Читать книгу Best of Friends - Cathy Kelly - Страница 17

On Saturday afternoon, the day of the Richardsons’ party, Jess was studying the newsagent’s window for cards to see how people advertised themselves as babysitters when she noticed the tall woman with the black and brown puppy in her arms. The woman’s weathered face was thin and might have been stern but for the fact that she was laughing as the puppy did his best to lick her face energetically.

‘He’s lovely,’ said Jess, the words out of her mouth before she’d thought about it.

‘He is,’ agreed the woman, smiling. ‘He’s just been in the vet’s having his shots and he’s so thrilled to be out that he’s bouncing for joy. He wet the floor three times when we were there.’

‘Ooh, poor darling.’ Jess was stroking the puppy under his chin and he was responding deliriously, trying to chew and lick her fingers simultaneously.

The woman surveyed Jess, taking in the neat sandy hair, the pretty but understated face, and her tall, slim figure.

‘Would you like to hold him?’

‘Yes, please.’ Jess snuggled the puppy in her arms, inhaling his lovely milky puppy scent and adoring the way he switched his ardent face-washing to her.

‘His name’s Twiglet,’ said the woman.

‘Lovely Twiglet,’ crooned Jess. She wasn’t really noticing what the woman was doing until she looked up and realised she had put up a notice on the newsagent’s board.

Meeting to discuss fate of Dunmore Animal Refuge. After twenty years in Dunmore, our local funding has been cut and the refuge faces closure. We need your help, please. Come to the Parish Hall on Tivoli Road on Wed 23^rd, 7 p.m.

‘Is that where you’re from, the rescue centre?’ Jess asked.

‘Yes, Twiglet too. He and one of his brothers were rescued from a refuse sack dumped on a building site. Some kind person heard them yelping and brought them to us.’

Jess was horrified. ‘How could anybody do that to a puppy?’ she cried.

‘People do it all the time or else we wouldn’t be so busy,’ the woman said wryly. ‘They won’t pay to spay their dogs and then the refuse sack is their idea of a solution when their bitch has a litter. It’s worse with kittens. An unneutered tom can father thousands and thousands of kittens, and a female cat can start producing kittens when she’s six months, a litter every four months, the females of which can have kittens at six months and so on. You can do the sums yourself.’

‘But can’t you tell people that if they don’t want kittens or puppies, then they should have their dogs – sprayed, is it?’

‘Spayed,’ corrected the woman. ‘Education is the answer but money is the solution. A lot of people say they can’t afford it.’

‘There should be government funding to help.’ Jess was outraged at the thought of thousands of unwanted baby animals being dumped.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jess.’

‘I like the way your mind works, Jess. If you’re keen on animals, do you fancy doing a bit of volunteering at the centre? We can always do with helpers to feed kittens and pups, not to mention the less savoury parts of cleaning out the kennels.’

‘Oh, I’d love it.’ Jess’s eyes shone. The woman saw that suddenly she wasn’t understated at all, but very pretty, with a brilliant smile sparkling with vivacity and intelligence. ‘I’m at school, though.’

‘Dogs need feeding on Saturdays and Sundays, and maybe you’d have time in the evenings and holidays as well,’ the woman said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m Jean Harvey. The number’s in the book and the address is too. We’re on the Old Farm Road. Take the bus to Little Dunmore, but get off at the Snow Hill crossroads and we’re up the left road about a hundred yards. Make sure your parents don’t mind you helping out and they can phone me if they want.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ promised Jess, kissing Twiglet’s velvety head goodbye.

Jean strode off to a filthy green Land Rover and Jess turned up the road for home. She felt a strange tingle of excitement at this new plan. She loved animals, and this opportunity to work with them was wonderful. She’d have to make sure that poor Wilbur wasn’t jealous. He was her darling, but sweet, adorable Twiglet was so cute too. She idly wondered what would happen to him when he was older. Surely the centre found new homes for unwanted puppies. Wouldn’t it be fabulous if she could take him home and care for him? Now that they lived in Lyonnais, they had loads of room for a dog.

Caught up in her dreams, Jess walked home with a smile on her face that her mother would have barely recognised.

Abby spent most of Saturday hacking back the undergrowth at the bottom of the front garden, screeching every time another horror-movie-sized spider appeared. Somehow, her hard-wearing garden gloves had vanished and she was stuck with flimsy cotton ones that were suitable for a bit of gentle bulb planting on a patio, perhaps, but not for Indiana Jones-style jungle-busting.

Tom was no help. He’d woken up that morning complaining of flu, and was now lounging in the kitchen, with the weekend papers spread out in front of him, wearing an expression that said his sniffles, headache and runny nose were undoubtedly symptoms of something much more serious than just flu.

‘I’ve got so much homework to mark,’ he said wearily, ‘but my head aches, my muscles are weak and I just don’t feel myself.’

Abby, who’d done the supermarket, dry-cleaner’s and organic vegetable shopping trip that morning, and who’d have liked nothing more than to flop down with the papers and a coffee, managed to keep quiet. She’d nearly ruptured herself hauling grocery bags in from the Jeep and now she had to work on the garden because it looked so overgrown and she simply couldn’t face another week of seeing the mess. It was Tom who’d insisted that having someone come in occasionally to do the garden was an unnecessary expense and that he would help out.

By half three, Abby was tired, scratched and dirty. Some steaming hot tea and a biscuit or three might give her the impetus to spend another couple of hours in the garden. Then she’d treat herself to a soak in a hot bubble bath and get ready for Steve and Sally’s party.

Tom was no longer sitting at the kitchen table, although the papers were still strewn across it, while a dirty mug and blueberry muffin crumbs on the worktop were evidence that the invalid had felt well enough to enjoy a snack. Hitting the kettle switch with the back of her hand, Abby went in search of him.

She found him in the living room, with the sports channel on and no sign of the much vaunted homework anywhere.

Tom glanced around and noticed his wife standing at the door, arms folded and lips tight.

‘Don’t give me that look,’ he snapped, turning back to the football.

‘What look?’ demanded Abby, marching up to the couch.

‘Your “I’m working and you’re lying around” look,’ he replied. ‘The martyred look.’

‘Well, I am working.’ She wouldn’t lower herself by replying to the martyr crack.

‘Nobody told you to,’ he retorted.

Abby burned with the injustice of it. Nobody had told her to, for sure, but if she didn’t tidy up or get the groceries, who would?

‘I wouldn’t have to work in the garden if you weren’t such a Scrooge about having someone come in twice a year to cut back the undergrowth,’ she snapped. ‘Somebody has to tidy up this place.’

‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ he growled. ‘It’s all my fault. I said I’d help. I’m just not doing it this weekend.’

‘Or last weekend or the weekend before that!’ Abby said. ‘The garden has looked like a disaster area for the past two months but you’ve done nothing.’

Tom finally gave up staring at the television. ‘Can’t you see that I’m tired?’ he said. ‘Tired of rushing round getting this house sorted out, tired of work, tired full stop.’

‘And I’m not tired?’ she demanded. ‘No, I forgot, you have the patent on tiredness because you have a proper job, don’t you, Tom? I only have my little television series and my house decluttering business, none of it as serious as being a precious deputy headmaster. Oh yes, and I have the housework and the grocery shopping and the laundry –’

‘Mrs Regan does the housework,’ he interrupted.

‘Twice a week for two hours at a time,’ Abby yelled back. ‘She keeps the place ticking over but I have to do the hard grind. Inside and out! Do you have any idea how much work it takes to run a house, to do laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning? Oh no, I forgot. You think Cooking and Cleaning are two towns in China.’

‘Spare me the sarcasm,’ he said acidly. ‘Are you running through your answers for a newspaper interview on the successful working woman? Is that it? You’re going to tell everyone how hard it is for the modern career woman because she has to juggle a job and housework, with a lazy lout of a husband who does nothing and doesn’t appreciate her efforts?’

This was so precisely what had been running through Abby’s mind that she could say nothing for a moment, but just glare at him. Finally, she found her voice. ‘If you know what’s wrong with me, why don’t you do anything about it?’ she snapped.

‘It’s not my aim in life to please you all the time, Abby,’ Tom said with grim relish. ‘They may do that in Beech TV studios, where you’re queen of all you survey, but not here. Not in our home.’

‘That’s utterly unfair,’ she yelled back. ‘I’m not a bit like that and you know it! All I’m asking for is a little help around the house. You used to help, but now you do nothing. Since we moved to this house, I don’t think you’ve done one week’s grocery shopping or have loaded the washing machine once. It wouldn’t kill you to make an effort.’

‘You were the one who wanted to go back to work,’ he pointed out.

‘And you’re the one who enjoys the benefits of the extra money,’ she replied, without thinking of what she was saying.

‘Oh yes, never let me forget that, will you? You’re the successful one, the famous one, I’m only the boring old husband standing in the wings.’ Abby was shocked at the bitterness in his voice. ‘You love that, don’t you, Abby? You love making more money than me. You love rubbing my nose in it.’

‘No, I don’t,’ she said quietly, before walking out.

Her hands were shaking as she made a cup of tea. She’d never realised before quite how much he resented her job and the changes it had made. He might have liked living in a big and luxurious home, but he couldn’t cope with the fact that her earnings had brought them there. Did he feel that her success had somehow emasculated him? He couldn’t, surely. He was just being childish. Childish and lazy.

Abby flung the used teaspoon in the sink to join Tom’s dirty cup and plate. If he couldn’t be bothered to put things in the dishwasher, then neither would she. And when the house was a slum with no clean dishes and no clean clothes, perhaps then he’d cop on to how hard she worked.

Coming up Briar Lane, Jess realised that she hadn’t thought about the exams for at least an hour. Which was good, because when she did think about them, she got this weird ache in the back of her neck that crept up into her head and sort of bounced against her skull. Nothing made it go away except lying in the bath, and you couldn’t very well do that four times a day. But thinking about the animal refuge meant she hadn’t time to worry about the exams. Tonight would help too. She was helping Sally Richardson with the boys later, so that Sally could get ready for the party. Jess loved the relaxed atmosphere in the Richardsons’ house: there was always an air of laughter and good humour, not like at home.

A plastic bag of garden rubbish and a big gardening fork were sitting inside the gate when she got home but there was no sign of either Mum or Dad. Jess hoped she wouldn’t be roped into picking up leaves or anything. She hated gardening, apart from that time in science class, when they’d all grown shoots from a bean.

Her mother was standing in the kitchen, dressed in old clothes and reading a newspaper laid out on the counter top.

‘Oh, Mum, I met this amazing woman today who runs the animal rescue centre,’ Jess began enthusiastically. ‘She had this gorgeous puppy, Twiglet. Imagine, people dumped him and his brother in a refuse bag on a building site, but he’s fine now.’

Her mother didn’t respond, so Jess continued. ‘They’re trying to save the animal refuge because they don’t have enough money, and this woman said if I wanted to, I could volunteer to help out. They always need people to feed puppies and kittens, and to clean up.’ Jess felt a fresh surge of pride at the thought that this total stranger had trusted her enough to offer her a volunteer job. ‘I can do weekends.’

‘What about your exams?’ said Abby, unnecessarily sharp. As soon as she’d spoken, she regretted it. What did exams matter when this animal refuge had brought a smile to her daughter’s face for the first time in months.

But the shutters had already come down and Jess assumed the blank mantle of teenage indifference.

‘Whatever,’ she said, turning towards the door. ‘Forget it.’

‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that,’ Abby said but Jess was gone. Within seconds, she heard the thump of Jess’s boots on the stairs and then the slamming of her door.

Abby gave up on the notion that if she read the papers standing up then she wouldn’t get too comfortable to return to the wilderness that was the garden. She pulled out a chair and slumped down on it. She felt she was a failure – a failure at motherhood. If she was a failure at being a wife, then Tom had to shoulder a large percentage of the blame. But failing at being a good mother was all her own work.

Abby felt a huge desire to go upstairs, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. But she couldn’t. She had to finish the garden and go to the party. Sally had asked Jess to keep an eye on the boys, so the whole Barton clan would be there trying to pretend that they were playing happy families. Abby wistfully remembered when they had been a happy family for real.