Page 13 of Annabel and Her Sisters

Except, of course, it would matter if it was twenty dogs. And seven mattered, too. Particularly with an incontinent one. The next morning, the phone rang and it was Ginnie, sounding shocked.

‘The Fluz has killed a sheep,’ she whispered.

I couldn’t speak. I’d been at my computer, working out how to get from Christmas to New Year without, as my copy editor had so rightly pointed out, there being two whole weeks in between, when I’d seen her number flash up.

This news raised me to my feet. ‘How’s Mum?’

‘Distraught. I’ve never seen her like this. Fluttering hands. Words not coming at all, then tumbling out. Breathing all over the place, rapid, and sweaty.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Sorry, but I think you’d better.’ I was already turning my machine off.

‘Hugo?’ I managed, holding my breath.

‘Sweet. Understanding. But obviously… you know.’

I nodded. Hugo was a farmer. Not hands on like Derek– he had a manager– but this couldn’t happen, not on a farm.

As I flew around the house, packing a bag, putting the rubbish in the dustbin– it was hot– I ran into André in the front garden. He was head down in a drain.

‘Everything OK?’ He looked up, concerned, at my face. My clipped tones deserted me. I reverted to type, which is quite nervous and fluttery myself when I want to be.

‘No, not great actually, in fact not great at all. My mum’s dog has killed a sheep and she adores her, the dog, but my brother-in-law’s a farmer so I think there’s a genuine possibility she might have to be–’

I paused, knew I was hyperventilating. He got up, took my arm and gently guided me to the bench by the gate. I sat.

‘I’m driving down,’ I told him.

‘Not sure you should drive right now. Just take a mo.’

I realized my hands were shaking on my lap. André went into the house and came out a few minutes later with a mug of tea. I’d told him and his men– only three– to help themselves. There was sugar in it which I don’t usually take, but it helped. I sipped. Tried to breathe properly.

‘Sorry. Sounds ridiculous. It’s just my mother is devoted to her dogs; they go everywhere with her, even in London. All of them except the Fluz would trot beside her, no leads, off to Primrose Hill twice a day, then sleep in her garden or kitchen…’ Why hadn’t she stayed? Why had we done this?

‘The Fluz?’

‘Nickname. Flurry. A feisty Border terrier with terrible skin and bad habits. The only one on a lead. Anyway, she’s been more than bad now.’

I got to my feet. Handed him the mug that I’d polished off quite quickly: there’d been lots of milk in it. ‘Thank you for that. I feel better now, honestly. I’ll be off.’

‘OK. Well, drive carefully.’

‘I will.’

I did. And I realized he was right. I’d been flustered before, and I was a terrible driver anyway.

I’d failed my test six times, once for actually driving over a roundabout, once for clipping a tree, once for ending up in a ditch and fleeing the scene of the crime, leaving a shocked driving instructor to sort it out, and another time, I’d been so scared at a busy junction I couldn’t possibly edge into, such was the stream of flashing metal, I’d actually wet my pants.

Hundreds of years ago, of course, in Somerset, much to the hilarity of my family.

Dad had framed the reasons for each failure and put them in the downstairs loo.

Even now, I couldn’t always be relied on to concentrate when distracted.

At least I didn’t smoke any more; I often used to drop a lit ciggie between my legs and have to frantically rummage around, swerving violently, trying to find it.

But people honked so much these days, didn’t they?

So rude. Usually on roundabouts, which I’d never quite got the hang of.

I got into my car– no hubcaps, wing mirrors strapped on with gaffer tape– Marcus next door had kindly obliged– and then I drove carefully away.

In the only mirror I ever use I noticed André was watching me go, hands on hips in that familiar stance of his, a pensive look on his face.

Pensive as in ‘she’s a basket case’, or pensive as in ‘she’s reasonably attractive’?

I couldn’t believe I was even thinking about it at a time like this.

When I got to Ginnie’s, I realized, with a sinking heart, that the troops had already arrived. Bugger. Derek’s huge, sod-off, four-wheel something or other was parked squarely in the drive. What was Ginnie thinking of, ringing them?

‘I didn’t,’ she told me as she ran to meet me in the hall, dodging a huge, twinkling Christmas tree.

‘Never would have. Mum did. I was at the hairdresser’s when it happened and Hugo was in the long meadow helping to pull ragwort with no signal.

’ She saw me glance at the spectacular garland of holly and ivy careering up the banisters.

‘Film crew,’ she muttered. ‘Murder at the Manor or something, a Christmas special.’

In the sitting room– not even the kitchen– the summit meeting had assembled.

Another tree twinkled in the corner. Clarissa was looking tight-lipped and important as I knew she would, sitting bolt upright in her chair, and Hugo and Derek were chatting by the fireplace.

Well, Hugo was listening as Derek hissed instantly at him.

Mum was on the sofa looking shaken: her face had two spots of high colour in an otherwise ashen face.

‘Hello, darling. What a to-do,’ she said over brightly. I kissed her soft cheek and sat down beside her, taking her hand.

‘Naughty old Fluz,’ I said quietly, so Clarissa couldn’t hear, but she did.

‘More than naughty,’ she said sharply. ‘Once they get the scent, that’s it, I’m afraid.’

‘Scent?’ Mum looked confused. She was still shocked, I realized.

‘Of blood.’ Even Clarissa had the grace to say it quietly.

‘Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She was only playing,’ Mum whispered.

‘That particular ewe was ancient,’ Hugo explained.

‘And there was no blood.’ He looked sharply at Clarissa.

‘I don’t usually get the vet for a dead sheep– God knows, they keel over of a Thursday, turn up their toes for no reason at all– but I did in this case, and Pete says it was a heart attack. ’

‘Fear,’ said Derek. ‘Which my flock will certainly sense.’ His flock. Always.

‘Well, yes, but as I say, she was ancient and these things happen,’ Hugo said.

‘I’ll keep her on a lead,’ Mum said quietly. ‘I always do, she’s my only problem dog. I have no idea how she got out.’

‘It’s my fault, Granny,’ Lara appeared from the kitchen, looking stricken. ‘I left the back door open by mistake.’

‘Well, the back door in most country houses is open!’ retorted Clarissa.

‘It certainly is in ours!’ So we were back to her again.

Her house. Derek’s flock. No thought for our mother, who looked wretched.

Clarissa had no empathy whatsoever. As Ginnie once said: ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it, and she never found it in the first place. ’

‘This is my house, Clarissa,’ Ginnie said firmly. ‘And Hugo’s sheep. And he and I are perfectly fine about it, thank you. Lara, it’s not your fault at all. I left the door unlocked when I went to the hairdresser’s. It’s totally down to me.’

‘You lock the back door?’ Clarissa looked astonished.

‘Well, not usually, but we’d agreed, now that Mum’s here…’

‘Oh dear, I’ve caused such ructions already.’ My mother looked distressed.

‘No, no, of course you haven’t!’ We all rallied. Well. Four of us did.

‘Honestly, Granny, we love you and the dogs being here. I’ve never been happier!’

This much, I’m sure, was true. The grandchildren, and particularly Lara, had a special bond with their grandmother, and Mum totally took Lara’s side about going to Sandhurst, pointing out that her brother Tom had gone, to which Ginnie had wailed: ‘Yes, but he’s a boy!’

‘Even I know you can’t say that sort of thing these days, darling,’ Mum had retorted. ‘You really must change your newspaper.’

‘Tell you what, we’ll put them in a stable during the day,’ Hugo suggested. ‘It’s so hot, anyway. That big birthing loose box would suit well, with the paddock as a run, and Lea, you can take them on walks from there– how about that?’

‘Oh Hugo, that would be marvellous, would you? I had thought of that when I arrived but didn’t like to suggest it. I know the mares go in there and then the foals have that little paddock…’

‘Oh, in the old days, sure, but it’s barely used these days. Our breeding days are over, aren’t they, Lar?’

‘Definitely,’ agreed Lara, who’d been the horsy one. ‘I have absolutely no time now. Piggy was the last one.’ This, her four-year-old, who she was bringing on.

‘Right. Well, that’s decided then,’ said Ginnie, getting briskly to her feet. ‘If Mum’s happy, they’ll go in there during the day, and come inside at night. Sorry you’ve all had a wasted journey. Derek, I know you’re frightfully busy, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to be getting on.’

She turned to usher him out and I joined in, kissing Clarissa goodbye as she at least half rose, and as Ginnie and I made meaningful eye contact. Get them out of here .

‘Except I don’t have a spare foaling box,’ Derek was saying. ‘Clarissa uses them all.’

‘No, but you have that huge chicken run you never use, and the old hen house is enormous. You could clean that out.’ Or Clarissa could, I thought. Never happier than when doing that sort of thing.

‘It’s falling down, we’d need a new one,’ Clarissa was saying, admittedly thoughtfully, no doubt already mentally getting her tool box out. Ordering a fresh supply of wood.

‘Well, that’s not cheap!’ Derek was heard to say as Ginnie and I escorted them firmly back to the front door, at which point I wanted to knee him smartly in the groin. He’d just trousered how many thousands of pounds?

‘Derek thinks seven dogs is a lot,’ said Clarissa in the drive, quietly for her, looking me in the eye as we manhandled them into their jeep. Mum was safely indoors. ‘And even I– and you too, Annabel, must admit that.’