Chapter 5
Molly slept surprisingly well, but when she awoke and checked the time, she realised it was only five forty-five. She remained there for ten minutes, hoping to get back to sleep, not ready to start her day yet, but her mind was too full of the things she needed to do, so she decided to get up.
The first thing was to grab breakfast from a cafe then go to the DIY shop, but it was too early for that, so she used the camping stove to make herself a cup of tea, setting it up outside the back door and crouching over it until the water came to the boil. Tea made and mug in hand, she decided to go for a stroll. Even though technically her property consisted of the cottage and the area immediately surrounding it (she had pored over the detailed boundary lines, so she knew exactly what she owned and what she didn’t), she nevertheless felt the park was also hers by extension. So she felt it only natural to wander around its grounds at six-thirty in the morning with a mug of tea in her hand.
She had never been in the park this early before, and the peace and solitude surprised her.
The dawn chorus was very much in evidence, filling the air with the songs of hundreds of birds, and she gravitated towards the woodland, keen to feel close to nature. The trees were vibrant with new leaves, the colours ranging from an almost pale mint to deep emerald, and although she had no idea what many of them were, she vowed to find out. She would have loved to venture further under the shaded canopy, but there was far too much undergrowth, so she contented herself with skirting around it, following the treeline and gazing over the field. The area was large and flat, and would be perfect for games of football, or even for picnics, but it currently sprouted a carpet of buttercups, daisies, dandelions and thistles, which bees and other flying insect seemed to be drawn to in large numbers.
Sipping her rapidly cooling tea, Molly made her way along the edge of the field towards the meadow surrounding the pond. Early morning dew soaked through her trainers and dampened the legs of her jeans, but she didn’t mind. There was no one else in sight, and apart from the birds and buzzing insects, the only other sound was the distant rumble of a vehicle. She never would have believed the park could be so beautiful and so peaceful, and she vowed to try to get out early every morning to savour the beauty of each brand-new, unsullied day.
However, her pleasure was somewhat dampened by the sight of the choked pond. Weed grew thickly around its edges, and the water was murky and dark. She could see the handle of a shopping trolley poking through the rushes, and on the bank next to it lay a couple of car tyres. Despite that, a small black and white bird was perched on one of them, its long tail twitching up and down as it bobbed. She didn’t know what species it was, so maybe a trip to the library to borrow a book on native British birds might be in order.
Molly nearly dropped her mug and let out a shriek when a large insect buzzed past her nose, and it took her a second to realise it was a dragonfly as she watched its swooping and darting flight, memorised by its iridescent beauty. And there was another one, and another. Perhaps the water wasn’t as dead as it looked, if these things lived around it, and as she gazed at the surface she noticed lots of small flies hovering inches above the water.
When something rose from the depths and fell back with a splash, leaving concentric circles rippling across the surface, she realised the pond had fish in it. Wow! She’d had no idea, and she wondered whether anyone else did.
Her wonderment swiftly turned to despair though, as she approached the old bandstand and saw the amount of rubbish left behind. And not only there: as she had strolled around the park she had spotted empty packets, plastic bottles, cans and food wrappers. She didn’t know whether they had been blown there by the wind or they had been carelessly thrown away, but she sadly guessed it was probably the latter.
She must have a word with the council – maybe if there were litter bins, people would use them. Personally, she couldn’t see why people didn’t take their rubbish home with them, but clearly it was too much of an effort for some, so perhaps bins would be the solution.
Not only that, the paths could do with serious weeding and the edges of the beds needed tidying up, so she could at least tell where they were supposed to be, plus many of the overgrown bushes would benefit from a serious trim.
She paused for a moment, eyeing the sad state of the bandstand. Several roof tiles were missing, and paint had peeled off leaving the raw wood exposed. One of the supporting posts leant at an alarming angle, and she wondered if it would eventually collapse and bring the roof down with it – which could be dangerous, so that was another thing she would have to have a word with the council about. Overgrown she could cope with, dangerous definitely not. Didn’t anyone ever inspect these places?
Although Molly couldn’t do anything about the state of the bandstand, she might be able to do something about all the litter: if she bought one of those grabby litter-pickers she could easily pop out each morning and gather what she could find. She knew it would be a never-ending task and a thankless one, but this was her park damn it, and she hated to see it so neglected.
With another deep sigh, she tore her thoughts away from the unloved park and turned her attention to the cottage, recognising that her home was her number one priority. She had to live there, and the sooner she got it ship-shape the better.
Moving more purposefully, she was striding along the path leading from the bandstand to the cottage and making a mental shopping list in her head, when she saw a familiar figure.
‘Hi, Bill,’ she said, giving the old man a big smile and bending down to pet Patch. ‘You’re out bright and early.’
‘He gets three walks a day, he does,’ Bill replied, ‘otherwise he gets unruly.’
‘Did I see you out last night, about eleven-thirty ish?
Bill gave her a keen stare. ‘I don’t go out late,’ he retorted grumpily. ‘Too many youffs.’
‘Yes, there were one or two around last night,’ she agreed, and left it at that. She didn’t want to moan about it and get an “I told you so” off the old man.
Patch who had been staring up at his master, his ears pricked and an intent look on his face, jumped up, his front paws bumping the old man on the leg before dropping back down to the ground and licking his lips.
‘Now, now, Patch, you know this isn’t for you,’ Bill said.
Molly noticed he was holding a Tupperware box containing some dark brown chunks and she wondered if it was Bill’s breakfast, and hoping it wasn’t because it didn’t look particularly appetising.
He saw the direction of her gaze. ‘It’s for the dog,’ he said, adding, ‘Not my dog,’ when she glanced down at Patch. ‘It’s a stray. You’ve probably seen him.’
Molly shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I did see a fox last night, though.’
‘Oh aye, there are one or two of those about. They’re after the rabbits.’
‘So there are rabbits? I did wonder.’
‘Aye, and you might find a hedgehog or two, although they’re getting more scarce. But this isn’t for them, either.’ He gave the box a shake. ‘This is for the dog. If you see him, don’t be worried; he’s a bit nervous but he’s quite friendly.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He’s about this high—’ Bill put out a hand and patted the air between his hip and his knee ‘—jet black and as skinny as a whippet, but I think that’s because he’s not been fed for a while. He might be a cross between a greyhound and a Labrador, but I can’t be certain. Whatever he is, he’s a mongrel and he’s hungry.’
‘Where is his owner?’
‘He’s a stray, isn’t he?’ Bill retorted. ‘Didn’t you listen to anything I said?’
‘Somebody must have owned him at one point,’ she persisted.
‘They might well have done, but they don’t own him now. He owns himself.’
‘Have you spoken to the dog warden?’
‘No, I damn well haven’t and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, either,’ Bill snapped. ‘They’ll only take him away, and if nobody claims him they’ll have him put down.’
Molly was horrified. ‘Surely that doesn’t happen?’
‘They say it doesn’t,’ Bill replied ominously, ‘but I bet it does. Leave him be; he’s happy enough, and I try to feed him when I can.’
Molly wondered how the poor thing managed in bad weather, but she thought it best not to ask because she didn’t want to upset herself. Even so, the image of a freezing dog hiding under a bush with the rain hammering down on a dark November night, pushed its way into her thoughts. Maybe she could have a look for a second-hand dog kennel? It wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice as being inside next to a warm fire, but it would be better than bare earth and dripping leaves. She would buy some dog food this morning, and leave it out for him later. No doubt Mr Fox would get to it first, but at least she’d have tried.
‘Quiet!’ Bill hissed, nudging her so hard with his elbow that she staggered. ‘Look.’ He pointed and Molly followed the direction of his finger.
‘Oh my,’ she whispered. ‘Is that him? The stray dog?’
‘It is,’ Bill confirmed. ‘Don’t move and don’t say anything.’ He passed Patch’s lead to her and she grasped it, winding the leather around her hand.
Slowly, very slowly, Bill walked forward, and she could hear him crooning to the animal, the words indistinct. Whatever he was saying, it caught the dog’s attention, because the pooch’s folded-over ears pricked up and his tail, although hanging low between his back legs, wagged uncertainly. Bill took a few more paces until the dog started whining and looking behind him, then the old man eased the lid off the top of the Tupperware box and placed it on the ground before backing slowly away.
The dog waited until Bill had gone a safe distance, before hesitantly coming forward, one tentative paw at a time. His nose was twitching, and he kept looking from the box to Bill, and then beyond Bill to Molly, licking his lips as he did so. Whether it was because she had hold of Patch and the stray dog thought that anyone who a dog trusted must be OK, but Molly’s presence didn’t seem to bother him unduly, and very soon his head was down and he was gobbling up the food.
He ate it in three or four frantic gulps, then he looked at Bill, tail wagging as he licked his lips.
‘I’ll bring you some more tonight,’ the old man promised.
‘Let me,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t mind feeding him.’
‘You’ll have to earn his trust,’ Bill warned.
‘I’m sure I can do that.’ She gave Patch’s lead back to Bill, and began to walk slowly toward the stray dog. ‘Has he got a name?’ she asked out of the corner of her mouth.
Bill murmured, ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘In that case, I’ll call him Jet.’
‘I don’t think he cares what you call him as long as you feed him,’ she heard Bill mutter.
Judging that she’d gone close enough because the dog was looking distinctly nervous, Molly halted, crouched down, and held out a hand. ‘Here boy, come on, come to Molly,’ she said. ‘There’s a good boy. You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Such a good dog.’
Jet’s ears pricked again, and for one moment she honestly thought he was going to find the courage to come closer to her, but suddenly his head jerked up, he tucked his tail between his legs, whirled around and dashed off across the field.
‘Damn it,’ Molly muttered, straightening up and feeling disappointed. But when she turned to look at Bill, she realised it wasn’t her who had sent the dog scuttling for cover: it was a middle-aged man walking briskly towards them.
‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully, and carried on walking.
‘Morning,’ Molly called. She turned to Bill. ‘Do you think the dog will come back soon?’
Bill shrugged. ‘Not likely – he’s had his breakfast.’ He tugged at Patch’s lead and started walking. ‘Maybe you’ll see him tonight.’
‘I hope so. No doubt I’ll see you around later.’
Her only response was a grunt, and she watched the old man for a moment, before returning to the cottage to collect her bag and her car keys. She had places to go and things to do, and the sooner she started, the sooner they would be done.
***
Besides being able to finish early if he wanted, the other advantage to flexi-time working hours was the opportunity to start work later, and Jack wanted to pop into the DIY store before work this morning so he could go straight home and get started on the decorating this evening.
The shop had only just opened and he was one of the first through the door, and was pleased to find it quiet. He wanted to be able to go straight to the correct aisle, pick what he needed and go to the till, without having to dodge round hordes of browsing shoppers.
Clutching a list in his hand, he made for the paint section, walking purposefully and with grim determination. However, he was soon brought up short when he saw the huge variety of finishes, colours, and brands on offer. He and Della had decorated the house together when they had first bought it, but Della had been the one to go shopping for the paint they’d needed. She had picked the shades for each room, and he’d had no say in the matter. He hadn’t wanted to. He had been happy enough to contribute muscle power and the reach with his longer arms, but he hadn’t been interested in what colour went where, and he had to admit that the subtle shades of difference in whites hadn’t registered at all. Apparently, there was a shade called Early Dawn on three of the living room walls, but as far as he was concerned they appeared to be white, so white was what he had decided to go for today. Della had chosen to paint the fourth wall a weird dingy colour, and he intended to paint that white too.
He hefted a massive tub and hoped it would be enough to do the whole house. Then he hesitated: he had picked up matt, but there was a similar tub with the word “silk” emblazoned across the front. Would there be much difference?
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and, assuming it must be a sales assistant, he said, ‘Excuse me.’
But when he looked properly, he realised the person he had spoken to was a customer. And one he recognised, to boot.
‘Hello, again,’ he said, when the woman who had bought the cottage in Sweet Meadow Park stopped to look at him, her gaze curious. ‘I thought you were a member of staff, and I was about to ask you what the difference is between matt and silk emulsion, but I can see you aren’t.’
‘No, I don’t work here. But I can tell you what the difference is. Matt is exactly what it says – it’s a matt finish, kind of buff.’ For some reason a hint of colour spread across her cheeks, and she bit her lip. Frowning slightly, she continued, ‘Silk has got a slight sheen to the finish. Personally, I prefer silk because it’s easier to clean. If you wipe a damp rag over a matt wall some of the paint comes off, but that doesn’t happen if you use silk. It also tends to reflect light so it can make a room seem brighter and more airy.’
Jack was impressed. ‘Thank you. Silk it is. And while you’re here, can I pick your brains again?’
She laughed. ‘You can try. What is it you want to know?’
He dearly wanted to know whether she would go for a drink with him, but he was too scared to ask, as she might think he was stalking her. Besides, tempted as he was, he was still feeling raw from Chantelle, and he had enough going on in his life without adding a new romance to the mix.
‘I can’t use this on woodwork, can I?’ he asked, gesturing to the tin of emulsion he was holding.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ she replied. ‘For things like skirting boards and door frames you should go for gloss or satinwood. And now you want to know the difference between those two, don’t you?’
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Gloss is far, far shinier, and white gloss will yellow over time. Satinwood will also discolour slightly too, but not as much and not as quickly. If I were you, I’d go for satinwood. Do you need any help in deciding which brush to use?’
Now she was being sarcastic. ‘No thanks, I can manage,’ he said, smiling to himself. Those were the exact words she had used to him yesterday evening, and suddenly he felt embarrassed because he was flirting with her and she wasn’t flirting back. ‘Right, thanks for your help. I’ll let you get on.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She gave him another one of her lovely smiles, then she was gone, leaving him staring after her.
She was as pretty as he remembered, but if he bumped into her again he would aim for friendly yet distant, just as she had been with him this morning.