One Good Thing, page 7
‘Do you make those?’
He looks up from filling them with seeds, to cock his hand behind his ear. ‘What was that?’
‘The bird feeders,’ I repeat.
He looks at me as if I’m a complete moron. ‘Aye, it’s called recycling.’ Then, seeing my expression, he adds, ‘You young ones think you invented it.’
Despite his grumpiness, I can’t help but smile.
He resumes filling them up and I turn back to Harry. Having finally finished, he’s kicking up clods of grass verge in an attempt to bury it, and I quickly clear it up before the old man has cause to complain.
‘You put two holes here, see . . .’
I look up to see that he’s taken down one of the bottles and has brought it over to show me, holding it over the low wall that separates his small patio from the path.
‘. . . and push a stick through the holes. There should be a couple of inches left on either side for the perches.’
‘Wow, yes – how clever.’ I smile, fascinated. It really is quite ingenious.
‘Then just cut a feeding hole with some scissors.’ He gestures with his thumb. ‘You have to be careful not to leave any jagged edges, as their feathers can get caught. You need to make them as smooth as possible.’
‘And do the birds really come?’
‘Oh, aye, you get all sorts, especially this time of year. Sparrows . . . blue tits . . . chaffinches . . . nuthatches . . . Even got myself a family of robins. The ones that don’t migrate need feeding up to survive the winter.’
As he speaks a few brave ones come swooping to the bird feeders he’s already filled, while the others sit twittering and fluttering on the sidelines, perched on chimney pots and telegraph poles, waiting impatiently. I don’t remember seeing so many birds in London.
Suddenly Harry notices them and starts barking.
‘Who’s this old fella then?’
‘Harry.’
I try shushing him, as he’s scaring away the old man’s birds.
‘Sorry,’ I apologize, trying to calm Harry down and not having much success. Despite his limp, he’s lungeing and pulling on his lead.
‘What’s wrong with his leg?’
‘Arthritis,’ I gasp, struggling to keep hold of him. He’s really quite strong, considering.
‘Poor bugger. Me and him both.’
The old man smiles for the first time and bends down towards him.
‘Oh! Be careful . . . He’s a bit nervous.’
‘Hello, lad, got a poorly leg, have you?
Too late. Ignoring me, he reaches his hand over the low wall and I freeze, with visions of him being bitten, or worse, but unexpectedly Harry stops barking and goes to sniff it.
‘There, there, lad . . .’
And now he’s licking the old man’s hand and letting him stroke his face and rub his ears. I watch, amazed. Even more incredible is watching Harry’s tail make its first smallest and bravest of wags.
‘Did you think he was going to bite me?’
‘No. Of course not,’ I protest, but I feel a bit guilty.
‘Turmeric.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s supposed to do wonders for arthritis. Helps the inflammation . . . There’s something in it – I forget the name, but it’s powerful stuff. Better than ibuprofen, for the pain and stiffness. You can have it with honey or make a paste with it—’ The old man breaks off, as if embarrassed to be caught over-sharing. ‘My wife was always into all that kind of homeopathy stuff.’
Was. I notice the wedding ring still on his hand. He must be a widow.
‘Well, I must get on and finish these before I freeze to death.’
With a grunt he raises himself stiffly to his slippered feet. I notice the fleecy hems of his pinstriped pyjama bottoms, like the ones my granddad used to wear. See, he’s a sweet old man really.
‘Thanks for the tip.’ I smile and he nods.
‘Bye, Harry.’
He gives Harry a little wave as we walk away.
‘And think on,’ he calls after me, and I turn to see him gesturing at the poop bag I’m holding. ‘Don’t be chucking that dog shit in my dustbins.’
Hey you,
Guess what? I got a dog! He’s called Harry and he’s from the local rescue shelter. He’s a big black scruffy thing with a little white patch on his chest that looks a bit like a star, and he has this really long, bushy tail, though I’ve only ever seen it wag once as he’s so nervous and scared. But it was love at first sight. He’s got these big brown Disney eyes, and last night when he gently nuzzled his soft wet nose into my lap and looked at me, it was like he understood what it’s like to get your heart broken.
Though I’ll be honest, the first few days have been a bit of nightmare. I even wondered if I’d made a mistake. In fact there were a few tearful moments when I thought maybe I wasn’t a dog person. Maybe I didn’t have what it takes to rescue a dog. I mean, seriously. Harry moults hair everywhere, digs holes in the garden, destroys all his toys and howls if he’s left alone. I’ve been trying to get him to sleep downstairs, but without much luck. Last night he chewed up his dog bed and wouldn’t go to sleep until I let him sleep on my bed. And I still can’t get the smell of sick out of the rental car, from when he threw up on the back seat.
But then this morning I took him for his first walk and we met this old man, and it was only when I got home that I realized I had the first real conversation with someone since moving here – and it happened because of Harry. And it got me thinking. Maybe it’s not me rescuing Harry, but the other way round. Maybe Harry’s the one rescuing me.
x
A Moment of Truth
‘This car smells funny.’
‘Really? I can’t smell anything.’
A few days later I drive into town to the local branch of the rental-car company, to return the Fiat and lie through my teeth.
‘Hmm . . .’
Ajay has the distrustful air of a sales agent who has seen, heard and smelled it all when it comes to customers and the lengths they will go to in their subterfuge to conceal dents, scratches, missing wing mirrors and worse. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he pushes his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and ducks his head further inside the car.
I watch with trepidation as he takes a deep inhale of the upholstery.
‘It smells like . . .’ He pauses, searching for the right word.
‘A floral fragrance with citrus top notes,’ I jump in, smiling broadly. What’s that saying: smile and the world smiles with you?
Ajay, however, does not appear to know that saying and re-emerges grim-faced.
‘Vomit.’
‘Oh.’
This is excruciating. I should have told the truth, but I can ill afford to lose my deposit.
He glances down at the clipboard in his hands, which has my paperwork. ‘Mrs Brooks.’
‘It’s Ms . . . but, please, call me Liv.’
‘Ms Brooks,’ he repeats again, firmly, ‘have you had a dog in this car?’
It’s less an accusation and more of a statement.
I clutch my chest theatrically. ‘A dog? No, whatever gives you that idea?’
As if presenting an exhibit in court, he holds up a rubber bone in his left hand and squeezes it. It gives a loud squeak.
I’d wondered where it had gone. I’d taken it for Harry when I went to pick him up from the rescue shelter, but he completely ignored it. It must have got wedged between the seats.
‘Because, as you will see by the terms of your policy, no animals are allowed in any of our vehicles without prior consent, and an excess fee being paid. Furthermore, to do so would invalidate your policy and result in a cleaning fee, plus the forfeit of your deposit.’
‘I bought it as a present for a friend. She just got a new dog.’
You know that feeling when you’re digging your own grave but keep on going, regardless? I simply can’t afford to lose my deposit.
‘In that case, let me rephrase the question.’
I recognize Ajay’s weary tone. It’s the one I would use with pupils when their homework was late and they would come up with weird and wonderful excuses.
‘Was your “friend’s dog” sick on the back seat of this car?’
He says it like a question, but we both know the answer.
I sigh in defeat. ‘Ajay, can I level with you?’
He gazes at me steadily. ‘I wish you would, Ms Brooks. It would save us a lot of time.’
‘You’re right, there was a dog in the back seat.’
His shoulders visibly square.
‘And yes, he did throw up.’
And now his jaw sets in vindication.
‘But, you see, I can explain. His name’s Harry. He was dumped by his owner, who didn’t want him any more – a bit like me, really.’
‘Ms Brooks.’
‘My husband left me,’ I blurt, before poor Ajay can stop me. ‘We just got divorced and I moved here for a fresh start, but I didn’t realize how lonely I’d be and how lost I’d feel . . .’ I sense my eyes welling up. ‘So I adopted a dog from the local rescue shelter, but he was carsick on the way home – he couldn’t help it, the poor thing was probably traumatized by everything that had happened . . .’
‘I don’t think that’s entirely relevant.’
‘Well, it is to Harry!’ I cry. ‘You’ve probably got no idea what it’s like to be rejected, to have your heart broken, to have the person you love and thought you would spend the rest of your life with throw you away like a piece of rubbish – to know how devastating that feels. I mean, look at you; what are you: like, twenty?’
I jab my finger at his clipboard and Ajay steps backwards.
‘You’ve no concept of what it’s like to be my age and feel like you’ve been thrown on the scrapheap. To have to start over again . . . Trust me, it’s terrifying!’
I can hear my voice getting more and more shrill. I’m no longer talking just about Harry.
‘My life is a mess. I’ve lost my husband, my home, my job. I’m depressed. I feel old. I can’t sleep. My jeans don’t fit. And now you want to punish me by being an officious little jobsworth prat and stealing my deposit!’
I break off, my heart pounding. With my sleeve I wipe away the tears that I suddenly realize are streaming down my face.
Ajay looks at me, his face unreadable. No doubt stunned into silence by having some angry, weeping, perimenopausal woman on his forecourt. I suddenly feel acutely embarrassed by my outburst. And mortifyingly repentant. It’s not his fault. What on earth am I doing? Yelling at some poor car-rental salesman and pouring my heart out? He must think I’ve gone mad. I think I’ve gone mad.
‘Look, I’m sorry.’
‘My girlfriend dumped me two weeks ago.’
We both speak at the same time. I look at Ajay in surprise.
‘Trust me, I know completely how you feel.’ He pulls out a small pack of tissues from his pocket and passes it to me. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking one, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. ‘I’m sorry . . . about your girlfriend.’
‘It’s all right. Afterwards I found out she’d been sleeping with one of my mates behind my back.’
‘Jesus, that’s awful.’
He shrugs. ‘He wasn’t much of a mate, was he?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Sniffing, I pass the packet back.
‘By the way, for your information I’m twenty-nine.’
My face flushes. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean what I said, about the other thing . . .’ I trail off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
‘You mean about me being an officious little jobsworth prat and stealing your deposit?’
Then he smiles, which makes me smile.
He closes the door of the Fiat. ‘OK, Liv, I think we’re done here. Now if you’d like to follow me into the office, we’ll settle up your paperwork.’
Ajay lets me off with solely the cleaning fee. He really is a nice man, and not an officious jobsworth prat at all. He even gives me his tissues and tells me to take as many of the complimentary mints as I’d like.
Afterwards I walk to the main newsagent’s in the high street to put a notice in the window about private tutoring, then on to the supermarket to buy a few things I can’t get at the local shops in the village.
As usual I completely overestimate how much I can carry. It looks fine in the trolley, just a few bits, but once it’s packed into bags it seems to quadruple in size. Without a car, I set off towards the bus stop, lugging the heavy shopping bags, but it starts to rain. It does that a lot here. So by the time I reach the bus stop I’m soaked.
Luckily it has a shelter, but it has no sides and the rain is now coming down in icy diagonal sheets. Standing underneath, I peer up the road, willing a bus to appear. I’ve got a new building firm coming over to give me a quote. When I called before, they were fully booked, but they’ve had a job fall through and are now available to work on the cottage. Apparently they’re the best in the area, so I don’t want to be late.
I wait.
Fifteen minutes later I’m still waiting when a van slows down. I step back, so as not to get splashed by the large puddle of water that has formed next to the kerb.
The window rolls down and the driver leans across the steering wheel.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ he calls out cheerfully.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The bus only runs once a day to Nettlewick, and you’ve missed it.’
‘Once a day?’
For a moment I think he’s joking, then I look at the timetable behind the scratched plastic. Sure enough, he’s telling the truth. I let the reality sink in for a moment, along with the rain into my sodden trainers. I wriggle my toes. They squelch against the fabric.
‘OK, well, thanks for letting me know.’ With frozen fingers, I dig my phone out of my pocket. ‘I’ll call an Uber.’
The driver laughs. ‘I take it you’re not from round these parts then?’
Opening the app, I go to book a car . . . only there aren’t any. Of course. I’m forgetting where I am. I look up from my screen to see the van still there, with the engine running.
‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift,’ offers the driver. ‘I’m going that way.’
I waver at the thought of getting a lift from a complete stranger, but it’s pouring down, I’m cold and tired, and I can hardly walk the ten miles home with my shopping.
I reach for the door handle. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, thank you.’
The dashboard is stuffed full of rubbish. Old receipts. Parking tickets. Coffee cups. Chocolate wrappers. Sitting in the passenger seat, I let my eyes sweep across the detritus to try and get a better look at the driver. He looks about my age, but it’s hard to tell. Between his beanie, which he’s pulled down over his ears, and his beard, I can only see a narrow, rectangular letter box of face. His eyes are crinkled around the edges and he has one of those noses with a bump that looks like it was broken once. I once read somewhere that men’s noses and ears keep growing, the older they get, but it looks a fairly decent size, so no clues there.
‘I didn’t know rain was forecast,’ I say, as we continue out of town, the windscreen wipers on full speed.
‘This is Yorkshire. Don’t you know we’ve got webbed feet?’
His accent is strong and he glances across at me, his mouth twisting up in amusement. He’s wearing a thick checked flannel shirt, the sleeves of which are turned up to reveal tattooed forearms.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ I find myself smiling. ‘I think it’s rained pretty much every day since I moved here.’
‘Don’t worry, we get a few weeks off in summer for good behaviour.’
Despite being soaked through, I can’t help but laugh.
‘So what brings you to these parts? Apart from the glorious weather, of course.’
Indicating right at the roundabout, we leave the town behind and head out into open countryside.
‘My grandparents used to live in Nettlewick. In the old farmhouse that overlooks the river.’
The windows are steaming up. He rolls down his window a little, to let in some fresh air, and leans forward to wipe the windscreen with his hand. I notice his wedding ring and instinctively curl my bare fingers into my lap.
‘Oh, I know the house.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah, I did some work there a few years back. They have a big oak in the back garden.’
‘Yes, that’s the one! Me and my sister used to climb it.’ Suddenly reminded, I feel a beat of joy. ‘One summer we built a treehouse in it, and Granddad made us a swing.’
The driver takes his eyes off the road to stare across at me and I shift uncomfortably.
‘Sorry, did I say something?’
His face breaks into a grin. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Livvie?’
I feel a jolt of surprise as he calls me by my old nickname.
‘Don’t you recognize me?’
‘Should I?’ I search the letter box of face for clues, then quickly gesture to the temporary traffic lights ahead. ‘Watch out!’
He brakes sharply and, as we come to halt, he takes the opportunity to swivel his full body towards me and peer at me. ‘It really is you!’ He looks triumphant. ‘I can’t believe it! Little Livvie!’
Oh God. Abruptly it dawns.
‘Ben Armstrong,’ I say flatly, trying to keep the dismay out of my voice.
‘Yep, that’s me.’ He’s grinning at me even more broadly now and I feel slightly frozen. I’d forgotten all about him. Or, more likely, I’d deliberately blanked him out. Now here he is, sitting right next to me.
A car honks behind us. I notice the lights have turned green.
‘All right, hold your horses,’ he yells, gesturing rudely at the driver out of the window, before cranking the van into gear and setting off again.
‘I see you haven’t changed,’ I mutter, turning my head to look out of the window and hoping he doesn’t hear me.
‘What was that?’
‘I said nothing’s changed.’ I gesture to the sweeping valley and endless fields that flash past us on either side of the van.
‘That’s the Dales for you,’ he nods. ‘Must be . . . what? Thirty years since you were here last?’
