One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  He didn’t say anything, but raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s going to lend us some money,’ she said, and before Jason could cheer, she added, ‘And just so you know, I am never, ever, ever going to do that again. So please, spend it very wisely.’

  ‘I will,’ said Jason. ‘Well done.’

  Libby sank her nose into the glass and took a long drink. She totally understood now why her mother had formed such a close personal relationship with the drinks cabinet.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Well, this is most time efficient,’ said Margaret happily, settling into the front seat of Libby’s car while Libby and Pippa heaved Lord Bob and his various accoutrements into the boot. ‘Fitted in very nicely, didn’t it? Your hospital appointment, Pippa, Bob’s therapy session and Elizabeth’s PAT assessment with Gina.’

  Libby concentrated on reversing round the builders’ van, parked in the most inconvenient place on the drive. She was glad to be getting out, even if it was to ferry everyone back up to the hospital. After only three days, the hotel was fully under siege to Marek’s black-polo-shirted army. All the rooms bar the one they’d renovated were emptied of furniture and shrouded with dust sheets, and wheelbarrows full of wallpaper peelings and piles of dust were rolling steadily down the plastic-sheeting aisle, through the reception and out to a skip that had arrived overnight.

  Jason was excited about the skip. He’d already thrown some of their own junk into it, just because he could. ‘Just think,’ he’d told her, as they stacked the breakfast dishwasher, ‘if we were back in London, that skip would already be half full of everyone else’s crap by now.’

  ‘Is that what it’s come to?’ Libby had asked. ‘Celebrating the fact that we get our skip to ourselves?’

  ‘You’ve got to take your pleasures where you find them, babe,’ Jason had replied with a beatific smile. Just as Margaret had brightened up now she had Pippa to feed soup to and fuss over, Jason had been in a much-improved mood ever since Colin had transferred £20,000 into the hotel bank account the previous night. He’d vanished into the office and started doing all sorts of calculations, emerging much later with a revised timetable of deliveries and a bottle of wine from the hotel cellar to celebrate.

  Libby wasn’t so sure he ought to be celebrating. She had a feeling the shoe still had to drop on her dad’s generosity. Something about it made her uneasy.

  ‘Ah, don’t be grumpy. Just think of your baths. They’re on their way!’ Jason grinned, and Libby reflected that while she felt more ragged every day, between the tan, the rolled-up sleeves and the two nights a week – at least – he was spending either training or down the pub with his mates, Jason had the look of a man on holiday.

  ‘Why don’t we award ourselves a coffee and a slice of cake afterwards?’ Margaret went on. ‘There’s a lovely café in the High Street that’s very dog-friendly – I don’t suppose you know it, Pippa?’ she added, over her shoulder.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Pippa politely.

  ‘Have you been, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I haven’t really had a lot of time for visiting cafés,’ she said, then, because she didn’t want to sound martyred in front of Pippa, added, ‘But I’ve been meaning to try out some of the places in town. I’m updating the welcome pack for the rooms – did you know some of the pubs and cafés we’re recommending guests eat at have closed down?’

  The nice Irish couple had told her that. So had one less nice couple on TripAdvisor.

  ‘Really? Oh. That’s a shame. Then we must go to the Wild Dog,’ said Margaret. ‘I insist. Bob’s treat.’

  ‘You could do a special guide on your website for the canine guests,’ said Pippa, from the back. ‘Where to take your owner for a walk while you’re staying at the hotel, finishing in a café where you can both get something to drink.’

  ‘What a charming idea!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘Did you hear that, Bob?’

  ‘Maybe Bob could write it?’ Pippa suggested. ‘“Lord Bob’s Dog Guide to Longhampton.”’

  What? That was too far. Libby glanced in her rear-view mirror to catch Pippa’s eye and saw the innocent glitter in it. Pippa was hunched in the small back seat, with Lord Bob’s head stuck through the headrests next to her. Bob didn’t look conspiratorial. He was drooling unconcernedly onto the back of Margaret’s seat. Libby was very glad Jason wasn’t there to see.

  Pippa opened her eyes in a ‘What?’ expression. In the five days she’d been staying at the hotel, she’d started to look more like how Libby assumed she did normally: pink-cheeked, cheerful, even mischievous. Pippa seemed determined to help, in whatever small ways she could. Cups of tea, phones answered and messages taken, a well-timed comment that defused a touchy atmosphere.

  It made it all the more baffling to Libby that there weren’t hordes of friends missing her – but apparently the police still hadn’t managed to connect her with missing person reports.

  She returned the smile. ‘What are you seeing the consultant for today?’

  ‘Not the consultant, some other therapist,’ said Pippa. ‘She’s going to try hypnotherapy, to see if that helps.’ She looked doubtful. ‘It might work. I feel things are getting looser – you know, like when a tooth’s coming out? One good session might do the trick.’

  ‘Fingers crossed, dear,’ said Margaret, and Libby murmured in agreement; even though she wasn’t in a hurry to lose her company in the hotel, she obviously wanted Pippa’s life to restart properly.

  Libby parked in a space allocated for visitors and set about wrangling Bob into his official Pets As Therapy harness. Today, to please Margaret, she’d agreed to undergo an assessment as a PAT dog companion, so she could take Bob up there when Margaret was indisposed. Which Libby privately hoped would be never.

  He gazed nobly into the middle distance as Libby adjusted the straps and permitted himself one atrociously pungent pre-performance fart, which the three of them pretended not to notice.

  ‘You’ll be a good boy for Libby, won’t you?’ Margaret instructed him. ‘No pulling or messing about. Not that you would.’

  ‘Yes, you tell him, Margaret,’ said Libby. ‘No carrying on, Bob.’

  ‘You’ve got the emergency cheese? If he needs distracting?’

  Margaret insisted Bob understood English. Libby knew he only spoke the language of cheese. She patted her pocket. ‘Cheddar and Stilton.’

  ‘And I’ll be there, of course. In the background. But don’t let him get too close to Bert Carter. He smells of cats.’ Margaret dropped her voice. ‘Even now.’

  Libby nodded and tried to remember who Bert Carter was. The idea of today was that Margaret would introduce her to the volunteer organiser, Gina, who would then watch her with Lord Bob as he offered himself to the patients for patting, tickling and chatting, to check that she had him fully under control at all times. Libby was the one under assessment. Bob’s credentials were impeccable.

  Pippa gave Bob a quick ear scratch, then stood up.

  ‘Where shall I meet you afterwards?’ she asked. ‘My appointment’s at half twelve and I guess it’ll be an hour or so.’

  As she said that, a shadow passed over her face and Libby patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll wait. You’ve got my mobile. If your appointment finishes early or overruns, call me. And call me if you want me to be there with you – I don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Pippa managed a smile. ‘I don’t want to cut into your dog time.’

  Libby glanced at Margaret and Bob, now both ready for the off. ‘No chance of that,’ she said.

  Gina, the PAT coordinator, was not the mad old dog lady in a hairy fleece Libby had assumed she’d be. Instead, she saw a woman a few years older than herself, with a short dark pixie cut, warm brown eyes and a solemn greyhound with white spots sprinkled delicately over his grey haunches like snowflakes. Like Bob, he wore a bright yellow Pets As Therapy coat, but
underneath it Libby could make out a colourful embroidered martingale collar round his broad neck.

  They made a stylish couple, she thought. Maybe you could have a dog and not be condemned to a life of fleece.

  Lord Bob greeted both Gina and the greyhound as if they were at a smart canine cocktail party: gentle sniffs, casual wag of the tail, ‘You sit . . . No, you sit’ routine, which the greyhound lost by sitting down first, with an elegant sigh.

  Gina shook Libby’s hand and a kind-hearted smile lit up her face. ‘Thanks so much for volunteering,’ she said. ‘It’s wonderful what a difference a PAT visit makes to the patients – it seems to take them somewhere else. And Bob’s such a favourite. They’ll be thrilled if he has an extra helper!’

  They glanced over to where Margaret and Bob were talking to an elderly man with liver-spotted hands and rheumy eyes. When Bob approached, Libby saw the man’s face suddenly engage, and he leaned down to touch Bob’s brown-speckled nose, mumbling animatedly to him, although the words weren’t clear. Bob gazed solemnly up at him, his tail sweeping in a gentle, friendly arc as if in response to the man’s babbling.

  ‘The nurses tell me Ernest barely moves most of the day,’ said Gina. ‘He just sits and stares out of the window. But when Bob or the other PAT dogs come round, something clicks on inside him. Talks about the dog he used to have when he was a boy. Comes out with some lovely stories.’

  Libby laid her hand on the greyhound’s narrow head. He went very still, but let her stroke the soft skin behind his ears. She noticed one of his velvety ears was shorter than the other, as if a piece was missing.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘This is Buzz.’ Gina touched his neck and he leaned into her without turning his head. ‘Buzz is really my own therapy dog. I adopted him about two years ago, when I was going through a bad time. Well, we were both having a bad time, weren’t we?’ She scratched behind his short ear. ‘We got through it together. There’s something about dogs – they live in the moment, so you slow down too and appreciate the small things. And they’re lovely company.’

  ‘That’s what Margaret says,’ said Libby. ‘Bob was a great comfort when my father-in-law died. I can forgive him quite a lot for that,’ she confessed, in an undertone. ‘Bob was there when my husband and I couldn’t be. I think those big ears probably mopped up a fair few tears.’

  Gina nodded, as if she understood. ‘They listen in a way humans can’t. And they never try to give you advice. Buzz listens for some of the kids at the primary school. He’s a reading dog.’

  ‘He can read?’

  She laughed. ‘No, the kids read to him. Shy ones love it – he puts his paw on the page they’re reading from. He loves it too. That’s what’s so great about this programme: everyone seems to get something from it. Buzz had a horrible start in life, but now he’s happy, it’s as if he wants to give something back by coming along and doing this. I helped him and now he’s helping other people. And the hospital’s been very good to me too, so we’re both paying it forward. Anyway, shall we make a start? Margaret? Would you like to bring Bob over so Libby can take the reins?’

  ‘Of course!’ Margaret approached, with Bob at her side, and passed his lead to Libby, as if handing over a ceremonial baton.

  Bob looked up at her, and for a second, Libby thought he was about to do something naughty, just to test her. But instead he wagged his tail and stared at an old lady in a nearby chair, who seemed eager to stroke him.

  ‘So, Libby, I’m going to have a boring chat with you while you keep hold of Bob,’ said Gina. ‘Just to check you’ve got him under control when nothing interesting is happening. Is that all right?’

  This isn’t remotely awkward, thought Libby, feeling various hooded eyes turning towards her and Bob. But she smiled brightly and said, ‘What would you like to talk to me about? I can do lots of dull topics. We’ve got builders in the hotel at the moment. Would you like me to talk to you about dust sheets? And tea?’

  ‘Ah, my specialist subject,’ said Gina, making a mark on her clipboard. ‘There is literally nothing you can tell me about builders that I haven’t learned from personal experience.’

  ‘Are you having work done too?’

  ‘No, I’m a project manager – I spend my entire working day trying to get hold of them. Plumbers are the worst. If there’s anything you ever need to ask about builders, including my very controversial top-ten list of local cowboys to avoid, just let me know.’

  ‘Jason hasn’t engaged cowboys.’ Margaret leaned forward. ‘My son is project-managing the renovations and he’s hired a team who’ve worked on various Duchy properties in London.’

  Gina glanced between Margaret and Libby. ‘Ooh. Really? Posh.’

  ‘Very posh.’ For someone who hadn’t even wanted the renovations a week ago, Margaret now seemed surprisingly proud of them, Libby thought. Of course, if Jason had engaged them . . .

  ‘I don’t think Marek has sent the Duchy team to steam off our wallpaper,’ she said.

  ‘Margaret, I think to give Libby a proper test with Bob, it might be better if you popped out for ten minutes,’ said Gina firmly. ‘Why don’t you go and get a coffee?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’ said Gina. ‘We all need to concentrate. Now, Libby,’ she said, once Margaret had left the room, with just a few backward glances and waves, ‘who would be a good person to chat to?’ She glanced around the room. ‘Oh! Have you met Doris?’

  ‘Is she the lady who used to be the housekeeper at the Swan?’ asked Libby. ‘Margaret’s mentioned her a few times, yes.’

  ‘She’s a character.’ Gina raised her finely plucked eyebrows. ‘I think Margaret and her husband inherited her with the hotel. She’s got plenty of stories about what guests used to get up to in the bad old days. Come and have a chat with her now. She likes Bob. And she’d love to hear what you’re doing to the place, I’m sure.’

  Libby steered Bob across the day room towards a paisley-covered wing chair by the window. It was only when they were nearly next to it that she realised the chair was occupied by a tiny woman with a pale face, wrinkled like a walnut and topped with a swirl of white hair. She was wearing a turquoise dress and very small lace-up shoes, and she was gazing absorbedly into the middle distance.

  ‘Hello, Doris,’ said Gina. ‘How are you today? Are you up to having a chat with us?’

  The old lady’s head turned and Libby was aware of a very sharp pair of pale green eyes fixing on her, then looking down at Bob. The gaze softened noticeably when it reached Bob. ‘I’m middling, Gina. As well as can be expected with my lungs. Hello, Bob. Who’s this you’ve brought with you today?’

  ‘I’m Libby Corcoran,’ said Libby, offering her hand to shake.

  Doris had begun to lean down to offer Bob a pat on the head, but at the mention of Libby’s name, she straightened back up to give her a proper look.

  ‘Corcoran? Are you married to one of Margaret and Donald’s boys, then?’

  ‘I am.’ Libby smiled.

  The old lady regarded her. ‘Jason, I expect.’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  Doris pursed her pink lips. ‘You’re handling Margaret’s precious dog. You’d have to be Jason’s wife to do that.’

  ‘It’s an honour I’m very aware of,’ Libby agreed.

  ‘Libby and her husband have moved back to help Margaret out,’ Gina explained. ‘Said you had a few stories about the Swan that’d make her hair curl!’

  ‘Now that I have!’ But before Doris could elaborate – and she seemed to be relishing the prospect – a nurse came up pushing an empty wheelchair.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal Doris here away – time for your appointment with the hairdresser! Are you set?’

  ‘Oh, shame! Literal hair curling. Another time, then,’ said Gina. ‘Now,
how about going to talk to Gordon?’

  Reluctantly – because she’d rather wanted to hear what Doris had to say about the hotel, and Margaret – Libby adjusted her course and her warm smile for the next elderly man in need of Bob’s serene presence.

  Pippa sat on the chair in the waiting room with a plastic cup of water and tried to process the last hour.

  She couldn’t remember much about the hypnosis – ha! Irony! – but Kim the therapist had told her not to worry about that. Her gentle voice had been encouraging, and Pippa had managed to turn off her brain until pictures began to float into her mind of their own accord. It was like being walked slowly along a path that was familiar, if a bit blurry; sometimes, when she tried to get more specific, the ground fell from her feet, leaving her scrabbling and panicky. Then Kim’s voice had brought her back, giving her solid factual handrails to grip: the hotel, Libby and Jason, the names of the nurses who’d looked after her. Facts she could trust.

  They’d talked through school, her friends, her parents, other things she couldn’t remember but which she’d apparently spoken about. It was only when Kim tried to get more recent that the blankness rose up again like a curtain.

  ‘Can you remember the last birthday you celebrated? Maybe you were in London. Maybe you were with friends . . . or a boyfriend?’

  The curtain bulged inside Pippa’s mind, a sense of something behind it, pushing to be seen, but when she tried to pin down what it was, it fell away out of her grasp.

  ‘Relax,’ Kim had said, but the harder she tried, the blanker her brain felt. It made her panic. Then the session had been wound down and she was back in the darkened consulting room.

  Pippa sipped the cold water from the fountain, so cold it made her temples ache. Had that been progress? Were the invisible links in her brain starting to click back together? Kim had written a lot down, and assured her that it might all suddenly spring back when she woke up one morning, or if she had that one breakthrough memory, but when Pippa tried to think about what she’d remembered, she felt really, really tired.