by Natalie Cox
* * *
That afternoon I bundle on extra layers and take the twins for a long walk. The wind slaps my cheeks as we head out across the fields behind the farm. We find a footpath eventually that leads into a large wood. Once inside the forest, the twins race about happily, winding in and out of trees, scrambling up and down ravines, joyously ambushing squirrels like canine freedom fighters. By the end of the walk I cannot feel my face, but the dogs are muddy and content: tongues lolling, chests heaving, eyes bright with gratitude.
It is dusk when we arrive back at Jez’s yard. I feed the twins and return them to the kennel, but when I come around the side of the house toward the front door I see the same white van that was there the other night pulled over by the side of the road. Inside the car I can just make out a dark-haired man with an enormous mustache peering at the kennels through binoculars. He does not see me at first, but when he does, he drops the binoculars, starts the engine, and pulls out onto the lane. I pull out my phone and quickly take a photo of the car as it drives off, congratulating myself on my presence of mind. Perhaps I should ring the police. But what would I say? Thus far, the man is guilty of nothing more than being a Peeping Tom. Anyway, his interest seems to be in the dogs, not me.
Which seems to be an ongoing theme these days.
I go inside and feed the rest of the dogs, then decide to cook a proper meal for myself, rather than pilfer my supply of frozen pizzas and meat pies. I search out some seasonally appropriate music from Jez’s CD collection, and root around in her freezer, finding a small packet of mince that I thaw in the microwave. I chop up onions, garlic, peppers, and chilis, and fry them with the mince for several minutes, adding in a tin of tomatoes and some herbs. But when I eventually turn around from the cooker, all five dogs have lined up behind me like a row of little sous-chefs. Even Peggy has dragged herself out of the maternity corner at the prospect of home-cooked food. They sit in an orderly line, muscles tensed, their bodies ready to spring lest I drop the smallest scrap.
I stand in front of them like a conductor, clutching a small morsel of meat that I raise like a baton. All five sets of eyes swivel upward. “Malcolm,” I say in my most commanding tone. I throw the mince straight to him, and his gigantic muzzle opens and snaps shut with a squelch. Impressive, I think. We could take this on the road. I turn to Slab and say his name, then throw another morsel. Slab doesn’t quite manage to catch it midair, but he moves more quickly than I’ve ever seen him once it reaches the ground, practically snorting it. Judd does much better, managing the catch with minimal movement and maximal grace, as befits a triple champion. And tiny Hulk makes a bold effort, rearing up on her hind legs to catch the meat in her dainty jaws. I carry on until I get to Peggy: I don’t want her to risk injury, so I simply hold a piece of meat out for her to eat off my palm, which she does rather demurely. But just as I do I hear an impatient rap at the door and when I look up I see a pair of too-familiar eyes staring at me accusingly.
In the dark they appear to be a steely gray, like the sea before a storm. When I open the door, he nods toward the dogs, who, to their credit, are still seated in an orderly line in front of the cooker. “What are you doing?” he says.
“Cooking dinner.”
“What are they doing?”
I pause. “They’re helping.”
I realize that he is staring straight at my face, as if every fiber of his being is trying not to look at my plum puddings. Why, oh why am I wearing this? He jerks his thumb toward the Volvo. “Your box is outside.” I follow him out to the car and together we lift the crate, carrying it inside. “Where do you want it?” he grunts. I cast my eyes quickly around the room. Where indeed? In front of the sofa would be ideal, but there isn’t space, so in the end I settle for against the far wall. We set it down on the floor and he straightens, giving me a funny look.
“What are you listening to?”
I lift my chin a little defiantly. I have chosen one of my all-time favorite Disney soundtracks, but it is extremely difficult to maintain your dignity when “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” is playing in the background. I walk over to the stereo and switch the music off, then turn back to Cal.
“Do you . . . want a drink or something?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I should get going. Mum’s waiting on me for supper.”
I wince at the word Mum.
Cal doesn’t leave though, he just stands there staring at me. He takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says a little awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “About this morning. I’m sorry about all the hostility. I had no right. What you do is your affair. It’s no business of mine—”
“I thought you and Gerry were together,” I blurt out, cutting him off.
He looks at me, his face suddenly blurry with confusion.
“That’s what I meant by choices,” I add sheepishly.
“You thought what?”
“You know—I thought you were having some sort of—of intergenerational romance.” His eyes widen.
“You thought I was having an incestuous relationship with my seventy-five-year-old mother?” His voice is raised now, quite high-pitched; higher, in fact, than I’ve ever heard it.
“No! No, of course not! Not that. I had no idea she was your mother. How was I to know? No one ever introduced us properly. And besides, you have different surnames,” I add a little feebly.
“Because Mum kept her maiden name,” he says pointedly. He is staring at me like I’m a lunatic. “You obviously have an extremely vivid imagination,” he says after a moment.
“Sometimes too vivid,” I say.
I can’t be sure, but the corners of his mouth twitch slightly upward. “I can’t wait to tell her,” he says, with barely concealed delight.
“No! You mustn’t!”
“Why not? She’ll think it’s hilarious.”
“No, really. Please. I’d be mortified.”
“All the more reason,” he says in a challenging tone. As if mortification is what I deserve.
Now he is no longer smiling.
“Look, last night was an accident,” I say awkwardly. “It never should have happened. And no one should have witnessed it. Least of all . . . you.” For a moment we are both silent. I realize that I am holding my breath.
“But I did,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods, just once. We stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, and as he does his eyes seem to thaw. Perhaps I haven’t ruined things after all. And perhaps I am not genetically doomed to fail. He takes a step toward me, and maybe it’s my overly vivid imagination, but it’s almost as if he is going to—
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door.
We both turn to see Hugo standing just outside, the giant gold anaconda scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
Nooooo.
“I should go,” Cal says quickly, his eyes clouding over again.
“Cal—” I stop short. I have already apologized.
“You should get the door,” he says.
chapter
18
Hugo and I watch from the doorstep as Cal drives away. “Is he always so grumpy?” Hugo asks.
“You have impeccable timing,” I say, pushing the door open.
Hugo steps into the kitchen and his eyes dip to my plum puddings with something akin to alarm. “I hadn’t pegged you as the Christmas jumper sort,” he remarks.
“It’s just a sweater, for God’s sake,” I mumble.
“And an appalling one at that,” he says.
I sigh and fold my arms, obscuring the cherries.
Hugo clears his throat with purpose. “Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know,” he declares. “I’ve broken things off with Constance.” He throws his arms open wide, as if to say: ta da!
Oh God. I eye him warily, preparing to fend him off, if ne
eds be. But then he thrusts his hands in his trouser pockets, turning to contemplate the Christmas tree.
“You were right, you know,” he muses. “It wasn’t me she was in love with. It was the idea of me. Or, at least, the idea of being in love with me. I was more like . . . an accessory to the crime.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo.”
He shrugs.
“How did she take it?”
“Rather well, actually. She really is an awfully good sport. I think she must have realized from my behavior these last few days that something wasn’t right. And Constance is nothing if not practical. In fact, she’s asked me to stay on for the holiday.”
I look at him askance. “Really? Why?”
“She said it was no use spoiling Christmas. Her entire clan is turning up. And the table plan has already been done.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. Wouldn’t want to mess with that.
“There’s just one small complication,” he continues.
“Which is?”
“Her Christmas present.”
“Oh. What did you get her?”
He winces. “That’s the issue,” he says. “They’re being delivered tomorrow. And I agreed to a firm sale,” he adds sheepishly. “So I really can’t cancel.”
“Delivered from where? And what do you mean by ‘they’?” I ask.
“The owner is driving down from the west of Scotland.” My mind instantly flies to the possibilities: a crate of whisky, matching kilts, a giant haggis.
“I thought it was the perfect gift,” he says, shaking his head. “Because of Winston and the deer park. And, frankly, they were bloody difficult to locate in the first place! Plus, I had to get a permit.” He sighs.
“Hugo, what are you talking about. What needs a permit?”
He turns to me. “Alpacas.”
“You bought her an alpaca?” I ask, incredulous.
He shakes his head. “I bought her two alpacas. Because you can’t just have one. They’re herd animals. They’d perish on their own.”
“Oh, Hugo,” I say with dismay.
“Mmm. It’s all rather sticky.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The thing is . . . under the circumstances, I really can’t go through with it. The gift, I mean. It doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“No. I can see that,” I agree.
“So, I was hoping . . . Maybe you could take them for now? Until I can sort out an alternative?”
“What do you mean?” I ask warily.
He looks around. “Well, you have all this space. Not that they need much,” he adds hastily. “They’re quite efficient that way. They don’t need to roam. But they do need to graze.”
“Hugo, I can’t have alpacas here. Are you mad? We’re a dog kennel.”
“Why not? They could live in the paddock. It’s the perfect size. I already checked with the breeder,” he adds quickly.
“The dogs use the paddock!”
“Alpacas are very sociable. They get on brilliantly with other types of livestock,” he says. “And they’re very hardy. They can live outside all year round. They positively thrive on the outdoors, in fact.”
“Hugo, you do realize that I don’t own Cozy Canine Cottages? My cousin, Jez, does. I’m only looking after things here for a few weeks.”
His face falls then. “Ah. Quite. I’d rather forgotten that.”
“You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
He looks at me plaintively.
“But I spent all morning ringing round,” he says. “There is nowhere else.”
I am a strong, independent woman, and soon I will be shacked up with seven dogs, a colossal flat-screen TV, and two alpacas.
Now all I need is a partridge in a pear tree.
* * *
Later that evening, I unfurl the telly. It is nearly as wide as I am tall, but when I check the receipt it appears that, somewhat miraculously, I have only been charged for the smaller one. Happy Christmas to me! I have a brief moment of moral angst (What would Kant do? Do I care?) before setting about installing it with glee. After several minutes of peering at the instructions, then casting them aside, I manage to hook the thing up and turn it on. I switch off all the lights and bathe the room in a soft, electronic glow, while the digital receiver scours the surrounding countryside for signals.
Within a matter of seconds the Snowman appears on the screen, soaring high above the earth, a small, pajama-clad boy clinging to his arm. A split second later the speakers roar into life, and a quivering falsetto, accompanied by a rolling baritone piano, sweeps across the kitchen. The sound is so loud it reverberates right through me. I stand, mesmerized, in front of the giant screen, and all at once I, too, am walking in the air, floating in the moonlit sky. The Snowman, the ginger-haired boy, and I circle over icy mountains and pine forests while the northern lights bloom on the horizon and snow blankets the land. It is not exactly the sort of viewing I’d imagined when I ordered it, but even I have to admit that, blown up nearly to life-size, The Snowman is pretty magical.
Suddenly I look round and see that all five dogs have sat up and turned their muzzles toward the screen, their eyes wide with curiosity. Malcolm seems particularly affected, his body rigid, his giant head cocked slightly at an angle, his enormous nostrils quivering with apprehension; even Peggy has stopped panting to focus intently on the scene. My phone pings suddenly with a text from Sian.
What you up to?
Watching Snowman on telly. Mutts v keen. Who knew?
Us, too! Owen keeps asking why snowmen need hats. Presume not for warmth?
Think it must be style choice.
In that case they need fashion help. Would start with carrot nose.
What veg would you suggest?
There is a brief pause while Sian considers this.
Beetroot.
Snowmen with bulbous red noses? Like giant, flying alcoholics?
OK, maybe jalapeño pepper.
Seriously?
Always fancied guys with hooked noses.
Think you might be in the minority there.
Owen also asking why they have no willy.
Think maybe they’re asexual.
There’s another brief pause on Sian’s end.
Will let you explain. Maybe wait a few years.
Thanks.
Ran into L at gym. He asked after you.
Bastard.
Apparently, he and trainer are history.
Couldn’t care less.
Really?
Really.
As I type this I realize it’s not true. A part of me is secretly delighted that Lionel’s new relationship has gone awry so quickly. Perhaps he will come to recognize that novelty and constancy are like yin and yang: one cannot exist without the other, and you need both to make a relationship work.
Sian’s response pings on my screen.
Good. ’Cause I told him you already hooked up with tall, classy Danish guy.
I look over at Malcolm. He is quite classy. And he is definitely tall. As well as being male. So that’s pretty much spot on. But I think he and Peggy are already an item.
Suddenly all five dogs swivel their heads toward the door. I hear a faint noise outside, behind the rousing orchestral score on screen, and realize that the twins are baying in their run behind the house. The sound is rare enough to make the hairs stand on the back of my neck. The twins have never barked like this before, so I grab a jacket and race out into the night, slamming the door behind me.
By the time I reach their enclosure Romulus and Remus have gone almost ominously quiet. They stand like statues at the gate, ears alert, hackles raised. But the lock on the pen is intact and they seem unharmed. I stop short and look around to see what first aroused them, but can discern nothing in the da
rkness. “What is it, guys?” I ask.
Remus whimpers slightly, then lies down with a grunt, as if to say, You’re too late. I open the cage and step inside, squatting down to give them both a stroke. It was probably a badger, I decide. But then I hear an engine roar into life in the distance, followed by the sound of a car screeching away. By the time I extract myself from the cage and circle round to the front of the house, I see only taillights disappearing down the road. Someone was here, I think, and whoever it was disturbed the twins. As I turn to go inside, I look across the yard and see that the kennel doors all stand wide open, like darkly gaping teeth. Whoever it was, they’re definitely not interested in me.
They’re after the dogs.
chapter
19
I sleep uneasily, which is to say not much at all, and the next morning when I ring Jez there’s no answer. I leave a vague message, asking her to call. But when I check my e-mail, I find a hasty message from her, explaining that Eloise has booked a surprise dogsled excursion for two nights over Christmas, somewhere even more remote, and she is likely to be out of mobile range until they return on Boxing Day.
A part of me is relieved—I don’t want to dampen her festivities. Besides, I have very little concrete information to offer, beyond the fact that someone has been snooping round the kennels. I decide the dogs will be safe with me as long as they remain in the house; clearly the twins can look after themselves outside in the run.
Anyway, what sort of person commits a crime on Christmas Eve? Surely even criminals observe the holidays?
Later, when I escort the dogs out to the paddock, another problem surfaces: Peggy behaves like a lunatic, roaming from spot to spot, pawing frantically at the near-frozen earth, as if she is burying invisible bones. Malcolm trails obediently behind her, his giant, putty-white brow furrowed with alarm. Judd, Hulk, and Slab cut her a wide berth, as if they know she is having a bad day, while Romulus and Remus stand stiffly at the gate, guarding the road like muscular canine sentries. When we finish, I consider bringing the twins in the house with us for protection, but decide against it. Seven dogs in one kitchen definitely feels like too many cooks.