Chapter 30
HEATHER
Heather experiences a niggle of foreboding when she hangs up.
It’s clear Scott isn’t happy with her decision to undertake a last-minute mercy mission to St Andrews, but those words, bandied about so readily by the young - “I wish I was dead” - are enough to cause any mother to abort her plans, right?
It’s not just her. She’d call Claire to check if it weren’t for the fact she’s left Fraser’s dog tied to a lamppost outside a pub on South Street. Or was it Market Street?
Heather rounds the corner into South Street, past the long-standing ironmongers and the ice cream shop which sells, reportedly the best icecreams in Scotland. Now, where was the pub where she left Maisie? Halfway down? One third of the way down? On the left-hand side? Right?
Heather propelled herself into so many pubs when she arrived, she can hardly remember which bartender insisted she left the dog outside.
Her thoughts race as she powerwalks down the street, past the ancient gates leading to the university courtyard known as the Bute, looking at each lamppost in turn.
It takes fifteen minutes for her to establish that Maisie’s not there.
So where is she?
Another street?
Heather stops outside the last pub on South Street by the thick stone archway of West Port and racks her brains. No. It was definitely this street. Probably this pub. And therefore, almost certainly this lamppost. The only thing is, there’s no sign of Maisie or her tartan lead.
Shit.
Heather’s heart thunders in her chest. In her quest to find her perfectly safe daughter, she’s lost her brother’s dog. Panic stumbles through her veins, and her stomach knots. Poor Maisie. Where can she be? And what the hell is she going to tell Fraser?
There must be somewhere else she can look.
A search party. That’s what she needs. But where does she find a search party in a town she barely knows?
She only has one option. To go back to the pub and commandeer the teenagers, who are tied up for a three-legged race and completely off their faces, to help her look.
***
‘So, the lead is gone?’ asks Trey when she tracks them down in the next pub in their pub crawl.
‘Yes. Of course,’ she says, trying – and failing – to hide her irritation at the ridiculous fixation on tartan leads. ‘Why does it even matter, Trey?’
Trey holds up a wobbly finger, indicative of his inebriated state. ‘Well, it shows there’s more chance you didn’t tie her securely enough to the lamppost rather than she’s been dog snatched.’
Heather’s hand leaps to her chest in horror.
‘Is dog snatching even a thing?’
Georgia’s eyes are wide in indignation at her mother’s naivety.
‘Yes! Mum. Yes!’ she shouts, thumping at the table and causing the amassed pile of glasses to clatter alarmingly. ‘Especially for a pure breed like Maisie.’
Shortly afterwards, Heather and four intoxicated teenagers are rushing through the streets of St Andrews, dodging tourists, drunk students and those on a weekend break, shouting after Maisie.
In all honesty, the students are so pissed, they’re no help at all.
But Heather is now frantic. It’ll be getting dark soon.
Maisie’s only a puppy. Their chances of finding her once the sun sets must be near zero.
They stop by the fourteenth-century arches known as the Pends near the cathedral, the ancient bricks give no clue to Maisie’s whereabouts.
‘What should I do? We’ve tried everything,’ Heather says, more to herself than to the four teenagers who are now beginning to talk about having the munchies and wondering when the chip shop opens.
Orange light begins to pool around the Cathedral towers and the sun lowers in the sky. Trey, bless him, senses her distress.
‘Why don’t you put something on the parents' forum? My mum says people are always posting weird things on there and people often help.’
‘What would I say?’ says Heather. ‘Anyone visiting St Andrews and noticing a West Highland Terrier on her own with a red tartan lead, please let me know?’
‘Do you have a picture?’
‘The only one I have is a photo of the painting I’m halfway through.’ She shows Trey.
He takes her phone and peers at the screen. ‘Wow,’ he says, returning the phone. ‘That's amazing. Even as a photograph of a painting, it's brilliant.’
It’s off topic, but Heather can’t suppress her feeling of pride. The picture of Maisie is one of the best pieces she’s ever done.
‘Thanks, Trey,’ she says in what she hopes is a modest voice.
Three clicks and a few sentences of text later, Heather posts her plea for help on the Parent’s Forum:
If you’re in town today, please can you keep an eye out for my brother’s dog, who absconded from South Street an hour ago. Below is a picture I’m mid-way through painting of her. She’s wearing a red tartan leash.
She adds a prayer emoji for good measure.
‘Right, done,’ she says, slipping her phone into her jeans pocket. ‘Shall we have another look on The Scores whilst we give the message a chance to circulate?’
They make an eclectic group walking down North Castle Street towards the beach, past the old Fishermen’s cottages and jumping onto the road where the worn cobbled pavement abruptly ends.
Georgia and Brianna have re-attached at the ankle in the spirit of the three-legged pub crawl, have arms draped heavily over each other’s shoulders and are whispering in each other’s ears.
Trey and Samir follow more sedately, hand in hand, engaging quietly with each other in muted whispers.
Heather brings up the rear, peering into doorways and down cobbled ginnels in case the teenagers have missed any vital clues about Maisie’s whereabouts.
Despite the circumstances, it gives Heather a warm feeling to see her daughter re-united with these kind and considerate friends.
They re-group at the steps by the dramatic ruin of St Andrews Castle, which sits on a rocky promontory overlooking a small beach and a seawater swimming pool.
The wind, which has recently picked up and carries the tang of salt water, stresses the urgency of their predicament.
Heather’s throat tightens. A small dog will never last the night in these conditions.
‘Shall we form another search party?’ Trey suggests.
‘What do you think, girls?’ Heather turns towards them.
Brianna hiccups in Georgia’s ear, and the pair collapse into a fit of giggles.
‘Look!’ Brianna has averted her face away from Georgia’s to re-direct the next in a series of hiccups.
Everyone shifts their gaze to beneath the sheer cliffs where Brianna is pointing. There, messing around in the rock pools and running in circles after seagulls, is a damp and rather excitable Maisie.
Heather rushes down the steps set into the cliff face, catches the dog and gives her a drink from her water bottle. Despite her fur being a little damp and bedraggled and her lead coated in lichen, she seems unaffected by her mini adventure.
Georgia shouts down to ask after them both, and when Heather replies with a thumbs up, the students yell that they’re going back to the pub.
Heather climbs back up the steps, clutching a damp Maisie to her chest. She scolds her as she goes, telling her of the shock she’d given her and how impossible her life would be if she hadn’t found her.
The dog twists in her arms and licks her face as if to acknowledge the distress she’s caused.
Back at the car, Heather slides Maisie into her crate and dries her fur with a towel she keeps in the boot for weather-related emergencies.
When she finds the small packet of doggie biscuits that Scott had bought for Maise from the Edinburgh deli, she feels a stab of remorse.
Their afternoon has not panned out as either of them had hoped.
Scott was clearly annoyed at her when she left.
And even angrier on the phone earlier. She takes her phone out of her pocket to update him on the craziness of the afternoon, but a series of notifications on the online parents' forum catches her eye.
Amongst others is a message from Trey’s mum, Bethany:
Sorry about the dog. Powerless from the US, but I hope you find her.
All good now. Thanks for checking up on us! x
Heather replies, accompanying her message with a selfie of her and a rather bedraggled Maisie.
That picture you posted. Where was it from?
Bethany asks.
It takes Heather a moment to remember that, in her panic she’d posted a photo of her incomplete painting.
I’m starting a new business venture, memorial paintings of pets or for students who are missing their pets when they’re away from home. It’s one I’ve almost finished of Maisie.
Love it.
Bethany replies.
What’s the website?
Although Heather isn’t inclined to share her website details in such a wide-reaching forum, she knows it will look churlish to ignore Bethany’s request. So, reluctantly, she sends a link.
Despite the distance between St Andrews and Baltimore, Bethany’s response is almost instantaneous.
Sharing and placing an order. My lad would love a painting like this to get him through the last term.
Heather’s heart flutters. This is her first ever professional commission.
She checks the email associated with her website which Scott set up last month.
Sure enough, there is an order for a bespoke painting, 20cm x 30cm in oil, and Bethany has sent a photograph of a charming red setter with long floppy ears and a mischievous smile.
No wonder Trey misses her madly when he’s away from home.
Thrilled by the sale, Heather puts the music on loud and sings the entire journey home.
By the time she’s back in Edinburgh, her link has been shared eighteen times, and she has twelve orders. By the time she goes to bed, she has 115 orders from almost every continent in the world.
SCOTT
He’s not screening her calls. He’s not. He just has some stuff he needs to sort out. Besides, he’s seeing her tomorrow, and he needs the space to consider what he’s about to ask.
He’s seen the online parents' forum, albeit briefly, and it’s clear there’s been a bit of a kerfuffle since Maisie went missing in St Andrews.
He’s happy for her. Really, he is. And he’s especially glad that his small involvement in her website has helped her on this next part of her journey.
Scott places his phone face down on the table, slurps up the last of his coffee, and drags the backpack from under his bed.
He’s not running away. He’s self-protecting.
He’s not paralysed by fear. He’s being pragmatic.
Or, alternatively, he’s being very, very stupid indeed.