Page 49 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

‘Whereas I’m just . . . a problem.’

‘I was going to say pain in the arse.’

‘Al!’

‘Come on, sis. It’s temporary. Soon you’ll be able to piss off back to Harvey Nicks or whatever it is . . . ’

‘I’m not like that.’

‘Okay,’ says Al. ‘But you hate it here.’

‘I did,’ says Essie, looking back at the cottages, and down to the harbour. In the pinkening sky the tiny propellor plane that serves the archipelago circles down, almost fluttering down to a halt on the little airstrip, right on time as ever. Morag must be back from her rounds. Essie wonders if she’s managed to talk Gregor into getting a pup yet. ‘But it was such a bad time. I had to get away.’

Al’s voice turns serious. ‘I know. I was there too, remember.’

There’s a silence as she looks out to sea, both remembering the horrible nights of hearing her mum cry.

‘I just wish . . . ’

‘It wasn’t Mum’s fault.’

‘I know, I know,’ says Essie, and she kind of does on one level. But on another, she still feels: how did she let it happen? Why wasn’t she nicer to Dad? More fun? Why did he have to look elsewhere? She had always been so frustrated, niggly with him. Just as she was with Essie now. She sticks out her bottom lip.

‘Okay,’ says Al finally. ‘I’ll only take him to where the really mean right-wing deer are.’

22

It is, inevitably, Smokey who is first to wriggle himself under the makeshift barrier at the top of the stairs, trying to find his mum when Essie has taken Felicity out for a slow wander and a bit of me time – something Felicity seems to revel in. Although she fulfils the internet definition of being a good mother, in that she hasn’t tried to eat any of the pups, she is clearly over the whole situation, and sometimes swipes the pups away from her with a gentle paw. They are getting huge and feisty, apart from Argyll, who is clearly the runt, and getting good at finding their way to the milk bowl. Essie is completely entranced, particularly with Bute, who can only walk with a Marilyn Monroe bustle. Freuchie remains the snow-white beauty, and almost certainly the only one they could easily sell.

Essie cannot bear to think about selling the pups.

‘Hello, baby girl,’ she whispers to Bute, stroking the hound’s pointy ears even though wolfhounds were meant to have floppy ears. Freuchie aside, these dogs are not going to be bonnie by any standards. But Essie is madly in love with them all regardless. ‘Hello, my sweetest girl,’ she whispers.

Bute snuffles and eeps, tiny tongue creeping in and out.

‘How odd: I’m the first thing you’ve ever seen,’ says Essie, amazed, as Bute snuffles into her for a warm cuddle; the sky is clear but the day is cold. Essie sits with her for a while, feelingcalm, as she hears Dwight arrive downstairs with Wee Jim, who is six foot eight and as wide as a barn. ‘Christ,’ Essie had whispered to Dwight the first time she’d seen him. ‘How many raw chickens do you think we’ll have to feed him? This will really eat into our budget.’

Most of his available energy goes on walking and standing up without the blood rushing to his head, as far as Essie can tell, because he speaks as little as possible at all times, mostly by grunting. He also has the best-looking girlfriend Essie has ever seen. She hadn’t even realised women like this existed in Carso; she makes Shelby look plain.

‘Hi, guys,’ she says. ‘Hey, look, Bute’s eyes are open.’

Dwight sniffs. ‘Smokey’s have been open for days. Got to start training you up as a fighter, Smokey,’ he says, cuffing the wee dog playfully as it stumbles towards him.

‘Don’t you dare!’ says Essie.

‘As a guard dog!’ says Dwight. ‘In case someone tries to attack us.’

‘Who’s going to attack Wee Jim?’ asks Essie in consternation.

‘Ugh,’ agrees Jim.

‘Aye, well,’ says Dwight, his hand instinctively caressing the tiny creature. ‘We need a proper guard dog. Like Felicity.’

‘Yes, but he might end up looking like his dad,’ points out Essie. ‘Those Jocks couldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘No chance. Right, what are we doing?’

‘You’re seeing what’s under the old wallpaper. Stripping it.’

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