by Natalie Cox
“They’ll be wanting plenty of it. Make sure it’s clean and fresh.”
“OK,” I say, nodding. Where the hell is Hugo? If anyone is going to cart gallons of clean water out to the paddock, it should be him. I watch as Scottish Santa packs up the ramp and closes the back of the trailer. He turns back to me.
“So,” he says expectantly, clapping his massive hands together with a merry twinkle in his eye.
“Yes?” I ask.
“I’ll be wanting the balance of payment now. Cash on delivery?”
“Oh! Right. Yes, of course.” I pull the fat envelope out of my pocket and hand it across, thinking ruefully that I will probably never see the cloud forest. Scottish Santa opens the envelope and quickly thumbs through the bills, then nods and stuffs them in his jacket pocket.
“Been a pleasure. Look after them. They’re good lads. Won’t give you any trouble.” He starts to turn away.
“Are they OK with dogs?” I ask quickly.
“Aye. They’re OK with most things.” I watch as he climbs into the Land Rover. “Except badgers,” he adds thoughtfully. “They’ve a passionate dislike of badgers.”
“Are you driving straight back to Scotland now?” I ask.
He smiles and nods.
“Promised the missus I’d be home in time fer Christmas.”
Scottish Santa touches his hat and then drives off with a cheery wave. Once he is gone, I turn back to the alpacas. I walk up to the gate and stretch out a hand. They eye me warily for a moment, then one of them takes a few steps forward. Eventually he comes close enough for me to touch, and I let him sniff my open palm for a moment, then fondle each spear-shaped ear, before stroking the fur on his neck. It is dense and silky and I bury my hand in it. The alpaca looks at me, his dark eyes bright and inquisitive. I realize that I forgot to ask their names. But names, at least, I am good at.
I will call them Nick and Noel.
* * *
When I return to the house I go at once to check on Peggy, who is panting again and glassy-eyed. The puppies are asleep in a tangled heap by her side, but something in her demeanor alarms me. I stoop down and splay my hands across her abdomen. There is a hard lump on one side and I know instinctively that something is wrong. I quickly ring Cal’s mobile, willing him to answer, but eventually it goes through to his voicemail. It is Christmas Eve; no doubt he is out carousing with friends or family. I leave a garbled message telling him that something is wrong with Peggy, then return to her and splay my hands across her belly.
As I do, I feel another massive contraction. I wait a few moments to see what happens, but there is no sign of anything. “Come on, Peggy,” I mutter. Peggy pants and pants and I hear Sian’s voice in my ear. Keep her hydrated. I grab her water bowl and practically shove her nose in it, but she twists away and refuses to drink. Another contraction sweeps across her abdomen and Peggy whimpers, but once again, nothing emerges. Gravity. I reach out and grab Peggy’s collar. “Up you get,” I say loudly. “Come on, Peggy.” I coax her onto her feet, holding on to her sides, and force her to walk a few steps, which she does, haltingly. And just then I see the telltale sac burst through from between her legs. “That’s it,” I say encouragingly. I reach behind to catch the pup, and after one more contraction it slides warm and wet onto my hand. Peggy buckles then, lying back down on her side, and I lay the sac gently in front of her to nibble. She looks at it, dazed, and for a moment I’m afraid she won’t even try, but then she tears at the membrane with her teeth and a scrawny pup tumbles forth. It is smaller than the others and deathly still. Peggy noses it for a moment, but does not try to lick it, then she lies back down and shuts her eyes.
“No!” I say desperately. “Come on! You can’t just leave it.” But Peggy does nothing, and the tiny pup just lies there motionless, little more than a sack of bones and some skin. I grab a clean dishcloth and carefully pick up the puppy, cleaning the mucous from its face and nose, then rubbing it gently with the fabric. For a long minute nothing happens. I peer at its tiny muzzle.
Perhaps I should try mouth to mouth? How exactly would I do that?
I blow warm air onto it instead, and suddenly, without warning, the puppy splutters into life. I cradle it gently for a moment, making sure it is breathing, then hold it in front of Peggy’s nose for her to see. She gives it a few halfhearted licks, then collapses again, and I push the puppy right up to one of her engorged teats. After a moment it opens its tiny mouth and begins to suckle.
God in heaven, please can we be finished now?
Just then I see headlights in the drive and hear a car pull up outside. Hugo! The rotter! High time, too! I rise from the floor and cross over to the door, only to come face-to-face with a pair of ludicrously blue eyes.
chapter
21
I open the door. “You’re too late,” I say. Cal’s face instantly blanches.
“Peggy?” he asks anxiously.
I nod.
“What’s happened?!”
I step to one side and Cal dashes across the room to where Peggy lies snoring in blissed-out postnatal exhaustion, a mound of pups wriggling around her belly like a pile of plump mealworms.
Cal stops short and turns to me.
“Wow. You did it,” he says in a stunned voice. Clearly, he did not think I was equal to the task. I shrug. Technically, Peggy did it. But I am happy for him to think otherwise.
“Are the pups OK?” he asks, dropping down on his hands and knees. One by one he picks up the puppies, examining them carefully, wiggling their stubby limbs, lifting their little tails, and peering inside their mouths. Finally, when he gets to the smallest, he frowns. “This one might not make it,” he says doubtfully, shaking his head. I drop down beside him and gently remove the pup from his grasp.
“Bah, humbug,” I say stubbornly. “Of course he will.” I rub my finger over the little pup’s belly and it sneezes. When I look up, Cal is watching me.
“Job well done,” he says quietly.
“So much for your diagnostic skills,” I reply with a smile.
“Not the first time I’ve been wrong,” he admits. Suddenly I have the impression that we are now on a new topic. I flush slightly.
“Guess it was a good thing I was here.”
“I guess it was.” He stares at me and I feel my insides do a giant stadium wave. I swear, this man has the power to incapacitate me with nothing more than a glance. I put the puppy gently down and rise to my feet a little awkwardly. Cal, too, stands.
“So . . . what now?” I say, motioning toward the pups.
“Keep them warm. Keep the area clean. Give Peggy plenty of food and water. She’ll do the rest.”
“OK,” I say, nodding. Cal suddenly shoots me an odd look.
“Why are there two alpacas out in the paddock?” he asks.
Ah. Yes. Why indeed? My mind races through the possible answers. Clearly a revised version of the truth is needed.
“I’m just boarding them temporarily,” I say quickly. “On behalf of a friend,” I add. Cal frowns.
“Does Jez know?” he asks. None of your business!
“Absolutely,” I say. Teeny-weeny little lie.
“Have you got water out there? Alpacas need a lot of water.”
Enough with the damn water already! Not to mention the patronizing tone.
“We’ve got it covered,” I say.
“We?”
“My friend and I.”
Just then I hear a car door slam outside, followed by the crunch of footsteps. We both turn to see Hugo peering in at the window, wearing his giant gold anaconda scarf. Cal turns back to me.
“Is that your friend?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate.
“It might be.” My voice is barely more than a whisper. Cal looks at me for a long moment, then takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.
“Aren’t you going to let him in?”
I sigh, then go to open the door. Hugo grins broadly and points toward the paddock. “They’re here! Why didn’t you call me?” he exclaims, stepping into the kitchen.
“They’ve only just arrived.”
“Aren’t they splendid?” he asks, beaming. He looks past me to Cal. “Excellent! We could use some expert advice.” Cal is standing with his arms folded across his chest, his sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way. I can just make out his forearms. Even Angry Cal has glorious forearms, I think regretfully, which after tonight I will probably never get to fondle.
“What do you know about alpacas?” Hugo asks Cal in a jaunty tone.
“They make great sweaters,” says Cal stonily.
“Ha!” Hugo turns to me. “Well, you’re a little ahead of us. Right now we just want to keep them alive.”
“You need to sort out some water in the paddock,” says Cal.
Hugo nods solemnly. “Right. I’ll get straight on it.”
“And they’ll need hay. The grass out there won’t be sufficient to keep them in winter. Beyond that they should be fine,” Cal says, and I detect a note of weariness in his voice. He turns to me and nods toward Peggy. “Keep an eye on her,” he says.
“OK.” I stare at him.
Don’t leave. Inevitably, Cal moves toward the door. Once there, he pauses.
“Happy Christmas,” he says, his eyes sliding up to mine.
“You, too,” I reply.
Then he goes, leaving me with fifteen dogs, two alpacas, a giant flat-screen TV, one clueless-but-well-meaning suitor, and a much-diminished heart.
* * *
Hugo spends the next half hour lugging fresh water out to the paddock. He finds a giant barrel and fills it nearly full by carrying bucket after bucket out to it. When he is finished, he comes back into the kitchen and sinks down onto the sofa. “Thirsty chaps!” he exclaims. I am stretched out beside the puppies, running the tip of my finger down the runt’s back. Every few minutes he gives a little shiver. I am thinking that this puppy holds my entire future. Clearly, I was not designed to bond with other humans. I am fit only for animal consumption.
“So,” says Hugo. “Are you going to give them names?”
I frown. I have managed to screw up most aspects of my life thus far. Whatever I choose, it will need to be easy to remember: there are eight puppies, after all. Perhaps something that hearkens back to the occasion of their birth. And then it hits me because, in fact, it is perfectly obvious. The little one I will call Rudy.
And the other seven, just as soon as I can tell them apart, will be Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, and Blitzen.
* * *
Once Hugo leaves, I take the dogs out to the paddock. As we approach the gate, I spy Nick and Noel grazing about twenty meters away. When they hear us coming, they stop and raise their heads in unison, as if an invisible puppeteer has pulled a string. Malcolm is the first to see them and stops dead, his enormous nostrils quivering with alarm. I give him a reassuring pat on the head, then go to open the gate. Slab and Peggy only manage to walk a few feet inside before doing their business, then they lie down on the grass. Hulk takes one look at the alpacas and picks her way to the far side of the paddock in order to complete her toilette in privacy, but Judd is instantly curious. He approaches them casually, sniffing the grass in a repeatedly circular pattern until he is only a few feet away. Noel (or is it Nick?) watches him carefully, and when Judd is within striking distance the alpaca slowly leans forward, stretching his long neck down toward him. Judd remains very still, and for the briefest instant, their noses touch in an impromptu greeting. Then both animals return to sniffing the grass.
Simple! Humans take note.
Afterward, I hit the eggnog. Who knew a frothy mixture of sugar, rum, cream, and egg yolk could be so delicious? And because it has eggs, it must be nutritious, so I pour myself an extra-large second glass and pop a pepperoni pizza in the oven. Then I text a photo of Peggy and the pups to Sian. At once she replies:
OMG you did it!!!
Cannot take ALL credit . . .
Not bad for a novice!
Might set myself up as canine midwife.
Wouldn’t give up the day job.
How’s Owen? All ready for Father Christmas?
Delirious with excitement. Had to resort to drugs at bedtime.
Nice one. Mumsnet would be proud.
Am enjoying the smorgasbord he has laid out for FC.
Such as?
Carrot sticks, apple slices, pink marshmallows, and a large glass of whisky.
Nice combo. I’m guessing the latter was your idea?
I merely suggested that FC might be sick of milk by the time he got to ours.
Btw, in addition to 15 canines, am now proud minder of 2 alpacas.
Huh. Struggling to picture an alpaca.
Like a very tall sheep with an extra-long neck.
Are they as stupid as sheep?
Will have to let you know.
Later, when I have polished off the pizza and the entire carton of eggnog, I fall asleep on the sofa with Slab across my feet. My dreams are fueled by sweet rum and recent events: I dream of Nick and Noel flying through the sky, pulling the massive wooden TV crate in sleigh-like fashion. Scottish Santa sits inside the crate waving cheerily with his great, burly hands and shouting, “Ho ho ho.”
When I wake in the morning, I have a stiff neck and a nasty hangover. My feet sting with pins and needles, as Slab is still sprawled across them. I look around: Peggy is snoring and the pups are curled against her side in a jumbled heap of tummies, tails, and tiny muzzles. Thankfully, the other dogs are quiet and I am so grateful I could weep. God bless everyone! I gingerly shift Slab off my legs so I can sneak upstairs and run a bath. I fill it to the brim with extra hot water and pour in loads of bath salts. As I sink down into the tub my neck muscles begin to uncoil and my rum-soaked head starts to unclog. I sigh with pleasure.
Happy Christmas to me!
And then I hear a loud knock at the kitchen door. Seriously? Who the hell comes calling early on Christmas morning? I decide to ignore it, but the second knock sounds even more insistent; really, it is more like someone banging. I sigh and scramble out of the tub, snatching a hot-pink towel off the radiator and hurling myself down the stairs, dripping wet and trussed up like a sausage roll. No doubt it is Hugo, come to water the alpacas, or maybe Valko. But as I round the corner into the kitchen I stop short. Cal is crouched over peering in through the window with his outrageously blue eyes. When he sees me in the skimpy towel he pops up like a jack-in-the-box, his cheeks instantly two bright spots of color. I consider turning tail but decide that it is too late. Instead, I gather what little dignity I have remaining and open the door. Cal looks me straight in the eye, trying not to glance at my moist cleavage. His face is practically on fire.
“Um. Happy Christmas,” he says awkwardly.
What on earth is he doing here?
“Happy Christmas,” I reply cautiously. He takes a deep breath.
“Sorry. I . . . caught you at a bad moment.” He gestures toward the towel.
No kidding.
“No problem.” My voice is calm and cucumber cool.
“I was just passing. One of Stella’s sows got cut on the fence, so I thought I’d better look in on Peggy.” He is clearly mortified. I fling the door open wide.
“Be my guest.”
He swallows and nods, struggling to avert his eyes. The towel I have chosen is not overlarge; I reckon it covers approximately 40 percent of my body, and we are both clearly aware of the bits it does and does not conceal. Cal slides past me and crosses directly to Peggy in a way that says he means all business. He squats down, palpates her abdomen, checks her heart rate, then quickly picks up each of the puppies and
examines them, before hastily standing up again.
“All good,” he says with brusque efficiency.
“Fine,” I say. “Thank you,” I add. He nods and moves toward the door, eyes glued to the floor. At the last second he pauses and clears his throat, still looking at his shoes.
“Um. There’s something else. Gerry would like to invite you to lunch,” he says in a stilted voice. “Unless you have other plans.”
“Gerry,” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says. I wait for him to say something else, perhaps something about him, but his mouth is clamped in a tight line.
“Today?” I ask. Just want to be sure.
“Yes.”
“So . . . you mean . . . Christmas lunch?” Because I really do need to be sure.
“Yes,” he says emphatically. “That’s the idea,” he adds. He is clearly more than a little exasperated. I hesitate for a moment, forcing him to wait.
“I assume you’ll be there?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course.”
“But what about them?” I nod toward Peggy and the pups.
“Um, they’re not invited.”
“Will they be OK?”
“For a few hours? I should think so.”
“Fine,” I say. “Tell her I’d be pleased to accept.” He stares at me.
“Fine,” he says stiffly. Did I give the correct answer? I cannot tell if he is relieved or angry. “See you about one,” he says, and practically dives out the door. I watch the Volvo disappear around the bend and, as I do, the first flakes of snow begin to drift from the sky. The long-promised blizzard has finally arrived, just in time for Christmas.
* * *
Hark the herald angels sing! Glory to the newborn me!
Never in my wildest dreams did I envisage the scene that has just unfolded. I climb the stairs slowly, replaying it in my head. Did Gerry force him to invite me? Or was he secretly keen? The man is like a human version of a Rubik’s Cube: deceptive, frustrating, confounding. Basically, impossible. I sink back down into the bath, my heart banging like a bass drum in my chest, secretly hoping for the best. Perhaps my luck is finally changing for the better. (The question is, what did I do to deserve it?) But then, a far more important question lodges in my brain.