Chapter Seven
It was only when I was in the car that I allowed myself to cry.
But the tears weren’t those of a victim. Instead, they were a result of the emotion my mother had invoked. In that moment, I’d hated her. Despised her for what she’d become. And yet the rational part of me knew it wasn’t her that had been screaming at me. It was the dementia. My poor mother. My poor, poor mother.
I drove off but, after two minutes, had to pull over. The tears were blinding me. I parked illegally in a bus stop layby and trumpeted into a fistful of tissues. I then fired off a text to Freya.
I’ve just been assaulted by Mum. I can’t deal with her anymore. I’ve spoken to Social Services.
Her reply came back almost immediately.
Do what you have to do. However, please remember I’m at work. I don’t need this distraction.
My lip curled. In a fit of temper, I lobbed the phone into the car’s passenger footwell.
‘Fuck you, Freya,’ I screeched at the mobile. ‘FUCK YOU!’
Oh God. I was turning into my mother. Sixty-one years old and I was losing my marbles.
No, you’re not, said my inner voice. You’re feeling stressed. That’s all. Take some deep breaths. That’s it. Now drive to the animal sanctuary. Go and do something for you. Something nice.
Yes.Something nice.Something for me.Indeed.
Feeling calmer, I turned the engine over, signalled, spotted a gap in the stream of oncoming traffic, and seamlessly joined it.
The local animal sanctuary had achieved overnight fame when one of Little Waterlow’s residents, Sadie Harding, had rescued a dog from the centre.
It transpired that William Beagle had been dognapped. The legal owner, Jack Farrell, was a local resident. It had only been a matter of time before his path had crossed with Sadie’s – and a certain beagle’s. The events that had followed had made the national papers.
As I now drove through the gates of the sanctuary, I perked up. My future companion was here!
I locked the car and looked about. The carpark wasn’t vast. At the far end, a couple of other motors were parked up. A fair-haired man was unloading a transit van. He was transferring animal food and pet products on to a large trolley. I caught a glimpse of dog and cat baskets being piled on. He saw me looking and paused.
‘If you’re looking to rehome, Reception is over there.’ He pointed to a door. ‘My wife should be around. Her name’s Rachel.’
‘Okay,’ I said, putting up a hand. ‘Thank you.’
As I pushed through the door, I immediately spotted Rachel. She was talking to a tall man who had his back to me. She paused to quickly address me.
‘Won’t be a mo.’
The man swung round to see who Rachel was talking to. As he caught my eye, my heart inexplicably did a few skippy beats. Wow. Good looking or what? He had dark hair, and lots of it. The slight greying at his temples set off a pair of eyes the colour of the Mediterranean Sea.
Why are you checking out men? enquired my inner voice.
I’m not, I silently retorted.
He’s too young for you.
Do you think?
The man turned back to Rachel, but not before my brain had taken a snapshot of his face and filed it to memory.
As I waited for the pair of them to finish talking, I turned away. Mentally retrieved the snapshot. Studied it. Yes, he was younger than me. Late forties? Maybe early fifties. His physique told me he worked out. Unlike me, he had yet to reach his autumn years. However, I had a feeling he’d be the type to always stay in shape. I instantly thought of my own figure with its thickening midriff. At least my hair – naturally red – had yet to require help from the hairdresser. These days one had to be grateful for small mercies.
The man was then directed to go through another door. Presumably it led to the area where dogs were up for adoption.
Rachel then turned to me.
‘Looking to rehome?’ she enquired.
Her face was kind, but I sensed a brisk, no-nonsense person.
Er, yes,’ I said timidly. ‘If that’s okay.’
‘It’s okay if you meet our criteria,’ she replied. ‘Don’t look so anxious. I don’t bite. Nor do any of our dogs,’ she added. ‘We don’t rehome any dogs that are aggressive. They’ve been thoroughly vetted – and that’s before they even get to this area.’ She nodded at the door that the good-looking man had gone through. ‘So, what sort of pooch are you looking for?’
‘Um, well, I haven’t given it much thought,’ I said vaguely. My comment earnt a raised eyebrow from Rachel. ‘I mean’ – I stumbled on – ‘I don’t know what sort of dog to pick. I’m looking for… a friend, I suppose. Not that I’m Billy-No-Mates,’ I added, laughing nervously. ‘What I mean is I don’t know whether to get a big dog or… a small dog,’ I finished lamely.
Careful, Maggie. You’ll be saying‘fat dog’ or ‘thin dog’ next.
‘Do you have children?’ asked Rachel.
‘Yes, but they’re all grown up and independent.’
‘Grandchildren?’
‘No, not yet. But Tim and Steph – that’s my eldest and his wife – they’re talking about starting a family.’
‘In which case, be sure to carefully read all the information about each dog. Some are better suited than others to be around kids. You’ll find a potted history about each dog directly outside each kennel.’
‘Okay, thanks for that,’ I nodded.
There was more to this than I’d realised.
‘Do you have any other pets?’ Rachel asked. ‘A cat, for example?’
‘No. Not even a goldfish.’
‘Good to know. Some of our residents aren’t great with moggies, although I’ve never considered how they might behave upon seeing an aquarium full of fish,’ she laughed. ‘Just be aware of all factors. You don’t want to feel stressed over a neighbour’s cat possibly being chased up a tree.’
‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘But, er, I don’t think any of my immediate neighbours have cats.’
‘Good. Is there anyone else at home, or is it just you?’ Rached asked.
‘I have an empty nest,’ I said, deliberately not mentioning Greg. I didn’t want any awkward questions about my husband. He was neither a pet fan nor by my side. Action speaks louder than words, etcetera.
‘If you go through that door’ – Rached pointed ahead – ‘you’ll be able to view our residents. Like I said, read their info. Keep the obvious in mind.
‘The obvious?’ I repeated blankly.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘The size of a dog in relation to the size of your home and outdoor area. After all, it’s no good rehoming Denny, our Great Dane, if you live in a maisonette with a patio garden.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘Right, I’ll do that. Thanks.’
‘Good.’ Rachel gave me a brisk nod. ‘Well, I hope one of our boys or girls capture your heart.’
‘Me too,’ I said, suddenly excited.
‘Also, be aware that if you do find a companion, either me or Luke – that’s my husband – will assess both you and your home.’ I gave Rachel a horrified look. I didn’t want any anxiety over Greg. ‘I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,’ she said kindly. She suddenly smiled, and her stern features softened. ‘It’s just a precaution,’ she assured. ‘After all, our boys and girls don’t want to find themselves back here.’
‘I see,’ I said, relaxing slightly. ‘In which case, I’ll just…’ I trailed off and gestured at the door to the kennel area.
‘Yes, yes’ – she made a shooing motion with her hands – ‘off you go. I’ll be in Reception if you need me.’
Refraining from giving a sudden skip of joy, I pushed open the door.