Now, Rachel’s day started at seven-thirty in the morning, when Megan left a cup of tea outside her room, and finished at eleven at night, when she turned in, exhausted by miles of dog walking and talking to unfamiliar people about the relative merits of Staffies versus collies. Rachel’s sponge-like mind soon refilled itself with dog facts and training tips, where she used to store London restaurants and sample sales. Slowly but surely, the dogs began to inch their way into her ‘non-dog-person’ heart; when the fifth dog left the kennels in the arms of loving new owners – Flash, the shy and scruffy little Westie – she realised her eyes were streaming, along with the openly weeping Megan and Freda.
With Megan or Freda at her elbow all day, she had no time to think about Oliver, but Rachel allocated one hour in the early evening for wallowing in her private misery. Megan thought it was sweet the way she wanted to spend time walking Gem on his own, to bond better, but she couldn’t hear Rachel as she circled the orchard and the huge fields around the house, railing at herself, at Oliver, at the unfairness of the human heart, but mainly at her own stupidity. The first week, it had taken an hour to get through her monologue of regret and recrimination. By the end of the month, she found herself using the last twenty minutes to wonder more about Dot and Felix or how she was supposed to pay the electricity bill.
One drawback of life in Longhampton, however, was that her mother now knew exactly where to find Rachel, and she could no longer pretend she was ‘in a meeting’ as she had in London, especially since Megan and Freda were more than happy to put Val through.
Rachel was sitting in the kitchen with Natalie, brainstorming fundraising ideas, when Val called for ‘an update’.
‘There’s nothing to update you on, Mum,’ said Rachel, rolling her eyes apologetically at Natalie. ‘Unless I can interest you in a Schnauzer?’
Natalie grimaced back. She’d been there since just after feeding time, with Bertie in tow. Either she had a burning desire to help Rachel work out ways to fund the kennels, or else she had nothing better to do with her time.
‘Of course I don’t want a Schnauzer, Rachel. What did the estate agent say about the house?’ Rachel could hear Hoovering in the background, and wondered if Val was multi-tasking or if her dad had now been dragooned into housework.
‘He said it was a nice house, but it needed a lot of work doing to it. Something about structural underpinnings.’ Rachel’s brain had zoned out at that point, while she argued internally about whether she wanted the house to be worth a fortune, so she could maybe buy something somewhere else, or worth nothing so she wouldn’t be liable for an enormous tax bill.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. He’s sent off the valuation to the solicitors’ and I’ll get the bill in the post. No, I don’t know when,’ she added before Val could ask. ‘But Gerald Flint says you can have the Acker Bilk albums for Dad. Apparently they’re not likely to affect the final valuation one way or another.’
‘Rachel says you can have your Acker Bilk albums, Ken.’ The vacuum cleaner was turned off. ‘What? Your father says he’d like a word, Rachel. Here you are.’ There was a muffled exchange, which included the words ‘proper coffee’, and then Rachel’s dad came on the line.
‘Hello, Dad,’ said Rachel. She hoped he wasn’t going to say anything about her resignation. Val hadn’t taken the news well in their last call. She had sounded bewildered, as she had every right to be, given Rachel’s apparent decision to give up the career ‘she’d sacrificed her thirties for’ to run a kennels.
‘How are you, love? Coping OK?’ Ken sounded concerned. Rachel hoped he wasn’t going to give her his ‘whatever you do, we’ll be proud of you’ speech; it always reduced her to tears.
‘I’m fine, Dad. Are you OK?’ Rachel mouthed ‘thank you’ at Natalie as she passed her a fresh cup of tea. ‘It’s just that I’m a bit busy . . .’
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Ken. ‘I was just . . .’ his voice dropped, ‘just wondering how you were getting on with Dot’s things.’
‘Um, fine.’ What was that supposed to mean? ‘There’s a lot of stuff to go through, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I was really meaning her . . . personal effects.’
‘Dad,’ she said, heavily, ‘if there’s something in particular that Mum wants and is too polite to ask for, then either tell her she’s welcome to come and have a root around, or tell me what it is I’m looking for and I’ll—’
‘No, no!’ Ken sounded as if he was having his thumbnails pulled out. ‘All I’m saying is . . . you come across some peculiar things when you’re going through houses. Personal things. Letters. You know.’
‘Actually, I
don’t
know.’ Rachel racked her brains for whatever it was Ken was too embarrassed to say. Did he know something about Felix? Surely not; he barely liked to talk about his own marriage, let alone other people’s relationships. She was struck by sudden inspiration. ‘Is this something to do with the fall-out Mum and Dot had? Are you saying there’s some kind of letter?’
Now that would make sense. A stinging letter from her mum, listing all Dot’s selfish ways, something she’d always regretted sending – Val’s conscience went back years.
‘Not exactly.’ Rachel could hear her mother’s voice in the background. ‘Anyway,’ Ken went on, in a higher tone, ‘forget I said anything. It’s not important. I’m sure. Your mother wants another word. Bye, love!’
From the confused mutterings on the other end, Rachel got the impression her mother didn’t want a word, because when she came on the line, she didn’t put up any sort of conversational fight, and Rachel was able to hang up within minutes.
‘Family problems?’ asked Natalie.
‘I don’t know.’ Rachel lifted her shoulders, baffled. ‘Who can tell with parents? My mum and Dot had some minor spat going on, you know, typical sisters falling out. I wouldn’t call it a feud. I think Dad thinks there’s going to be some secret cache of family voodoo dolls or something.’
‘Oooh,’ said Natalie. ‘Intriguing!’
‘No. Not ooh. More like Dot stole Gran’s secret lemon curd recipe in 1974, and Mum never forgave her. Or Dot’s boyfriend wore stacked heels to my sister’s christening and the vicar complained. Anyway, where were we?’
‘Sponsorship!’ said Natalie. ‘We were talking about how you need to get business sponsorship to cover the rescue kennel costs.’ She wrote
sponsorship
at the top of the page with a flourish. ‘I had another look at your figures and I reckon this is what you need to run each kennel space, per year. It’s not a lot, is it? I’ve made a list of all the businesses I think you could approach on the industrial estate, plus the high street solicitors and accountants and the
Longhampton Gazette
.’ She drew a confident ring around Rachel’s wonky sums. ‘And normal people – you can put a collection box in the surgery, and get the primary school to get involved.’
‘And in return?’ Rachel tried to stoke her brain up to Natalie’s speed, but it wasn’t co-operating. Despite the blissful eight hours of silent countryside sleep she was enjoying each night, she still needed more than strong tea to get going this week. ‘Um, sorry, my mind’s gone blank.’
‘Are you OK?’ asked Natalie, peering more closely at her.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She rubbed her eyes. Megan had a cold – it was probably that. ‘You know what? I think my London germ immunity’s finally wearing off. I thought the day would never come.’
‘It’s probably delayed stress,’ said Natalie. ‘Having to deal with the house, and your break-up and everything all at once. You’ve done an amazing job so far. ’
‘Oh, I don’t know. But thanks.’ Rachel wasn’t sure she should really take the sympathy, but it felt nice, the sad way Natalie was smiling at her.
She wouldn’t if she knew you were a husband-stealer, she reminded herself. Even a failed one.
‘OK, um, sponsorship.’ Rachel made her brain swerve away from that uncomfortable topic. ‘What if we make updates from the dogs to the sponsors, to put on their office kitchen wall? Like I did with the posters?’
‘Exactly! And you and Megan take the dogs to the school to do talks about keeping pets responsibly. Take the least licky dogs to the old folks’ home for an afternoon’s stroking. We can talk to Lauren at the surgery about therapy dogs – she’s already got a poster up about dog walking for health.’
‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’
Natalie shrugged modestly. ‘I don’t have a lot else to think about right now. Turns out I’m not as good at relaxing at home as I thought I’d be. Have you decided what you’re going to do about the boarding kennels, though? Because you might as well relaunch the whole lot at the same time. Presumably that was how Dot was funding the rescue operation? From the boarding fees?’
Rachel wasn’t sure. From what she could make out from the accounts, the kennels had barely been turning a profit and for all she knew, Dot was paying for everything from her diamond necklace tree in the garden. But whether she decided to stay, or sell, it made sense to get things up and running.
‘Yup, that’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘Now we’ve got the internet coming to Four Oaks, a mere decade after everyone else.’
Natalie looked amazed. ‘There was no internet before? No website?’
‘No website. I’ve been on email detox since I arrived. But there will be from this weekend,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m calling in some favours. I reckon that should get some tragic mutts moving.’
‘What you need is an Open Day to get everyone up here to see what you do.’ Natalie drew a large cloud around the words Open Day and started jotting out spikes. ‘When they see the dogs, they’ll just melt like we did, and when they see how nice your kennels are, they’ll all want to book their pets in this summer. Double effects! Now, what do you need to make people fall in love with Four Oaks Boarding Kennels? You’re the PR expert,’ she added, generously.
‘Face-painting,’ said Rachel, solemnly. ‘And maybe a hog roast. That’s what the website geeks used to like, anyway.’
Natalie’s expression froze, until she realised Rachel was joking. ‘Oh, very funny. I was thinking more of competitions everyone can win. Like, Scruffiest Ears, and Most Loving Pet. You have to have a Pet Most Like Owner competition, just so Bertie and Johnny can win it. I don’t know who spends most time lurking round the fridge.’ She pointed her pen at Rachel. ‘I’ve got it. Super-tear-jerking – invite all the happily rehomed pets back for a reunion with their old friends!’
‘You are a marketing genius, Natalie.’ Rachel nodded approvingly. ‘That will make the best local newspaper story
ever
.’
‘So, when?’
‘Ah.’ Rachel pulled a face. ‘That’s a problem. Not until I’ve got probate – there’s a huge bill to pay on account, then they give me the keys officially. But we can get it all planned and then launch it onto an unsuspecting public as soon as I get the go-ahead.’ She pushed the plate of chocolate biscuits nearer Natalie. ‘I don’t want to take up all your time, though. I’m sure you’ve got much better things to be doing than helping me run dog shows.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t tell Johnny but I’m glad of a distraction,’ sighed Natalie. Now Rachel looked closer, there were bags under her round green eyes and she seemed strained.
‘Is it Bertie?’
‘No! No, he’s lovely.’ Natalie hesitated, then rushed on. ‘No, we’re waiting for the results of some tests. You know, the bloods I had to go for the other day, when you minded Bertie for me? I probably said, we’re trying for a baby and this is the next step.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Rachel. She never knew what to say when it came to trying for babies. She’d spent most of her life going to some lengths not to get pregnant; it seemed perverse how hard it seemed to be when you actually wanted one. ‘Have you, er, been trying long?’
‘Over a year. Feels like longer.’ Natalie bit into a chocolate biscuit. ‘Sorry, it’s not really something to chat about but it sort of takes over your brain.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Sorry. Bit too much information.’
‘You’ll be fine. The tests’ll be fine.’ Rachel wanted to be encouraging. Natalie looked so crestfallen, compared to her sunny confidence when they’d been mapping out the Open Day.
Natalie sighed. ‘I don’t know, though. We’ve been so happy, me and Johnny. I don’t know how he’ll cope if I can’t . . .’
Megan announced her presence with a huge sneeze. ‘Rachel, sorry, it’s—’ She sneezed again, into a big white handkerchief. ‘There’s someone to see you – she came round to the kennels, but she said she wanted to talk to you.’
Natalie pressed her lips together and Rachel felt bad that the moment had gone. She turned round reluctantly. ‘Did she say what about?’
‘No, but she was looking at the dogs.’ Megan smiled, wrinkled her nose to hold back the sneeze, then sneezed again. ‘Seemed quite interested in Tinker, actually. She looks like a West Highland White sort of woman.’
‘Which is what?’ Natalie raised a curious eyebrow.
‘Oh, you know.’ Megan wiped her nose. ‘Middle-aged. Nicely dressed, well-spoken. Gilet.’
‘Sort of woman who likes a dog to be about the same size as her largest bag,’ added Rachel. ‘And with hair that won’t clog her Dyson. Natalie, don’t look at me like I’m a psychic, you get to read the types very quickly.’
‘And me and Johnny – were we obviously Basset types?’ asked Natalie.
‘No,’ said Megan. ‘I thought you’d go for Treacle, the Lab. Johnny’s more of a Labrador kind of guy and you’re . . .’