The Pets at Primrose Cottage Read online

  Back in Primrose Cottage, I celebrated by locking myself in the bathroom and smothering my hair in Cheeky Chestnut.

  ‘Oh! You look very funny,’ Holly told me without a hint of amusement, after I’d finally washed the stuff off and blow-dried my hair into what I thought was an attractive style. ‘Put the other hair back on, it was nicer.’

  I’d always thought I liked children. But I don’t think I’d ever realised how much they can dent your confidence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning I set off for the library straight after breakfast, determined to get in there while it was open and get started on my job hunt.

  ‘I’d like to use one of the computers,’ I told the library assistant cheerfully. He was a young lad who didn’t look old enough to have left school.

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ he said, idly fiddling with his earring while he shuffled some papers.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ My cheerfulness was dissipating.

  ‘Well, not that it’s our fault, but the computer’s down.’

  ‘You only have one?’

  ‘Yeah. The other one’s gone away.’

  He hadn’t even looked up at me yet. I wondered, for a moment, how much his tone and manner would change if I suddenly announced my real identity. He’d probably pull his bloody earring out with shock. Then again, he’d never believe me, not with this hair, to say nothing of my woolly hat and lack of make-up.

  ‘What do you mean, gone away?’ I said. ‘Did it walk out? Go on its holiday?’

  Now he looked up, clearly wounded.

  ‘No need to be like that, lady. It’s gone away to be fixed, is where it’s gone.’

  ‘So they’ve both gone wrong, then.’

  He thought about this. ‘Well, yeah. But this one—’ he indicated the culprit with a point of his thumb, ‘hasn’t gone away yet.’

  ‘I see.’ I sighed. ‘Well, let’s hope it goes away soon, then. And the other one comes back even sooner.’

  He just stared at me. I gave up.

  ‘Can I join the library?’ I asked instead.

  I took out two books on dog care, from the children’s section. They looked easier to understand than the ones on the adult shelves, and had nice pictures. Then I went across the square to the pizza bar to get a cup of coffee. At least it was warm in there and nobody demanded to know who I was or what I was doing. I perched on a stool in the corner and started swotting up on looking after large, energetic dogs. There was rather too much mention of exercise for my liking. It wasn’t so much that I was unfit; I’d had my own personal trainer in New York. But I wasn’t used to exercising in the countryside, with no gym or health spa. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ever walked anywhere that wasn’t paved. I’d never have dreamed of jogging off-path in Central Park, for instance – my trainers were far too expensive to get mud on them. I’d come home from the States in just the clothes I stood up in, and because of the situation back in Loughton, I’d had to resort to online shopping to equip myself with a wardrobe suitable for my new life. And I could see the Alsatian was going to expect long, healthy romps through the woods and across the moor. I’d have to order some walking boots before my stint with him.

  To start getting myself in the right frame of mind, and because I couldn’t think what else to do, I set off for a brisk walk around the town. I didn’t remember too much from my childhood holidays, apart from the town centre, so it wouldn’t hurt to find my way around. I started off heading towards Castle Hill. It was snowing lightly again, but the walk was warming me up nicely so I went on to climb the footpath up the hill, and walked round the outside of the castle walls. A vague memory came back to me, of going inside the castle with Mum and Dad and Kate, and of people inside being dressed up as Saxons or Normans or whatever. I really ought to swot up on local history too when I was next in the part-time library. But at this time of year, the castle appeared to be closed to the public. Never mind, this would be somewhere to bring the Alsatian, surely – I passed a couple of dog walkers – and perhaps climbing the hill would tire him out.

  Back on Fore Street, I wandered down to Crickle Bridge and strolled along the path by the river for a while. Another good dog walk, I decided, as long as I kept him on a lead. I didn’t want him jumping in for a swim and frightening the ducks. Or were they geese? I’d better swot up on wildlife, too, while I was at it, if I wanted to fit in around here.

  The river walk became a bit monotonous after a while. There were some houses along the riverbanks, some of them quite smart, with nice gardens extending right down to the water. I noticed they all had sandbags piled up next to their doors, and wondered if they often had to worry about the risk of flooding. When the houses petered out, I turned and headed back into town, but instead of going straight home, turned into a narrow little road called Moor View Lane, that wound gently away from the town centre. The houses and cottages on either side of the road looked so pretty with their light dusting of snow. I recognised the name of the road from somewhere, and suddenly realised it was the address the Alsatian’s owner had given me. I still had the slip of paper she’d written it on, in my coat pocket, and I fished it out now. She was at number thirty-two. I slowed down, staring at the houses as I passed them, beginning to entertain a little fantasy that involved me owning a cottage, something like Primrose Cottage but in a nice country lane like this, quiet and rural but only five minutes’ walk from the Town Square. I pictured myself (for some bizarre reason) cleaning the windows of the cottage and polishing its door knocker, and doing things in the garden – I had no idea what, as I’d never done anything in a garden in my life, but this was a fantasy after all.

  Then I rounded a bend in the road, and it was there, in front of me: the very cottage I’d been imagining. It had the blue door I’d pictured, the cream-coloured walls, the red slate roof and the apple trees in the front garden. It even had the same kind of door knocker I’d dreamed up, although nobody was currently polishing it. How was this possible? Had I walked down this road before, on one of those long-ago family holidays, and somehow retained a memory of this very cottage? I stopped outside the rickety garden gate, and stared at the wooden sign next to the front door. BILBERRY COTTAGE. I had no idea what bilberries were, unless they were the same as blueberries, but it was a pretty name for such a pretty cottage.

  I stood staring at Bilberry Cottage for so long, I suddenly realised that if anyone inside glanced out of the window they’d probably think I was planning a break-in. But in fact, there was no sign of life. No car outside, no muddy boots left on the doorstep, no children’s bikes or wheelbarrows in the front garden. And from what I could see, no curtains at any of the windows. Looking even more closely through the nearest downstairs window, I could see a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and what looked like dust sheets over the furniture. Perhaps the place was being redecorated, but if so, the decorators must be on their lunch break! Or perhaps the cottage was unoccupied.

  I walked on again, looking for the Alsatian owner’s house. Right: there it was, a neat little bungalow on the other side of the road. At least I knew where I’d be going when I had to pick up the key from her. I turned to walk back into town. Not that it was any of my business, of course, but I decided that if I ever managed to get on the internet again I’d look at Rightmove or Zoopla and try to see whether Bilberry Cottage was for sale. And then what? I thought to myself. Try to buy it for peanuts – literally? Put in an offer, with the money I hadn’t even earned yet for looking after an Alsatian? Get real, Emma. The cottage would have to stay a fantasy, obviously.

  Meanwhile I was hungry, and I’d seen a pub – The Riverboat Inn – back on the other side of the bridge, that looked a lot nicer than The Star, on the Square, so I was going to treat myself to a ploughman’s lunch. I could imagine The Riverboat Inn being busy during the spring and summer months, perhaps with hikers who’d lost their way on Dartmoor and stumbled across Crickleford by accident. The little town wasn’t much more than a dot on
the map, with no major roads nearby to encourage motorists to drop in for a look around. But this pub was exactly what a country pub in a small town should be like: big, old and sprawling, with little rooms off bigger rooms, low ceilings you had to bend double to walk beneath, oak beams, high-backed bench seats and a massive inglenook fireplace. I ordered my lunch and carried a small glass of red wine to a seat near the fire, pleased to be told that the food would be brought to me when it was ready, rather than being announced across the bar.

  I’d just opened my library book to read a little more about dog care when a loud voice hailed me:

  ‘Well, hello, I was hoping I’d bump into you again.’

  I looked up, startled, and for a moment didn’t recognise the elderly woman smiling down at me.

  ‘You’re the pet sitter. Emma, isn’t it?’ she went on, sitting herself down opposite me without waiting for an invitation. And because I must have still been looking at her blankly, she reminded me: ‘Mary. Friend of Lauren.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, sorry,’ I said. ‘I gave Lauren the bag of books. She said she was pleased.’

  ‘Did she?’ Mary laughed. ‘Good, although I don’t suppose she’ll get through them all. She means well, bless her, but the reality is, she’s too busy to do much reading.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ I said. ‘Working at the school, and looking after Holly.’

  I didn’t do too much reading myself, but I didn’t have the excuse of being busy.

  ‘Well, anyway, that’s not what I wanted to see you about,’ she said. ‘Will you take on my Scrap?’

  ‘Your … scrap?’ I frowned. Was this another piece of Devon dialect I hadn’t learned?

  ‘He’s no trouble, well, not as long as you don’t wear slippers. For some reason, he can’t abide slippers. He seems to want to tear them to shreds – he’ll rip them off your feet to get at them. Growls something terrible. But other than that, he’s as quiet as a baby.’

  ‘Oh. He’s a dog?’

  ‘Of course he’s a dog.’ Mary stared at me. ‘What did you think he was? He’s a Cairn terrier, two years old, still just an adorable little puppy really.’ She sighed. ‘I expect you know about Dribstone.’

  I frowned again. I was beginning to feel like I’d just arrived in a foreign country without a phrase book. ‘Dribstone?’ I echoed, shaking my head.

  ‘Oh – you’re new here I suppose. You haven’t heard. Dribstone Boarding Kennels and Cattery – just outside Dribstone. The village further down the river?’ she added, looking a bit exasperated at my lack of local knowledge. ‘Well, it’s closed down.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Someone else mentioned that.’

  ‘It’s not surprising, really,’ Mary said. ‘The couple who ran it didn’t even like animals. No idea why they took it over in the first place. Nobody really liked leaving their pets with them.’

  ‘I can understand that!’

  ‘There was a woman here in Crickleford who sometimes looked after cats and rabbits and so on,’ she went on, ‘but she was a bit funny about taking dogs. She claimed they made her sneeze.’ Mary snorted. ‘Load of nonsense. Anyway, she’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I said, alarmed.

  ‘Moved. Got a job in Bath, apparently. You know what it’s like in small towns. No jobs.’

  ‘Oh.’ I swallowed. That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

  ‘So all the younger people move out to the cities,’ she went on, ‘and we end up with a population of pensioners and pets. And all the pensioners have nothing better to do than swan off on lots of holidays.’ She nodded at me. ‘That’s why I’m glad you’re here. Are you all right for the next two weeks?’

  I thought quickly. The half-term holiday, when Lauren needed me for the cats, was three or four weeks off yet. This would fill some of the intervening time nicely, and once Lauren and Jon were back from their holiday I’d be having the Alsatian. After that, hopefully, I’d have a proper job. I nodded.

  ‘Yes, I can do that.’

  ‘Good. I’m off to my sister’s in Torquay and she doesn’t like dogs. Last time I went, she shut the poor baby in the shed.’

  ‘The baby?’ I gasped, imagining a madwoman in Torquay keeping children locked up in an outhouse. My ploughman’s lunch had just been delivered to our table but every time I thought about picking up my knife and fork to get stuck in, Mary was giving me a fresh shock.

  ‘Yes, and he barked his little head off, poor little chap. So I’d rather take a chance on you, to be honest, even though I know nothing about your credentials. Are you experienced?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied, trying to slide Looking after Your Dog out of sight under the table.

  ‘Got references?’

  ‘Um, I’m afraid I left them behind. I had to move here suddenly, you see, because, um … my house burned down.’

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Mary’s eyes were wide with shock, and I cursed myself for not thinking of something a bit less extreme. ‘How absolutely dreadful for you.’ She paused, placing a hand over mine and lowering her voice. ‘I do hope you didn’t lose anyone.’

  ‘No, nobody got lost,’ I said, puzzled, and then: ‘Oh! I see what you mean. No, thankfully I was alone at the house at the time of the fire.’

  ‘Thank God. Still, a terrible ordeal for you, having to move away and start again. I suppose you’re waiting for the insurance to pay out?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded sadly. I was getting into this story. I quite liked imagining myself as the victim of a shocking disaster. ‘The house was razed to the ground – a blackened heap of rubble. All my most treasured belongings gone, up in flames.’ I could feel tears threatening. Any minute now, I’d be blubbing out loud.

  ‘You poor dear girl.’ She shook her head. ‘What a thing to happen. And your parents couldn’t take you in?’

  ‘No. They haven’t got the room. They look after my grandparents. And my bedridden auntie. And four orphaned refugee children from Syria.’

  Where the hell had that come from? I gave myself a shake. I needed to rein in these lies quickly before I lost track of what I’d told her. I hated to admit it, but I’d actually been enjoying myself there, inventing this ridiculous sob story, but it had to stop, right now!

  Mary was patting my hand again. ‘Your parents must be saints,’ she said softly. ‘True saints.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that …’

  ‘Well, my dear, I’m sure the people in Crickleford will open their hearts and their arms to you when they hear about your dreadful situation.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone needs to know!’ I said, sitting up straight in panic. ‘Really, I’d rather keep it to myself – I shouldn’t have told you—’

  ‘But surely people need to be aware, so that they can look out for you, help you out a bit. I presume Lauren knows all this?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to worry her, or anyone. Honestly, I don’t want sympathy, so please don’t spread it around that I need help or anything like that.’

  She smiled and patted my hand yet again. ‘So brave,’ she murmured. ‘I admire your courage, Emma, and your independence. Don’t worry, I’m not one to gossip, anyone will tell you that.’

  ‘Oh, good. Well, then.’ I just wanted to get rid of her now. ‘I’ll see you next week, then, shall I, if you still want me to look after your dog?’

  ‘Of course I do. Scrappy will love you. Just don’t forget about the slippers.’

  She wrote down her address for me and we arranged that I’d go round there the next day, to meet the slipper-hating Cairn terrier and be given instructions in his care. At least I’d be earning some money. If I’d known I was going to make her feel so sorry for me, I’d have doubled the amount I was charging.

  While I ate my lunch I tried to memorise the details of the stupid story I’d told Mary. What on earth had come over me? It was one thing making up a background story for myself, but surely I could have come up with something a bit less far-fetched? I just hoped she didn’t gossip about it
. Nobody would believe that load of nonsense for very long, and then they’d be wondering why I was lying, what I had to hide. At this rate, I’d be rumbled before I’d even been in Crickleford a week!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That night I dreamt I was back in America. Not in the swanky apartment in New York, but in our beach house in California. We lived there permanently when we first moved to the States, when things were good between Shane and me, when life was on the up, and everything was new and exciting. When we still shared everything together. In more recent years it had become our holiday home, our escape from the city, but it never felt quite the same as it did during those early years.

  I woke up feeling unhappy, and unsure why. I didn’t miss my life in New York, and I certainly didn’t miss Shane. I suppose the dream had unsettled me, though, reminding me as it did of how sure I’d been, at the beginning, that I was doing the right thing, leaving behind my family, going against their wishes and advice, to follow the man I believed would always love me. How silly and naïve I’d been!

  I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and on returning to my room the first thing I saw was my impulse buy from the previous afternoon – a bag of doughnuts, the grease now leaking unattractively through the brown paper. I’d been hungry, but I’d only managed to eat one doughnut before Lauren had dinner ready. I peeked inside the bag now. They might already be a bit stale, but waste not, want not. I was midway through the first one when I looked up and saw Holly watching me from my open doorway, her arms folded, giving me a disapproving frown. I wiped my mouth quickly and held the bag out to her.

  ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said primly. ‘Mummy says they’re very bad for your teeth.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I admitted. ‘But I need the sugar, actually.’