Sunshine and Spaniels (8 page)

Polly joined them on the tiny landing and gasped.

‘So,’ Frankie said. ‘What happens now?’

‘Now,’ Cat said, ‘we start searching for treasure. Can Olaf help?’

Frankie grinned. ‘I think Olaf would be pretty upset if we didn’t let him.’

‘Right then, what’s in box number one?’

They worked until it was time for Frankie to pick Lizzie and Emma up. The girls were chatty and excited after their days at school and nursery, and their excitement grew at the boxes piled up in the living room. There were newborn baby clothes and toys, knick-knacks from Frankie’s mum’s house, candlesticks and tea-light holders of all shapes and sizes. Frankie, Polly and Cat had been putting things into piles – things to sell, things to keep, things for the charity shop and the tip.

‘If there’s enough,’ Polly said, ‘you could do a car boot sale. Some of these art deco holders would be snapped up.’

‘And even broken things,’ Cat added, hefting a box of spare towels down the stairs. ‘People at car boots are vultures. If they see something they think they can fix and sell on for a pound more than they bought it for, they’ll go for it.’

‘Or sell it on eBay. That’s a huge business now.’

‘I considered being an eBay seller,’ Cat said, ‘very briefly, when I lost my job.’

‘What were you going to sell?’ asked Lizzie. She was rifling through a box of Christmas decorations.

Cat shrugged. ‘I hadn’t got that far. Thought I might slowly go round our house and take things I thought Polly and Joe wouldn’t miss.’

‘Hey,’ Polly said, laughing. ‘Our house is pretty minimalist.’

‘Yes, apart from the foxes.’

‘Foxes?’ Lizzie asked.

‘I have a thing about foxes,’ Polly admitted. ‘I’ve collected them since my mum bought me a cuddly one.’ She smiled and looked away. Cat knew that Polly found it hard to talk about her mum, who had walked out when she and Joe were still small. ‘Now I have ornaments and pictures, a hot-water bottle…’

‘Curtains?’ Emma asked. ‘I have pretty curtains.’

‘You have Disney everything,’ Lizzie said.

‘I don’t have curtains,’ Polly said, ‘but that
is
a good idea.’

‘Where would you get fox curtains from?’ Cat wiped her forearm across her grubby forehead. ‘And more importantly, why would you want to?’

Polly ignored her. ‘Have you seen the fox that lives round here? I mean, there must be a few, but there’s a really glossy one that’s often about.’

Lizzie and Emma shook their heads, Emma’s eyes wide.

Frankie brought in a jug of iced squash and five glasses. ‘I’ve seen it on my way back from the restaurant, trotting down the street after dark, sniffing in bins. It doesn’t look hungry.’

‘I-is it big?’ Emma whispered.

‘Quite big,’ Frankie admitted, running her hand over Emma’s long hair, ‘but there’s nothing to be scared of. If anything, Mr Fox is a scaredy-cat. He wouldn’t come near us.’

‘W-what about Olaf? Will he eat him?’

Frankie crouched in front of her daughter. ‘No, my poppet, Olaf is safe with us, and with Cat and Polly. Mr Fox wouldn’t be interested in him, and even if he was, we’d look after him, wouldn’t we?’

‘Of course!’ Lizzie said brightly. ‘And Olaf wouldn’t go near him. He’s more interested in shoes. Look.’ She pointed, and they all turned to see Olaf sitting in a box of old wellies and walking boots, chewing happily.

‘Oh God, Olaf.’ Frankie lifted him out, and a red-and-white spotty wellie came with him. Frankie set him on the ground and he stuck his head inside the boot, his tail wagging madly.

Cat laughed, took out her iPhone and snapped a photo. ‘That is one cute spaniel you’ve got there. And entirely safe from foxes.’

‘Foxes are just like dogs anyway,’ Polly said. ‘They’re from the same family. The main difference is they’re wild, whereas all the dogs we know are tame.’

‘Olaf doesn’t look like a fox,’ Emma said.

‘Which dog is most like a fox?’ Lizzie asked.

Cat sat cross-legged on the floor, and thought of all the dog breeds she’d come across.

‘There’s a dog called a spitz,’ Polly said. ‘They have thick fur because they come from where it’s really cold, and mostly they’re white, like Arctic foxes, but some are like a red fox.’

‘It sounds like Mum’s job,’ Emma said, ‘and we hate them now.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Frankie said, ‘Spatz. Well done, Ems.’

‘There’s a papillon,’ Cat said. ‘I met one at our picnic, the same day I met you. They’re really small, smaller than Olaf, with a much pointier face, and big ears. The one I saw was called Paris. I’ll see if I can introduce you to her.’ She had asked Elsie about Captain after their picnic, and Elsie had shrugged him off as just a friend, but Cat had noticed the way the older woman became suddenly fidgety, pouring more tea and rearranging the sofa cushions.

‘Should we get back to it?’ Polly asked. She downed her squash and stood up, brushing dust off her shorts. ‘That room’s not going to clear itself.’

‘Can we help?’ Emma asked.

‘As long as you’re careful,’ Frankie said. ‘No carrying
anything
down the stairs, and if you don’t know what something is,
ask me
before you pick it up. Understood?’

‘Yes!’ both girls squealed. Cat drained her drink and followed Olaf back up the stairs. She’d surprised herself by enjoying the clear-out so far, despite the heat and the dust, but she was still holding out for a secret stash of gold or a valuable antique vase. That way Frankie wouldn’t even have to rent the room out, but could refurbish the whole house exactly as she pleased, give up the idea of having to find a new job, and spend all her time with her kids, watching them grow up.

‘What I need now,’ Polly said, as they dawdled up Primrose Terrace towards their own house, ‘is a long hot shower and a huge glass of cold white wine.’ ‘Or pink wine.’

‘Or pink fizzy wine.’

‘Mmmmmm.’

‘It makes a change from revision though,’ Polly added. ‘I needed a break.’

It was still warm outside, the sky slowly turning the colour of peach juice, but compared to the stuffiness of Frankie’s attic room it felt cool and delicious. Primrose Terrace was basking in its summer glory. The primroses had faded now, but the grass was a lush green, the windows of the elegantly curved houses reflecting the glowing, lowering sun.

‘Would you have a spitz?’ Cat asked. ‘If you could have any dog?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it. I’d like a large dog, an Alsatian or a Weimaraner. God, I’d love a husky or a St Bernard, but I think you need to live on a farm to do them justice. They need so much space and I don’t think our place quite cuts it. What about you?’

‘I’d love any dog,’ Cat said, ‘except maybe a chihuahua.’

‘You don’t want a handbag dog?’

‘I’m worried I’d lose it, under the bed or in the dishwasher. Also, I think I’ve had enough of dogs in handbags for the time being.’

Polly laughed. ‘Fair point.’ She unlocked the door to the sound of swearing, and Shed shot out between her legs, faster than Cat had ever seen him run, and then assumed a casual stroll as he made his way up the terrace.

‘Joe?’ Polly called. ‘What’s wrong?’

Joe was standing at the dining table, pressing his palm over his left forearm. A Budweiser bottle lay on its side, bubbly liquid seeping into pieces of paper that were fanned out on the table. ‘Sodding bloody cat. He jumped up here and scratched the fuck out of me.’

‘Let me see,’ Polly said. At first he shrugged away, but Polly took hold of his arm and prised his hand away from the wound.

Cat peered over her shoulder. ‘Ouch, that looks nasty.’

‘It’s quite deep, Joey. Have you washed it?’

Joe shook his head. Polly had assumed her authoritative tone, and Joe looked so crestfallen, his head cast down, that Cat wanted to reach out and ruffle his mess of blond hair.

‘Come on then,’ Polly said. ‘It’s going to sting, but you need to clean it out or it could get infected. You might even need a tetanus shot.’

‘I don’t think it’s
that
bad.’

‘You don’t know what that cat’s been scratching. Trees or carpets or—’

‘Expensive leather handbags,’ Cat chimed in.

‘Don’t start,’ Joe said.

‘Right. Rinse it under the hot tap – as hot as you can stand – and I’ll go and get my kit.’

‘You’re going to clean it with animal medicine? Isn’t that a bit twisted?’

‘I have some straightforward antiseptic, Joey. Stop being so stubborn.’ Polly disappeared upstairs and Cat started tidying the sodden papers on the table, seeing if any could be rescued. They were cartoons, rough pen sketches without colour or shading. Cat turned one round to see what it was.

The title
Curiosity Kitten
was scrawled across the top, a drawing beneath it of a cat with huge, Disney-esque eyes, peering round a door. There was no order to the sketches and they looked as though Joe was trying things out: the kitten peering in through a window, its back legs scrabbling to stay on a precarious pile of boxes; the kitten lifting the lid on a large pan, the inside of the pan visible for the reader’s benefit, a piranha waiting to jump up; the kitten tiptoeing to a door, behind which was a pair of cats on a sofa, their tails entwined, a heart pulsing between them.

Had Joe already been contacted by the local newspaper? It looked more like a cartoon strip than any kind of logo. Was he working on this in secret, not wanting to tell anyone until it was confirmed? And what would happen to the kitten each time? Did he have a happy outcome, or, as the sketches suggested, was he destined for death or heartbreak? Maybe if Shed had scratched Joe earlier, Cat could imagine that the cartoons were a form of revenge, but there was no way Curiosity Kitten was modelled on the fat ginger cat. This kitten was undoubtedly cute.

The sketches were brilliant, and Cat could see that the idea had endless potential. From simple situations like pressing a large red button marked
Don’t push
, to recreating film scenes – the kitten pulling back a bed-sheet, a horse’s ear just visible. It was funny and adorable, it could be sad, or enchanting, or—

‘What are you doing?’ Joe asked close to her ear, and Cat jumped.

‘I-I was tidying up. You’ve got beer—’

‘Never mind.’ He scooped the papers up. He had washed the scratches and they glistened, deep red, along his arm. ‘I’ll sort these out.’

‘Joe, these are—’

‘They’re dumb,’ he said, not looking at her.

‘No! God, no, Joe, they’re—’

‘Going in the bin.’ He stormed out of the room, taking the sketches with him. Cat slumped against the table. Maybe he wasn’t as over Rosalin as Cat had believed. If he thought those cartoons were rubbish then he was either seriously deluded, or stuck so far in self-doubt it was unlikely he could ever be pulled out.

‘Joe…’ She hurried after him, determined not to let him sink into misery, and felt something crack under her shoe. She bent down and picked up a tiny silver Eiffel Tower. It was on a ring, as if meant to go on a bracelet or necklace, and it rang a familiar, tinkling bell in Cat’s mind. She thought of Captain’s small, terrified dog, and the little Eiffel Tower charm she had been wearing on her collar. How on earth had it got into their house?

Chapter 5

Cat lay in bed that night, twisting beneath the covers, too hot to be under them, not prepared to relinquish them entirely, and wondered how the papillon’s collar charm could have found its way into her house. She hadn’t seen Paris since the Pooches’ and Puppies’ Picnic, and Captain only briefly on her way back from the beach, and while she’d been to Elsie’s house, she hadn’t gone into the back garden. How could it have got there? Unless…she turned her pillow over and sank her forehead into it. She wouldn’t be able to say anything until she was sure – it would be bad enough telling Joe if she had proof, let alone if it was just a theory.

In the morning, Polly appeared at the dining table with a huge stack of textbooks and gave Cat an apologetic smile.

‘Studying?’ Cat asked the obvious.

‘I have to, Cat, I’m sorry. I want to help, but I’ve got tons of revision.’

‘OK. Joe?’

Joe was almost non-existent in his quietness, and Cat wondered if something had happened, beyond his cat attacking him and her discovering his sketches.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘It’s Saturday. We made a good start on Frankie’s attic yesterday but there’s still an Everest of boxes left, and that’s only part of it. We have to sort through them, and chuck things out, and then we have to clean it and turn it into a new place. It needs to be the most desirable rental room in the whole of Fairview, and I thought, with your artistic eye, you might want to help?’

He shook his head. ‘Not today, Cat.’

‘You’re not using your injury as an excuse, are you?’ She smiled, but Joe didn’t look up from his toast to see it. His arm had been expertly wrapped in a thin bandage by Polly, and Cat wondered if he’d wear it long enough to get a weird tan line on his arm.

‘No, just trying to finish this commission.’

‘Curiosity Kitten?’

‘
No
, Cat, I told you that’s rubbish, I—’

‘OK, OK.’ Cat held her hands up. ‘I get it. Sorry. Right, it’ll be me, Frankie and the girls then. See you later.’ She was going to visit Frankie, but there was somewhere else she needed to go first.

Silver Street ran parallel to Primrose Terrace, but instead of counting the houses and trying to work out which one backed onto Elsie’s, she had asked her neighbour for Captain’s address. Silver Street was on a slightly smaller scale, and without the elegant curve the terrace had. But what they lacked in size, these houses made up for in postage-stamp front gardens. Captain’s was a small square of neatly mown grass, framed by a border of busy Lizzies in pinks, purples and whites.

‘Captain,’ she said, when the old man opened the door dressed in a navy T-shirt and shorts that showed off thin, brown legs. ‘How are you? Could I come in for a moment?’

He peered at her over his half-moon glasses, then nodded and stepped back, inviting her in. His house was full of light, with white walls and colourful paintings, as if it was a mini art gallery. Cat was drawn in by the numerous seascapes, calm waters with sunsets and moored yachts, tumultuous oceans, one that showed Fairview beach, with the lighthouse standing proudly on its cliff.