Prudence slid down to lie in the open doorway, lazily contemplating a pair of blackbirds. Dad poured the tea, and looked up at me, waiting.
‘All about what?’ I said.
‘Come on, Jessie, love. Tell me what’s happened. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? You said you needed to talk to me.’
I sighed. ‘Yes. I … just don’t know quite how to start. Well, I’ve had a bit of a shock. It’s about Ruth.’
‘You told me on the phone she was seeing someone, serious-like.’
‘She was. But I think it’s over.’ Quickly, I filled in the details, missing out the part where Nick said he wanted to go out with me. That still felt too ridiculous, not to mention embarrassing, to repeat. When I described how drunk Ruth had been the previous night and how she’d turned on me that morning, Dad shook his head, sighing.
‘Is it the stress of her job, do you think?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I’m sure Nick’s right about her drinking now, but to be honest, unless she decides to get help, I don’t know what anyone can do. I just don’t think I can put up with living with her any more, Dad. She’s so moody and stroppy—’
‘She never used to be, though, did she? She was a nice girl. Well brought up.’ He shook his head again. ‘Funny old life, isn’t it, Jess? Your aunt and uncle gave Ruth everything – private education, holidays abroad, university, her own car as soon as she could drive. The best of everything. And now? She hardly ever visits them, by all accounts. Says she’s too busy working. She works only half a mile from their place!’
‘Well, now I can guess why. She comes straight home and starts drinking, Dad. She brings bottles in with her. I can’t think how I didn’t realise before. For all I know, she might be drinking at work too. At lunchtime, perhaps.’
‘I hope she doesn’t lose her job over it. Poor girl. You’re right, Jess, she does need help. Can’t you talk to her? The pair of you were always such good friends.’
I put down my cup, painfully aware that Dad was quite right, Ruth and I had always been so close. Both only children, we’d grown up more like sisters than cousins. She was six when I was born, and apparently she’d loved me on sight. She’d certainly treated me with tenderness and care all through our childhoods and teenage years.
‘We were always good friends,’ I corrected him now, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.
‘So, what changed?’ he asked gently.
‘I moved in with her, that’s what,’ I said, looking down into my cup. ‘She’s so different with me now. It’s like walking on eggshells; she has such terrible mood swings; one minute we’re enjoying a takeaway together and it’s all quite nice and relaxed, and the next minute she’s snapping my head off. Yelling at me, or accusing me of stuff. Ever since she let me live in her house, she treats me like a second-class citizen. Like … I don’t know … like Cinderella, doing all the work and being bossed around.’ I glanced at Dad and shook my head, sighing. ‘I know, it sounds pathetic, but it’s true. She looks down on me, Dad.’
Dad looked back at me in silence, his forehead creased with concern.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I went on in a rush. ‘She never used to, did she? There was never any difference between us, between our two families—’
‘There still isn’t, Jess,’ he said quietly.
‘Maybe not, between you and them – Uncle James and Auntie Susan. I know: it never mattered that they lived in that massive house, and that Ruth had a pony and … and everything.’
I faltered. I’d come here intending to rant and rave to Dad about how badly Ruth treated me, but now, remembering how kind Ruth’s family had been to us, how they’d looked after us when Mum died, I felt too disloyal, too guilty. Auntie Susan had taken over my care without a minute’s hesitation, picking me up from the local primary school, feeding me along with Ruth, who was a teenager by then, and looking after me until Dad got back from work. Every day, until I was old enough to walk home from senior school by myself. And even after that, I spent every day of every school holiday at their house. They even took me on holiday with them, to places Dad would never have been able to afford to take me. And Ruth had treated me, always, as her little sister. She’d never been jealous of me, never resented sharing her parents’ time and attention with me. Remembering all this now – how could I ever have forgotten? I felt even more guilty.
‘But things have been different between us, since I moved in with her,’ I insisted miserably. ‘I know what you’re going to say: that it was good of her to take me in when I lost my job at the hotel, and good of her to charge me hardly any rent. I know; I know I shouldn’t complain. I feel bad even talking to you about this. Even though she’s made me so miserable lately, I’ve tried to stick by her and support her. She works hard, and she’s such a good person in most ways. But honestly, Dad, I don’t know if I can stand it much longer, living with her terrible mood swings. She’s changed so much—’
‘And perhaps you’ve discovered the reason now,’ he pointed out.
There was no condemnation in his tone; no reprimand towards me for my disloyalty, but nevertheless, I felt suitably chastened. He was right, of course: I should be more sympathetic, more understanding. But how could I be expected to go on living with someone who treated me the way Ruth was doing now?
‘She hates Prudence, too,’ I said, reaching down automatically to stroke Pru’s head. ‘Even though I keep her clean, and try to keep her quiet the whole time – and she actually saved her from choking last night!’
‘Poor Prudence,’ Dad sympathised. ‘And poor you, too. Getting yelled at like that, when you were just trying to help. So: I presume this is why you’re talking about leaving Pennycombe Bay.’
‘Put like that, it sounds silly, I know.’ I sighed. ‘But there’s more to it than that.’
‘In that case, I’m going to dish up the dinner, and we can talk some more while we’re eating.’
‘I’ll come and help,’ I said, getting to my feet.
‘No you won’t. From what you’ve been saying, you had no sleep last night and you’re worn out. Stay there, enjoy the sunshine and let me look after you for once. I don’t get to do it very often,’ he added with a smile.
I walked out into the garden, Prudence trotting happily at my heels, and as I breathed in the scent of Dad’s newly mown lawn and enjoyed the song of the blackbird, serenading his mate from the top of the apple tree, I tried to clear my mind of the anger and agitation that had been clouding my judgement since Ruth’s outburst that morning. Was I really going to walk out on her, when she so obviously needed help? After all she’d done for me, all we’d shared in the past? I had to admit I felt ashamed, thinking about it like that. But how did I help somebody who not only refused to admit they had a problem but seemed to blame me for everything?
‘The thing about leaving Pennycombe Bay,’ I said to Dad eventually, after we’d been enjoying our roast dinner in silence for a few minutes. ‘It’s not just about Ruth. That – last night, and the way she spoke to me this morning – was the last straw, but it’s made me start questioning what I’m doing there. What I’m actually doing with my life.’
‘What would you do with your life if you moved back here to Exeter?’ Dad asked as he speared a roast potato and dipped it in his gravy.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Try to get a different job, I suppose. A better one.’
‘You’re not happy at the shop?’
I shrugged. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Jim’s lovely, and it’s not hard work. But—’
‘You feel unfulfilled.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You could look for a job in Exeter and commute from Pennycombe Bay. That’s what Ruth does,’ he reminded me. ‘Not that I wouldn’t love to have you home here, of course!’ he added quickly. ‘I’d like nothing better, but I’m not sure whether it would be the right thing for you.’ He looked at me now, his head on one side as if he was trying to work me out. ‘I thought
you were so happy in Pennycombe Bay, Jess.’
‘I was.’ I put down my fork and looked out of the window at the street outside. The house was on a fairly busy road on the outskirts of the city. There was a doctors’ surgery opposite, and the street had always suffered from a parking problem because of it. It was also a bus route. I never really noticed the traffic when I used to live here – I was used to it – and today, being a Sunday, it was quieter anyway. But, although Dad had made a little oasis of calm out of his back garden, I knew I’d find it strange being back in the hustle and bustle of this area now, after the peaceful sea views I currently enjoyed. ‘I was really happy in Pennycombe Bay,’ I went on slowly. I was almost thinking out loud, trying to work it out for myself. ‘Until I lost my job at the hotel.’
Dad nodded. ‘Of course. I know how badly that affected you, love. But, well, you shouldn’t let one bad experience stop you from doing what you really love.’
‘One bad experience?’ I shot back. ‘Dad, it was terrible!’
‘I know. But are you never going to try and get back into catering? You used to love cooking so much. You worked so hard at college to get your diploma—’
‘I don’t think it’s for me,’ I interrupted him quickly. ‘Not any more. Perhaps it never was.’
We both concentrated on our food again for a while without saying anything else on the subject. He was right: I’d worked hard to get the diploma, worked hard in my first job, as a trainee chef in a restaurant here in Exeter. I’d soon been promoted to junior chef. But when, after several more years, it hadn’t led to anything more senior, I’d been overjoyed to get the job at the Pennycombe Grand. It had been my dream, of course, to eventually become a head chef, but if I was really honest, only because it would have made Dad so proud. What I could never bring myself to tell him now was that it was never really for me that I went into the catering business at all, it was for him. It was because Mum was a chef and he wanted me to take after her, even though really I didn’t. I loved her as much as he did, missed her desperately, but I was nothing like her. She was outgoing, gregarious, and seemed to love the hectic, often loud and stressful life of being a chef, whereas I’d taken after Dad, inherited his more gentle, quiet nature. I did enjoy the creative side of cooking, but the hurried, stressful atmosphere of working in a kitchen was something I never really got used to. The head chef yelling his commands, the waiters flying in and out of the kitchen with their orders: the constant noise and hassle used to shred my nerves to bits. If it hadn’t been for my friendship with Liz, keeping me going while I worked, I probably would have quit long before it all ended in the horrible way it did. It had taken me quite a while, even after that happened, to realise I’d never really been cut out to follow in Mum’s footsteps, and if I said this to Dad now, I was afraid it would hurt him terribly.
So I just ate my dinner, told him it was lovely, smiled to myself at the thought that Mum had taught him well, that she hadn’t left him unable to fend for himself. He cooked himself a roast dinner every Sunday lunchtime, in memory of her, and quite often invited a lonely neighbour or two in to join him.
‘Apple crumble and custard?’ he asked, as he cleared away our empty plates.
‘How could I possibly refuse?’ I laughed.
We chatted about other things during the afternoon, and I left early in the evening, wanting to drive back before I became too tired to concentrate on the road.
‘Have you come to a decision?’ Dad asked as he hugged me goodbye.
‘Not really. But I’ve calmed down a bit. Thanks for listening.’
‘You’re welcome, love. Any time!’
He made me promise to let him know how things went with Ruth, and in return I made him promise not to mention any of what I’d told him to her parents.
But as I headed back to Pennycombe Bay it was the very last thing he’d said to me that lingered in my mind:
‘Whatever you decide, Jessie, try to follow your heart. If you don’t do what really makes you happy, you’ll always regret it.’
I was pretty sure Dad was dropping hints again about the fact that I’d abandoned my career in catering. But what it really made me think about was my life in Pennycombe Bay itself.
CHAPTER 10
When I arrived back in Pennycombe Bay from Exeter, I found Ruth sitting in the kitchen, staring at a newspaper. She looked up at me in surprise as I walked in.
‘Oh. You’re back, are you?’ she said, without any trace of a smile – but I could have sworn I’d heard a note of … something like relief in her tone. Of course, I must have imagined it, because after that she went straight up to her room without saying another word.
The next evening, after work, I took Prudence for an extra-long walk, through Penny Woods, up onto the cliffs and along the footpath that led out of Pennycombe Bay, following the coast into the open countryside. It had been a hot and hazy August day, and even now there was no breeze stirring the leaves of the trees. Birds were singing their hearts out in their evening chorus and bees were buzzing in the hedgerows. When I reached the highest point, known locally as Devil’s Peak, I sat on a stile to get my breath back and stared out at the magnificent view of the Devon coastline stretching out into the distance, and the pink-and-red-tiled rooftops of Pennycombe Bay. The sea sparkled in the evening sunshine, and I smiled as I watched the tiny figures of holidaymakers far below me, enjoying the last hour or so of daylight and in no hurry to leave the beach.
‘The thing is, I still love it here,’ I muttered to Prudence.
I know you do. So do I.
‘Am I wasting my life, though? Will I regret it one day, look back and wished I’d moved on and done something more worthwhile? Or would I regret it if I did leave? Like Dad said: shouldn’t I think about what really makes me happy?’
Search me. Humans seem to need so much more than we dogs do, to make them happy.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Pru. I love Pennycombe Bay, but is it making me happy? Let’s face it, my job’s just an easy option. It’s so dull, you could probably do it! And as for living with Ruth …’
If she doesn’t throw us out.
‘I don’t think she meant it, you know. I think she just went on the defensive because she knows we’ve found out about her drinking. And Dad’s right: I shouldn’t give up on her. We go back too far. I should have been more aware of what she was doing; if I’d noticed about her drinking earlier, I might have been able to stop it becoming such a problem. I’m going to have to put up with her behaviour and her moods, aren’t I, and try to be more understanding. She needs my help, really. She’s done so much for me in the past, always being there for me, even when I was too young to really appreciate it. Now it’s my turn to do whatever I can for her. Perhaps it’s my job, the task I’ve been given, to persuade her to go to AA.’
Good luck with that, then.
‘I know,’ I said grimly. ‘Right, well, I might as well start as I mean to go on. Let’s go home and see if we can talk to her.’
Ruth was late back from work that night, but by the time I’d cleaned Prudence up and prepared dinner, she was home, with the clinking carrier bag I had now come to expect. She started to carry the bag upstairs, ignoring me, but I called after her: ‘I’ve made lasagne.’
She turned and stared at me. ‘Good for you.’
‘I mean, I’ve made it for both of us. Sit down and eat with me, Ruth. Please.’
‘Why?’
I sighed. ‘Because I want to talk to you.’
‘You’re not going through all that again, are you – what happened the other night? Because all right, if you really insist on an inquest, then I’m sorry I drank too much, sorry I got ill, sorry I yelled at you. OK?’
‘That’s not really the point. But … OK, thank you. Come on, sit down, Ruth, it’s ready to dish up.’
Looking suspicious, she sat down, and watched me in silence as I took the lasagne out of the oven and dished it up, put some salad on the side of each plate and garlic b
read to share in the middle of the table. The long walk in the fresh air had given me an appetite and the combined scents of garlic, meat, onions and herbs were making my mouth water.
‘What are you having to drink with it?’ Ruth asked.
‘A glass of water. Want one?’
She sniffed, but didn’t comment as I poured her out a glassful.
‘I suppose you’re making some kind of point,’ she said eventually as we started eating. ‘No wine for the drunkard.’
‘No, I’m not. I was just trying to show that I wanted us to get along together – to be friends, like we used to be. But you know perfectly well you shouldn’t be having wine.’
‘And what makes you think that? Just because of what happened the other night?’
‘No, not just that. Because you drink too much all the time.’ I was struggling to keep my voice from shaking. I hated confrontations. I was terrified that this would end up in another row, another opportunity for her to tell me to get out. ‘You know you do, Ruth. I want to help you, that’s all.’
She put down her knife and fork. ‘I’ve told you I don’t want to go through all that again,’ she said, surprisingly calmly. ‘And I’m not answerable to you, so if you really want us to be friends, please mind your own business. I drank too much the other night because I finally realised Nick’s not coming back to me. It’s probably your fault—’
‘What?!’
‘—but I’ve decided not to throw you out because I promised your father I’d look after you when you moved to Pennycombe Bay, and I don’t go back on my word. So you can stay, and I suppose the damned dog had better stay too. But please don’t presume to tell me I need help, especially from you.’
We ate the rest of the meal in silence. I’d failed before I’d even started; nothing was going to change, and I was so fed up and dispirited I might still have been wondering whether or not to stay in Pennycombe Bay after all, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the very next morning I received the appointment for Pru’s assessment for PAT. A couple of days later she passed with flying colours and before I could change my mind I contacted the hospital and arranged our first official visit. For the first time in a long while, I was going to do something completely different, something worthwhile. I knew I’d find it really challenging, but I was determined to try to make a go of it.
The Pet Shop at Pennycombe Bay Page 8