16
T he house address is on the edge of town, and turns out to be the large, crumbling Victorian schoolhouse Janey herself attended for a couple of years until they built a brand-new pebbledashed flat-roofed one, which itself has now been pulled down.
It is looking very worn – weeds growing out of the path – but is still standing.
The old playground is now a garden – a beautiful one, she sees, looking closer, with new bougainvillea popping out of the corners like fireworks.
‘Mum!’ says Essie. ‘Mum! He was going to kill those puppies!’
‘People do,’ says Janey, sadly. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Evil people.’ She looks at her mother. ‘You have to take one.’
‘I’m in no position to have a dog,’ snorts Janey. ‘I work twenty miles away!’
‘Dogs love going in cars.’
‘In a hospital!’
‘Dogs are therapeutic in hospitals, everyone knows that. Anyway, you don’t work in a hospital, you work in a shipping container in the corner of the car park.’
‘It’s a prefab, thanks,’ says Janey, although for once Essie is right. ‘Anyway, I think I have enough on my plate for now, don’t you?’
Essie frowns. ‘What, you mean with me?’
‘No, of course not. Look,’ she says, changing the subject quickly. ‘This is my old school. I knew they’d made it into a house but I didn’t know people lived here now.’
‘Who?’ says Essie.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You! Not knowing someone in Carso?’
‘It’s a town!’
‘It’s a . . . hamlet.’
‘It has a Scot Nor,’ says Janey. ‘I don’t want to have this conversation again.’
‘It doesn’t have a railway station.’
‘It has an airport!’
They step into the garden. The wind has died down.
It is overgrown, but filled with spring flowers, randomly scattered: tulips everywhere in different colours, and some early-budding roses.
Janey bends in to have a closer look and can hear the buzzing of industrious bees going about their business among the thick grass; under the clear sun it looks an enchanting world to be in.
In the shadier parts under the trees, wild white mushrooms are growing, in fairy rings, and, here and there, small patches of bluebells.
‘What a pretty garden,’ she says.
‘It’s a mess,’ points out Essie.
‘Yes, but it’s a pretty mess.’
‘Like me,’ says Essie, to make her mum smile, which it does.
‘You’re not a mess!’ says Janey. ‘The world is a mess, and you got stuck in it.’
‘Nobody else is,’ says Essie, quietly.
‘Everyone else is!’ says Janey. ‘Some people are just better at hiding it than others.’
‘Like Shelby McFlynn.’
‘Shelby McFlynn doesn’t have a passport,’ says Janey. ‘Everyone’s scared of something. Everyone’s got a mess.’
Then she grins.
‘Although not quite as much as whoever lives here and is about to find out they now own seven dogs.’
*
They go round to the back door, being friendly locals, Janey explains, and not religious salespeople.
‘I can’t believe you’ve never been here,’ says Essie.
‘I haven’t! It was empty for a while I think, once it stopped being a school, then rented. Honestly, my life has a bit more going on than Carso gossip.’
Essie gives her a look.
‘Okay, it also has hospital gossip.’
The back door is pale green, peeling, with four glass panes through which nothing can be seen. Outside sits an ancient bootscraper and next to it a very large pair of wellingtons, next to a small pair of wellingtons, pink with purple flowers.
‘They won’t be in,’ says Essie. ‘It’s the middle of the day.’
Janey shrugs. ‘As someone who works in the community, I can tell you that you’d be amazed by just how many people are home in the daytime these days.’
She knocks loudly.
‘HELLO!’ she hollers, being used to turning up to people’s houses and to those people not being able to hear particularly well.
Essie winces. ‘ Mum !’
*
However, to Essie’s surprise, it does the trick, and soon they hear a thudding noise in the hallway and a large figure opens the door, an enquiring look on his face.
Janey is completely taken aback. It’s Lowell, the man from the pub quiz.
*
‘Oh!’ she finds herself saying. The man himself looks slightly uncomfortable and Janey finds herself gripped by the horrible thought that he thinks she has tracked him down to his house and is one of those creepy middle-aged stalkers who falls in love with vicars and whatnot and he’ll have to get a restraining order.
‘Ah,’ says Lowell in return, then glances down at himself, as if he’s checking he remembered to put his trousers on that day. He did, but his large jumper has toast crumbs on it, and he brushes them off hastily.
‘Yes, sorry . . . Jane, is it?’
‘Um, Janey,’ she manages to stutter out. ‘And this is . . .’
But Essie has disappeared in pure embarrassment and is back in the garden staring at her phone, her ears pink.
‘From the quiz,’ says the man carefully, as if there’s a possibility that she’s come to take him hostage, and he’s trying not to upset her by using a soothing tone of voice.
‘Yes,’ says Janey, regaining her composure and feeling quite irritated. She’s a middle-aged woman, not an unexploded bomb. Although some days the difference isn’t that big. ‘But this isn’t about that.’
‘Good,’ says Lowell. ‘I’m not sure I can handle any more questions about Spitfires.’
‘Do you have a dog?’ asks Janey, feeling this is a bad angle to come in on but not quite sure where else to start.
He looks confused. ‘Well, kind of, but Jack Meakin looks after it for me, has done since...’
His gaze unavoidably strays to the small pink wellingtons parked by the front steps and Janey tries not to notice.
‘Why?’ He looks concerned, and Janey realises he thinks she’s about to tell him she’s run over it.
‘Good news!’ she says, quickly.
‘What?’
‘You’re . . . a dog grandfather!’
‘I’m a—?’
‘Your dog’s had puppies!’ She smiles, hopefully. ‘It’s amazing!’