pounds of not very sweet-smelling bone and muscle promised to be a serious challenge. But, anyway, for now the die was cast, and she had to make the best of it.
She clipped the rope lead to the dog’s collar, said goodbye to Mrs Edworthy, turned the door handle and then found herself propelled along the road so fast, she almost fell on her face. This time she had chosen more sensible shoes, although they were Kurt Geiger and hadn’t been cheap, and she heard an ominous scratching sound as the dog tugged her past a bush; ironically, a holly bush. Fortunately, seconds later, Stirling screeched to a halt and cocked his leg against a tree in long, leisurely fashion and Holly had time to collect herself, take a firmer grip on the lead and then march him along to Brook Cottage. As her first experience of dog walking, it was not auspicious.
It was immediately apparent that he knew his way around the house and that he instantly recognised it as his home. He set off on a tour of inspection, nostrils flared, that took him through every room downstairs. He hesitated before venturing upstairs, so Holly decided to try imposing a bit of discipline. As he placed a large paw on the first step, she put on her sternest voice and gave him his orders. ‘No, Stirling! Not upstairs!’ She was heartened, and surprised, to see him step back and turn away from the staircase. As her first experience of dog training, it was at least slightly more auspicious than the dog walking.
She placed his big wicker basket on the flagstones to one side of the fireplace, where she thought she could see marks on the floor made by a basket. No sooner was it down than the dog climbed into it and flopped down, his chin resting on the edge, his huge brown eyes trained on her every move. Feeling rather self-conscious, she set about emptying the bag of toys and filling his water bowl. She placed it on the floor near the back door and waved at him. ‘Water?’ He gave no sign of interest. She placed his empty food bowl beside it and that got him excited enough to sit upright but, once he had established that it was empty, he slumped back down again. She went over to the sink and washed her hands, still very apprehensive about her ability to take care of an animal that probably weighed at least half what she did.
She was just washing Mrs Edworthy’s teacup when her phone rang. It was Julia.
‘Hi, Jules, how’s things?’
‘I’m fine. Scott’s asked me to go to the opera with him tonight.’ Scott was Julia’s latest and very recent conquest. Holly had yet to meet him, but she definitely got the impression that her friend was rather keen on him.
‘The opera? That sounds exciting. What’re you going to see?’
‘La Traviata, the inside of a couple of glasses of champagne, and his bedroom ceiling hopefully. Not necessarily in that order. What about you?’
Holly proceeded to tell Julia all about her unexpected guest. If she had been expecting sympathy, she didn’t get it.
‘I knew you’d settle down with some big hunky male one of these days. Two legs, four legs, who cares?’
‘Somehow, I don’t think this particular relationship is going to stand the test of time.’
‘So what’s new, Miss Three-dates-and-you’re-out?’
‘I’m not quite that bad.’
‘Well, you try counting them.’ Julia then proceeded to reel off the last half dozen men Holly had been out with. Grudgingly, Holly had to admit that her friend might have a point. None of them had lasted more than a few dates before Holly had been taking giant steps in the opposite direction. She had often tried to work out just why she had this aversion to serious commitment. Somehow she had a feeling her mother and father’s split might have more than a little to do with it. That, and the fact that most of the boys she had dated up to now had turned out to be remarkably superficial and pretty stupid. She heard the triumph in Julia’s voice. ‘What is it about you and relationships?’
‘It’ll happen, Jules. I just wasn’t expecting the next one to be a big hairy thing with bad breath.’
‘Are you talking about that Irish boy, Finn or Findlay or whatever his name was?’
‘No, I’m talking about this hairy monster here.’ She turned towards the dog, or rather, to where the dog had been. The basket was empty. ‘Jules, I’d better call you back. Stirling’s disappeared. I’d just better go and see where he is. There’s a grand’s worth of shoes on the floor upstairs. If he decides to start chewing them, this relationship might just stop before it’s begun.’
She dropped the phone down on the table and hunted for the dog. It didn’t take long. She found him upstairs in her father’s bedroom. She was about to give him a rocket when she saw what he was doing. He had somehow found an old jumper belonging to her dad and had rolled himself into it. He was lying on it, his head on his paws, a woollen sleeve across his front legs, his eyes staring mournfully up at her. Immediately, her irritation left her and she knelt on the floor beside him.
‘You know who that belonged to, don’t you?’ The very tip of his tail began to wag uncertainly. ‘That was your dad’s jumper. My dad’s jumper.’ Her voice gave her away. She was feeling in her pocket for a tissue when she felt a touch on her leg. Stirling had crawled across the floor to her and laid a large, heavy paw on her thigh, as much as to say, ‘I understand, and I share your pain.’ She found herself stroking his head as she snuffled to herself. Somehow, the presence of the dog was very comforting. He had, after all, belonged to her dad. He had loved the young dog just as he had loved her, and he had left them both all alone. She hugged the dog to her and cried some more.
After a good while, she glanced out of the window. It was five o’clock and it was now pitch dark outside. Mrs Edworthy hadn’t specified when Stirling had last done his ‘business’, so, for safety’s sake, she decided to take him for a walk around the village. It was bitterly cold by now and she didn’t see another soul, unless you counted a black cat who took off like a thunderbolt as soon as it glimpsed the dog. Stirling gave token chase for a few feet and then returned to Holly’s side when she called. She was impressed.
Holly decided to go to the pub for a meal that night. Following Mrs Edworthy’s instructions, she fed the dog before she went out and made sure that his water bowl was full. She even left the television on for him. It was a documentary about Arctic wolves, which struck her as particularly appropriate.
The pub was called the Five Bells. It was set back from the village green and approached across a patio area that would most probably have been delightful on a warm summer evening. On a freezing midwinter evening on the other hand, it was far from inviting. Holly headed for the front door and pushed it open with her shoulder. A smell of wood smoke and blessed warmth greeted her. The ceilings were terribly low and she found herself ducking as she passed under some of the dark timber beams. There was a restaurant area to the left, while a sign to the right pointed to the bar. She chose the bar.
It proved to be a good choice. There was a fine fire blazing in a huge granite fireplace, even bigger than the one in her dad’s kitchen. The room was warm and cosy and there were a couple of spare tables. She dumped her jacket on the one nearest to the fire and went over to the bar. The carpet was predominantly red, with a complex pattern, no doubt designed to hide stains. The bar itself was made of the same dark wood as the beams and it looked as if it had been there for centuries. A row of taps and beer engines along the counter indicated how many beers they had on draught. Not really a beer drinker, Holly avoided the Dartmoor Jail Ale and the ice cold super strength lager and asked the barmaid for a glass of white wine and the menu.
She returned to her table and sat down. After a mouthful of wine, she raised her eyes and surveyed the other customers in there with her. A group of men drinking pints over at one end of the bar looked and sounded like locals, while three tables were occupied by couples, presumably out for a romantic evening. It was, after all, a Friday night. The landlord had made a lazy effort at celebrating Christmas by wrapping some tinsel round the horns of a stag, whose glass eyes stared out blindly from his moth-eaten face hanging over the middle of the fireplace. A token bunch of mistletoe suspended at the far end of the room was low enough to graze the heads of most people who walked past.
Holly