winston’s addicted to these.” Cal reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handful of tiny mushrooms. “Don’t tell anyone,” he adds.

  “Why? Are they hallucinogenic?”

  He lifts a brow. “They’re shiitakes.”

  “I’m only asking.”

  “Anyway, Winston’s getting on in years now. I don’t know how many more pageants he’s got left in him.”

  “She said he was in a terrible state when you rescued him.” He shrugs.

  “Animals are very loyal; they have long memories.”

  “Unlike people.”

  “Unlike people.” He gives an awkward cough. “So, how are the dogs?”

  “Cold. The boiler in the kennels broke.”

  He raises an eyebrow with alarm.

  “Don’t worry. I brought them inside.”

  “You’ve got them in the house?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Together?” He frowns.

  “Yep,” I say. “Actually, they all seem to get along fine. We’re one big, happy canine family.”

  Cal seems surprised. Or impressed. Or maybe both. Just then Gerry appears at his side. She slips her arm through Cal’s in a way that definitely seems proprietorial. “You made it,” she says warmly to me. “Wasn’t it splendid?”

  “‘Splendid’ is the word,” I say.

  “Time for the pub.” She turns to me. “I hope you’re joining us?” she asks. I hesitate. The thought of crashing their twosome is unbearable, and all of a sudden Cal also looks deeply uncomfortable.

  “Oh no, that’s very kind,” I stammer.

  “I’m sure she has better things to do,” Cal says quickly.

  “Nonsense,” says Gerry. “You must come. Cal, tell her she has to come.”

  He hesitates a beat, looking straight at me.

  “You should come,” he says.

  * * *

  So we all repair to the Sheep’s Head, which sits at the far end of the village green. I’ve not yet visited the village’s only pub. It’s the traditional sort, all gabled brick and ivy-clad, with leaded pane windows and wooden picnic tables set out in front. When we push open the heavy oak door, a warm wall of air buffets us. I see that half the village has already arrived: a throng of people stands between us and the long wooden bar, and I spy several elf costumes as we thread our way through the crowd.

  Some country pubs are frosty to outsiders, but the vibe here seems jovial enough. Cal draws congratulatory backslaps from a number of people we pass, which he handles more graciously than I would have imagined; and no one looks at me as if I’m some sort of alien interloper. Cal seems genuinely pleased to be here as he leads us to a small table in the corner, not far from a blazing wood fire. The mantel has been trimmed with holly and bright red balls that gleam like jewels in the firelight. Beside us sits a bushy tree trimmed with wooden ornaments. It would all be thrillingly romantic—if I were not date-crashing.

  Cal goes to the bar to fetch drinks and Gerry smiles at me. I’m wondering whether I can casually quiz her about their relationship (Who made the first move? How exactly does intergenerational sex work?) when she hits me with a question.

  “Do you live alone in London?”

  I nod. “I have a flat south of the river.” No point in saying where; even Londoners have never heard of Nunhead.

  “I’ve never lived on my own,” she muses, throwing a darting glance in Cal’s direction. She leans forward. “I imagine it might be quite nice,” she confides.

  “There are definite advantages,” I say, not quite sure what to make of her declaration. Is there trouble in paradise?

  “No arguments over what to watch on telly. The freedom to have popcorn for supper or leave dirty dishes in the sink. And you could dispense completely with personal hygiene, if you felt like it.”

  “Or clothing, for that matter,” I say.

  “How glorious.” She laughs.

  “Actually, I used to live with my boyfriend, but he moved out a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she says. “I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.”

  I shake my head. “No. Things had run their course.”

  She considers this. “Modern love does seem very . . . fluid these days,” she remarks. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. In my day, relationships were like treacle. You could get stuck fast if you weren’t careful.”

  I think of how quickly my life with Lionel unraveled: four years undone in a matter of moments, ostensibly because of a photograph. Was that a good thing or bad?

  “That’s why I admire Jez for taking her time,” Gerry continues. “She and Eloise have courted the old-fashioned way, long and slow. And there’s something in that.”

  I peer at her. Is she being ironic? Apparently not.

  Cal arrives then, clutching three glasses. “I hope mulled wine is OK.” He places them on the table, the scent of cinnamon and cardamom wafting up.

  “Lovely. You’re an angel,” says Gerry, reaching for one
and handing me another. I have to concede it smells delicious, and I remember guiltily that mulled wine was another thing on my Christmas list of don’ts.

  “Cheers,” she offers, raising her glass. Suddenly her attention is distracted by a large, burly older man who has just come through the door. “Is that Dibber?” she asks. The man wears a battered tweed blazer and a checked wool cap. His hair and beard are snow-white, but his eyes are alert as they sweep the room. They alight on Gerry and he doffs his cap in her direction theatrically. She laughs.

  “The old rogue. Excuse me for a moment while I just say hello.”

  She gets up and moves through the crowd. I see Cal frown slightly as his eyes follow her. Is he jealous? We watch as Gerry reaches Dibber and greets him warmly.

  “Old flame,” says Cal, a little grudgingly. “From a previous life.”

  “Odd name,” I say, eyeing him.

  “He owns a bulb farm down the road.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  Cal detects the sarcasm in my tone and raises an eyebrow. “Flowers?” he says.

  “I got that much.”

  “Guess you’re not a gardener.”

  “Tricky. In a third-floor flat. But I do own a very resilient cactus.”

  “A dibber is a tool you use to plant bulbs.”

  “Ah.”

  “People use them in the city, too.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He tilts his head and regards me.

  “So, what do you do for fun? In the great metropolis.”

  I hesitate, my brain flying through several possible answers. What do I do for fun? Any number of things, which will all sound totally lame if I say them aloud. “I run,” I say finally.

  “Run what?”

  “Surely you mean where?”

  “OK. Where?”

  “Along the river mostly. Hyde Park. The Serpentine. Wherever the mood takes me.”

  “On your own?” He aims his too-blue gaze right at me, and I feel my cheeks flame in response. Is he probing me for my relationship status? If so, it feels a little disloyal. I glance over at Gerry and she is laughing up at Dibber, so I turn back—and something catches inside my chest.

  “I always run alone,” I say. “It relaxes me.” I do not say what else I am thinking: that there are times, living in a city of eight million souls, when I have an almost physical craving for solitude. And calm.

  He nods, staring at me with an intensity that seems inappropriate, given the circumstances. Defiantly, I take a much too large gulp of wine, and endeavor to grapple the conversation back onto safe terrain.

  “What about you? Do you engage in . . . country pursuits?”

  He smiles, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “‘Country pursuits’?” he asks.

  Aren’t country pursuits a thing? I think.

  I’m sure they are. But he has a way of turning everything I say inside out. I lift my chin. “You know, like . . .”

  “Shooting?” he offers.

  I nod. Exactly. I knew there were country pursuits.

  “I’m a vet,” he says. “I heal animals for a living. So I would hardly go around shooting them during my spare time.”

  “Right.” I flush. So maybe not country pursuits.

  “But I’m a keen badminton player,” he says then.

  Badminton! This I did not expect.

  “Of all the racquet sports, that’s the last one I would have put you down for,” I say truthfully. He looks mildly affronted.

  “Badminton is surprisingly athletic,” he says.

  “For an elf.”

  He laughs.

  “Do you play with the other elves?” I ask, only half-joking.

  He shakes his head. “I’m in the Southwest Men’s League. We play in Taunton, mostly. Sometimes in Exeter.”

  There’s an awkward pause, while I briefly imagine athletic men wearing elf suits flinging themselves around a badminton court. I take another swallow of wine and see that I have already downed most of the glass.

  “I thought I hated mulled wine,” I admit. “But this is delicious.”

  He looks at me, incredulous. “How can anyone hate mulled wine?”

  I freeze, struggling to formulate a coherent response. “I think it’s more about what it stands for,” I say. “You know, all that relentless merrymaking and good cheer.”

  “You don’t believe in good cheer?”

  Oh God. He makes me sound like Satan. Which is an anagram of Santa when you think of it. “Not . . . when it’s forced.”

  He looks around us. “Is this forced?” he asks.

  I flush anew. “No. Of course not. This is very . . . congenial.”

  “OK, so let me get this right. Congenial is OK. But merrymaking is not.” He’s doing it again: twisting my words, bearing down on me with all that blueness. It is like a conversational assault, but with a flirtatious edge. The corners of his mouth are turned up in a sardonic smile, and there is definitely a spark of something seductive in his gaze, not to mention in his tone.

  Or maybe I am already drunk.

  “I can make merry,” I stammer. “When the situation . . . warrants.”

  Now it sounds ludicrous. And a little obscene.

  “That’s good to know,” he says, still staring right at me, as if he knows all that blueness will render me incapable of a response. Which it does.

  Finally, he looks away. Which leaves me both relieved and disappointed.

  His gaze travels around the room. “Fair point,” he says, after a moment. “About the forced good cheer. Expect there’s a bit of that going on around us right now.” His tone has taken on a slightly rancorous edge.

  Welcome back, Bovine Cal.

  “Those are harsh words, coming from an elf,” I say.

  He looks back at me a little accusingly. “Don’t tell me you have a problem with elves, too?”

  Uh-oh.

  Gerry slides into her seat at the table just then and Cal looks over at her expectantly. Not a moment too soon, I decide.

  “So? How’s Dibber?” he asks.

  “Oh, much the same. He’s talking about selling up.”

  Cal raises an eyebrow. “The farm?”

  “He’s had a good offer, apparently.”

  Cal frowns. I see him check himself from asking more. His eyes alight on my empty glass. “Do you need a refill?” he asks. But something in his tone has shifted and I can tell that he is no longer really present. I shake my head.

  “No, thanks. I should be going.”

  “So soon?” says Gerry.

  “The dogs will be waiting.”

  Cal nods, just once. Which is my cue to go.

  chapter

  15

  When I arrive home the dogs are beside themselves with relief, as if I have been away for months, rather than hours. And a teeny-weeny bit of me is genuinely gratified by all that tail-wagging and crotch-sniffing, even if it is partially motivated by cupboard love. I parcel out their dinner, tossing in a few extra bits and bobs—some leftover pepperoni pizza, a few old hunks of cheese and salami—it’s almost Christmas, after all—then I marshal them out to the paddock in the dark. It’s a clear, freezing night and the grass is crisp beneath my boots. A slim quarter moon perches just above the horizon and the sky is blanketed with stars. I throw back my head and gawk. How have I managed to live so long without stars?

  The dogs, too, are happy to be outside, content to wander about in the darkness, sniffing the earth, raising quivering nostrils to the breeze, pawing the dirt, and snapping randomly at lanky bits of frozen grass. Even Peggy and Malcolm seem energized by the cold, while Judd attaches himself to Hulk, trailing her everywhere, his delicate chestnut nose pinned to her fluffy white bum. A battered white van trawls slowly by—drawing attention to itself—and I resent the intrusio
n, glaring fiercely in its direction until the taillights disappear round the bend. I feel suddenly protective of both the dogs and the farm—but most of all, of the peace and quiet and the unending sense of calm. We linger outside a long time, until I can no longer feel my fingers or toes, and the numbness is strangely exhilarating.

  Later, I sleep like the dead—until I am woken in the small hours by a chorus of barking. It sounds like a canine rave and I throw on my dressing gown and stumble down to the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light. The dogs are clustered around the back door, baying, hackles raised, and Malcolm’s massive muzzle is plastered to the window. I rush to look outside and see the same battered white van speeding off down the lane. The dogs round on me, bristling with energy, eager to divulge what they’ve seen, with Malcolm towering over the others. “OK,” I say, trying to pacify them. “Whoever it was, they’ve gone.” I double-check the locks, give them all fresh water, and order them to lie down. But once back in bed, the image of the white van keeps driving slowly through my mind.

  * * *

  Jez rings again early the next morning and I decide not to tell her about the white van. It would only worry her and there is little she can do from afar. Hopefully, whoever it was will have been deterred—few burglars would choose to go head-to-head against five dogs, one of them the size of a small pony. I will definitely mention it to Valko, however. He may have seen the car on the road these last few days.

  “So how was the igloo?” I ask Jez.

  “Freezing. I thought my face would fall off. The scenery was amazing, though. I took loads of pictures. Turns out ice isn’t very photogenic, though.”

  “Can’t wait to see those,” I say. “Meet any polar bears?”

  “No, but we saw lots of reindeer.”

  “Hey, we have reindeer here in Devon.” I say. “I saw one wearing an elf suit last night.”

  “Oh, the pageant! How was it?”

  “Daft,” I reply, “but in a splendid sort of way.”

  “I thought it might amuse you,” she says. I consider asking her how long Cal and Gerry have been an item but decide against it.

  “And Eloise?” I ask. “How’s it going?”