Chapter 7
JESS
How can one possibly feel lonely when there are two others in the house?
I’d got up early as usual, laid the breakfast table for Dean and Lola and then, once the pair were down, breakfasting together, their two dark heads bent in harmony over poached eggs, I’d left them to it, going back upstairs for a long soak in the bath.
When Dean had knocked on the locked bathroom door, shouting that he was walking the few hundred yards down to school with Lola for some reason, I’d ignored him, lain back and held my head under the bath water, holding my breath while wondering what it would be like to just float away from it all.
So why? Why on earth did I feel alone when Dean was back, telling me I was all he’d ever wanted?
Because I didn’t believe him. Didn’t actually want to believe him.
I’d let him back into our life for Lola’s sake but, let’s face it, because I was lonely.
And now there was the additional problem of a dog in the house as well.
I didn’t want a dog. Well, I hadn’t thought I did.
But Arthur had been on his best behaviour since his arrival and he really was rather a pleasant creature.
He appeared almost grateful to be here with us, trying not to get in the way, trying to catch my eye while looking up apologetically at me as if knowing I didn’t really want him there.
Did dogs know when they weren’t wanted? More so than Dean did, obviously.
I guessed dogs, intuitively, knew when they weren’t welcome, whereas Dean was so thick-skinned, so self-assured, so bloody arrogant and took it as a given – as his right – that he was wanted, would be welcomed and admired wherever he went.
Feeling totally guilty that I’d not made the dog more welcome, I bent down and stroked Arthur’s ears and he moved closer to me, appearing to need comfort.
‘You feeling homesick, dog?’ I murmured, because that’s how I felt myself.
A sort of homesickness and need for my previous life, without the scary, unpredictable future that was waiting for me at The White House.
I was feeling sick and anxious at the very thought of poking an – unpedicured – big toe into this new venture with The White House.
In a fantasy world, I was slim, confident and without a big bum. I had minions in The White House kitchens adoringly shouting ‘Yes, Chef’ in my direction as I patiently – and kindly – took over the preparation of fiddly scallops and sea urchins from bumbling fingers.
Tutting at the ridiculous picture of myself in immaculate chef’s whites, not a bead of sweat breaking on my brow as I coaxed and encouraged the young sous chefs with a professional, yet maternal smile, I turned back to Arthur.
Arthur got to his feet, shook himself and moved without any fuss to the kitchen door, waiting almost apologetically to be let out.
He certainly wasn’t a barky, fussy creature and I followed him, opening the door onto my small garden.
What was going to happen to next door? Would Jayden and Mum put it up for sale?
Well, of course they would: Jayden came back so rarely these days; I couldn’t see him insisting on keeping a pied-à-terre in Yorkshire for if he just happened to be in the area.
Or would Dean be in there with a bloody great sledgehammer, knocking through both cottages to create the fabulous house he felt he deserved?
Arthur, after politely attending to his ablutions at the top of the garden by the compost heap, walked back towards me, sitting expectantly at my feet as if to say What now?
What now indeed? What did one do with a dog when one had to go off to work?
Dean had promised me he’d take Arthur to work with him every day, that there were enough people in the garage’s busy office to walk and entertain him.
And yet here we were, a couple of days into the working week, and the dog had already been left behind.
I was just going to have to walk him and then take him up to Hudson House with me once my shift started that afternoon.
One of my last shifts. I sighed heavily at the thought and Arthur looked up, cocking his head at me in surprise.
Sorrel would be gone as well very soon. Heading off to the new school in London.
If all went well and she found the success she so deserved, I really couldn’t see my little sister ever returning permanently back to Beddingfield to live.
But, most of all, I felt utterly lost now that Mum wasn’t next door as she had been all my married life.
All my life in actuality. There to help with Lola, always there to keep my garden – for which I had little interest – tended and in bloom.
I’d only to pop my head out of the kitchen door, especially at this time of the year, to see Mum doing something gardenerish in one or other of our adjoining plots.
I reached for the bread bin, slicing and popping two thick slices of a new home-made loaf into the toaster. Ten thirty. Almost time for elevenses.
‘Late breakfast?’ Dean was at my side at the kitchen table as, lost in thought, I spread a great dollop of lemon curd onto one toasted and heavily buttered slice and peanut butter on to the other. ‘Or an early lunch?’
Scarlet-faced, I jumped. ‘Jesus, Dean, do you always creep around like this?’
‘I’m not creeping,’ Dean said mildly. ‘I forgot to put my clubs in the boot. Playing a round this evening.’ (A round or around?) He paused, glancing meaningfully at my loaded plate.
‘It wouldn’t do you any harm to get some exercise, Jessie.
’ He patted his own taut stomach through his blue mechanic’s overalls.
‘Thank you,’ I snapped. ‘I do know and I don’t need you to remind me of the fact.
’ I stood up swiftly, not looking at Dean, and, slamming the foot of the kitchen bin into submission, threw what remained of my second breakfast into the bin’s gaping maw.
Then, ignoring Dean, whose concentration was already gone from myself and back to his phone, I reached for my car keys and set off.
* * *
‘Erm, should we be allowing dogs into a care home?’ Bex, who, it was pretty obvious, was hoping to be promoted to manager of Hudson House once I’d relinquished the post (if I relinquished it) was in a combative mood, eyeballing Arthur as though he were the devil himself.
‘Of course,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m sure, Bex, you’ve downloaded and read up current thinking and policymaking re a care home having a resident pet?’ I paused. ‘The Rover Report, I believe?’
‘Rover Report?’ Bex frowned. ‘Well, yes, of course I have… I mean, we have the fish tank – the fish have been resident for years. I suppose a dog is the next step?’
‘Absolutely. Now, if you don’t mind, Bex, would you take your bag, coat and laptop from my office and then, once I’ve done a bit of admin, I’ll take Arthur round to introduce him to the residents.’
‘Jess, darling!’ Ninety-year-old Clarissa clutched my arm firmly as I made for my office, Arthur shadowing my every step.
Maybe Arthur thought he was going to be left at yet another house full of strangers, and I bent to pat him, still unsure how to talk to a dog.
How to reassure him. ‘Oh, you’ve brought Monty?
’ Clarissa went on, looking down and stopping suddenly as she realised Arthur was in tow.
‘Where was he? I’ve been looking for him all morning.
Up to no good with that harlot next door again, was he? ’
‘Sorry?’ I stared, a restraining hand on Arthur’s collar.
‘He will sneak out and try to get his leg over whenever he can with Fi Fi at number six. Typical of the French, putting it about whenever they can. They were always up to no good with the Germans, you know,’ she whispered conspiratorially.
Clarissa reached for Arthur’s collar, frowning.
‘Where’ve you been to get so black? Never mind, we’ll give you a good bath later.
Come on, you naughty dog, home with Mummy now. ’
Arthur stood his ground, wagging his tail politely at the older woman but not taking his eyes from me.
Wanting to laugh, and storing up the little anecdote to relay to Robyn at a later stage, I headed once more for my office.