Follow Me Home

by Cathy Woodman

  I can’t help worrying about how I will feel when I see Lewis again because, no matter how much I try to avoid him on his return to Talyton St George for the shearing, I’m bound to run into him, either up at the farm, or walking the dog, or at the Country Show. Will I be able to look at him as if he’s nothing to me, or will my traitorous heart skip a beat? I’ve dealt with the anger and the sense of being seriously let down, even though it was partly my fault for putting myself in that situation, but have I banished the feelings I had for him?

  On the morning of the show, which is held every year on the third Saturday in June, I sneak across the landing to collect the dog shampoo and towels from the airing cupboard, hoping Frosty won’t notice, but she must have been watching me because I find her with her tail between her legs. She jams herself under Gran’s armchair.

  ‘Frosty,’ I giggle. ‘Out from there.’ I hold a liver treat just in front of her nose, but out of reach so she has to wriggle on her belly to get it. I offer her another until she’s out far enough for me to grab her and pick her up. ‘Gotcha!’

  When I stand her in the bath, she looks like the most depressed dog in the world, but under the hairdryer she lifts her lip in a lopsided smile, holds her tail in the air and arches her back for a scratch. I dry her, give her a brush and put on her smartest collar from her extensive wardrobe – she has almost as many collars now as I have shoes, and I put that down to Aurora’s recent trick of displaying a model dog alongside the mannequin in her window and changing the dog’s outfit and must-have collar every week or so.

  I have given Frosty some intensive training sessions, involving the consumption of an inordinate number of liver treats, and she’s finally beginning to focus on my commands and follow my lead to such an extent that I have managed to walk her down to the Green and pass several dogs, including Aurora’s poodle, without Frosty causing a scene. She isn’t keen on Mrs Dyer’s Great Dane, but she’s much more manageable.

  I let Frosty out in the garden for five minutes before we go. Mistake. She comes in covered in dust and twigs.

  ‘Have you been rolling in the grass?’ She sits at my feet and gazes up at me as if to say, No. And I haven’t got the heart to be cross with her. I attach her lead, pick up my bag and collect Gran’s cake, which is in a tin on the counter in the shop.

  ‘You know where you’re taking it and how to set it up?’ Gran says.

  ‘To the WI tent. It goes on the white plate provided, making sure there are no crumbs. How many times have we been through this?’

  ‘Enough, I hope,’ she smiles. ‘Don’t let Frosty anywhere near that tin. The judge said there were hairs in my sponge last year, but I don’t believe it. Someone made that up or planted them.’

  ‘Oh, Gran, I doubt it.’

  ‘You don’t know what those people are like. They can be very spiteful.’

  ‘They’re competitive, but I really don’t think they’d do anything like that.’ I smile to myself. ‘What colour were these hairs? Tabby, by any chance?’ I say, thinking of Norris and how he sleeps curled up in the kitchen. I’m teasing, but Gran seems to be faking the perceived sabotage of last year’s entry to the Best Victoria Sponge competition very seriously. There was a time when she would have shrugged it off, put it down to one of those things that happens and vowed to do better next time. ‘Why don’t you close just for today so you can bring the cake yourself?’

  She is appalled. ‘How can you suggest such a thing? Close the shop? Your granddad would turn in his grave.’

  ‘The regulars have already been in for their papers and lottery tickets. I won’t be able to watch over the cake all day because Poppy’s taking Frosty in the Best Pet in Show class.’

  ‘And you want to watch all those handsome young men shearing sheep,’ Gran says with a wicked twinkle in her eye. ‘Or one in particular, perhaps.’ My face grows the colour of strawberry laces as she continues, ‘I know you still think of him, and now maybe he’s free . . .’

  ‘Gran, were you listening? That day, when Lewis came round . . .’

  ‘I popped upstairs and the window just happened to be open.’

  ‘So you were. Great.’ She might be forgetful at times, but she hasn’t forgotten that.

  ‘You go and enjoy yourself. I’ll see you up at the farm for tea.’

  Emily’s invited us all for dinner. It’s become a tradition since She married Murray.

  ‘I’ll pick you up on the way back from the show at about seven,’ I remind her.

  ‘Would you mind setting the alarm on my mobile? You know how dotty I am.’

  I promise to text her instead.

  At the showground, I park the car and meet up with Emily, Poppy and Daisy. Poppy looks after Frosty under Emily’s watchful eye, while I head down to the WI tent, where the air is laden with the aroma of warm blackcurrants, roses and lavender. I remove the layers of greaseproof paper and string and place the cake on a white plate with Gran’s entry slip alongside. My stomach growls at the smell and sight of it, a two-tier Victoria sponge with sticky strawberry jam running through the middle and a dusting of icing sugar across the top. I’d love to know how you qualify to be a judge.

  I glance along the rows of trestle tables, laden with scones, chutneys and flower arrangements. There are decorated hats too, one of which has a set of handcuffs across the brim and a sign reading, ‘Shades of Grey’. There is a small crowd gathered around it and what sounds like a heated debate over whether this display is crossing the boundaries of decency for Talyton’s annual Country Show and the WI in particular.

  Fifi Green, dressed in a blue polka-dot dress with a coordinating handbag and a white hat with blue silk flowers on the brim, is officiating the argument, a role she adopts naturally as the town’s busybody, erstwhile lady mayoress and chair of the parish council.

  ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with it,’ says the contributor of the exhibit. It’s Ally Jackson, roving reporter for the Talyton Chronicle and our newspaper boy’s mother. She’s carrying an orange satchel over one shoulder and wearing a green maxi dress. James is standing at the opposite end of the tent, as if he’s trying to get as far away from her as possible. ‘It meets the brief.’

  ‘We’ve heard all about those books,’ says a woman who stands with her friend in a bright yellow T-shirt reading ‘Friends of Talyton Animal Rescue’, ‘and we think it’s disgusting.’

  ‘I’ve read them,’ says Fifi, at which there’s a collective gasp from the people in the tent.

  ‘You’ve read them?’

  ‘Well, dears, you can’t make a judgement on something like that without experiencing it for yourself. The story wasn’t as shocking as I expected from all the hype. I really don’t think a set of handcuffs stuck to a hat is in any way inflammatory.’

  ‘It demonstrates the oppression of women, the subjugation of female desire and the emphasis on male pleasure,’ says the woman in the yellow T-shirt. ‘Fifi, you are going to support us on this one?’

  ‘I know we’ve sometimes struggled to maintain the moral standing of this town,’ Fifi responds. ‘However, I feel that this is a storm in a teacup and maybe we could do with “sexing things up”, as they call it, for a change.’

  ‘In that case, I’m withdrawing my entry from the show.’

  ‘Joan, that’s a bit hasty. You’re in with a good chance with your flower arrangement. There are only three entries so far.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Joan appears to reconsider.

  ‘Maybe it’s better to make your point in a different way,’ Fifi suggests. ‘By working from within, you can fight the oppression of women while we carry on and enjoy the rest of the day.’

  I leave them to do just that, rejoining Poppy and Frosty outside the mini-arena that’s marked out with string and straw bales for the Best Pet class. Somehow, Fifi is there too.

  ‘She gets everywhere, that woman,’ I say aside to Emily. ‘She was in the WI tent discussing whether or not “Shades of Grey” was a suitable theme for a
decorated hat.’

  ‘I imagine she was disapproving.’

  ‘She appeared to be quite open-minded. I think she has the potential to be a bit of a cougar.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Talking of cougars, though, don’t you want to know how Lewis is?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say cheerfully, looking around at the fluttering flags and the flagpoles that gleam in the sunshine.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with his company tonight,’ Emily says. ‘I’ve invited him to the party. I couldn’t not ask him, could I?’

  ‘I suppose not. Would you mind if I opted out? I don’t think I can face him.’

  ‘You’ll have to sometime. He’s going to be around for a while.’ She pauses. ‘He’s talked to me about the girlfriend.’

  ‘You pumped him for info, you mean? I wish you’d left it alone.’

  ‘It isn’t as bad as you made out. Lewis and this girlfriend weren’t really an item – he had to see her to find out where they were at and tell her it was over for good.’ When I don’t respond, Emily continues, ‘I believe him when he says he wasn’t sure.’

  ‘He might be able to pull the wool over your eyes – being a shepherd,’ I say, trying to make light of my feelings, only to find they are still raw, in spite of the fact he’s been away for a month. ‘He can’t do it to me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re scared of being hurt again. He’s finished with her.’

  ‘I don’t need to know.’ I block my ears and say ‘Na, na, na, na,’ just like Poppy does when it’s time for bed. Emily grabs me by the wrists and, laughing, pulls my hands away.

  ‘Listen to your big sister for once.’ (She’s older than me by five minutes.) ‘The first thing Lewis said when he turned up yesterday was, “How is Zara?” He adores you and I know, in spite of this little glitch, that you like him. Give him a chance.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I sigh.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Emily gives me a dig in the ribs as she pulls the buggy in beside one of the bales and sits down.’ Are you going to supervise Poppy?’

  ‘She won’t let me. She wants to do it herself.’ I squeeze in between Emily and another woman, who turns out to be one of my mums, with her child who is now three and a half.

  ‘I’ll never forget what you did for us, Zara.’ She smiles from beneath the brim of a straw hat as she wipes the toddler’s runny nose. ‘Hopefully it won’t be too long until we catch up with you again – we’re trying for a brother or sister for Todd.’

  I wish her luck and turn back to the ring.

  ‘They’re running late now. Who’s judging?’ Emily asks.

  ‘It’s Maz, the vet. Look.’ Maz is at the entrance to the ring, fastening a judge’s badge to the lapel of her jacket. ‘How’s she going to choose?’

  The entrants file in with their pets – a giant rabbit on a harness and lead, a box filled with straw from which a ferret’s head pops up and a cat hiding under a blanket in a basket. There’s a snake wrapped like a scarf around a little boy’s neck. Maz unwinds it pretty quickly and asks Fifi to hold one end while the boy holds the other. Fifi immediately declines and the boy’s father, his arms covered with tattoos, helps out instead.

  Three dogs follow. Mrs Dyer is supervising a teenage girl with her Great Dane, which is completely out of control, diving among the spectators to help himself to a hotdog, much to everyone’s amusement. There are two more girls – in their early teens, I’d guess – with a scruffy black crossbred with a grey muzzle and grey rings around his eyes. A boy of about eighteen is bossing them around from the perimeter of the ring. I recognise him – he’s called Adam and he’s brother to the two girls. The third dog is Frosty, of course, and she’s on her best behaviour, walking beside Poppy who’s tripping over the lead in a red dress and sandals.

  ‘How do you decide on which one is the best?’ Emily continues. ‘Is it the cutest or friendliest? Or the furriest or scaliest?’

  ‘Poppy looks incredibly cute,’ I say, as Frosty suddenly spots me in the crowd and diverts to come and see me, wagging her tail.

  ‘This way, Frosty.’ Poppy hauls on the lead with no effect whatsoever.

  ‘Remember she’s deaf. She can’t hear you. Hold the lead a bit tighter. That’s right. Go on Frosty.’ I gesture at her to back off and she returns to the line of pets being shown off around the ring.

  Emily looks at me, her face pink with maternal pride. ‘If there was a prize for best-behaved child, Poppy would actually win it today.’

  Maz and Fifi call the competitors into the middle of the ring in no particular order, and line them up before walking along the line where Maz, with a little interference from Fifi, strokes the pets, studies them and asks the handlers questions. I crane forwards to hear when she begins to interview Poppy.

  ‘And what does Frosty have to eat?’ she asks.

  ‘She has dog food,’ Poppy says, stroking Frosty at the same time.

  ‘She’s nervous,’ Emily says.

  ‘What do you think is so special about Frosty?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Poppy says matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh?’ Fifi joins in. ‘She looks very much alive to me.’

  ‘She means deaf, don’t you,’ Maz says. ‘Frosty can’t hear a thing. She was a cruelty case.’

  And I overhear someone in the crowd muttering that Frosty is bound to be the winner then, with a great back story like that.

  ‘It’s just like X Factor,’ they grumble.

  Emily winks at me and lifts Daisy, who’s started to whinge, out of the pushchair. One side of her face is red and covered with beads of sweat from the heat.

  ‘Oh, you’re too hot, darling.’ Emily adjusts Daisy’s sunhat and removes her cardigan. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m a terrible mother.’

  ‘You’re a great mum. I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that.’

  Fifi sends the pets off around the ring once more and, under Maz’s direction, calls them back in reverse order from sixth to first place. Emily grips my arm as first the snake, then the cat, then the rabbit and the scruffy dog are called in, but not Frosty or the ferrets in the box. Mrs Dyer’s Great Dane has been withdrawn – he had an attack of ring-shyness, I think it’s called, and disappeared over the rope at the entrance with his handler and Mrs Dyer chasing off after him. Poppy marches round, appearing oblivious to the fact it’s a competition, so when the ferrets are pulled into second place, she keeps walking even though Emily’s shouting at her to attract her attention. Maz and Fifi have to ambush her and Frosty and direct them to the winner‘s podium, where they stand on top of the bale of straw, Poppy grinning and Frosty with her tongue hanging out.

  ‘Hurray,’ Emily cheers, making Daisy startle. ‘Well done!’

  I’m glowing, and not just because of the sun, when my sister puts her arm around me.

  ‘We are two proud mothers, sis.’

  Maz hands Poppy a red rosette and a silver trophy.

  ‘I’d quite like a pink one.’ Poppy’s voice rings out loud and clear with an edge of complaint.

  Emily groans. ‘Poppy, please don’t spoil it . . .’

  ‘I think the red is best,’ Fifi says quickly.

  ‘I’m not keen on red.’

  ‘But look how it matches your beautiful dress. Pink wouldn’t do at all.’

  Poppy looks down and smooths her skirt. Apparently satisfied with the match, she accepts the red rosette with good grace.

  ‘Phew,’ Emily says, as a photographer from the Chronicle enters the ring to take a photo. ‘Crisis averted.’

  ‘They are so cute,’ I say, with a lump in my throat, as I watch Poppy attach the rosette to Frosty’s collar. Frosty shakes herself and the rosette falls off. Poppy picks it up again and sticks it between her teeth for the lap of honour, like the showjumpers do in the main arena. Frosty looks sleek and shiny as she trots around with her, her ribs only just visible under her skin now. She is one very lucky dog.

  Maz and Poppy bring Frosty back to us across th
e ring, as the crowd begins to disperse.

  ‘Hi, Zara.’ Maz does a double take when she sees my twin.

  ‘This is my sister, Emily,’ I say, introducing her.

  ‘Oh, you’re Murray’s wife. Alex looks after your sheep.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Emily says.

  ‘I didn’t put two and two together when I met you through Frosty,’ Maz says. ‘I’ve always been better at remembering animals than people, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t envy you having to choose the best pet,’ I say.

  ‘It isn’t easy.’ She grimaces. ‘I wanted our assistant to do this, but he planned his holiday deliberately for this week. Still, it’s over now for another year and I can relax.’ She pauses. ‘Just one thing,. . . It’s always a touchy subject and I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you’re going to have to be careful about the diet.’

  ‘I am,’ I say. ‘I’m a member of a slimming club.’

  ‘Not you, you idiot,’ Emily chuckles. ‘Maz is talking about the dog.’

  ‘Oh yes, the dog. What’s wrong with the dog?’

  ‘She’s beginning to lose her waist. It was good to feed her up, but now she’s hit her target weight, you need to cut down on her food.’

  ‘You’ll have trouble persuading Gran not to feed her, Zara. She’s always giving her titbits,’ Emily says.

  ‘I know, and she gives Frosty her breakfast, then forgets she’s given it to her and gives her another one. I’ll do my best, though. If I tell her it’s for the sake of Frosty’s health, Gran will come on board.’

  ‘I’ll see you later maybe,’ Maz says. ‘I need to relieve Alex of the childcare. He’ll be on the bouncy castle with George or helping Seb and Lucie with the ponies.’

  ‘Can I have a pet of my own, Mummy?’ Poppy asks when Maz has gone.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Emily responds.

  ‘You always say that.’ Poppy shows Daisy the rosette. Daisy grabs it and sucks on the ribbon. Poppy snatches it back, making Daisy cry.

  ‘You can have one when you’re old enough to look after it.’ Emily rolls her eyes at me. ‘Auntie Zara had to wait until she was a grown-up before she had a dog.’