‘Look, I haven’t got any money on me. But I’ll give her a good home. Save you the cost of the dog food. And the vet’s bills.’
The youth looks down at her hand and sees her watch.
‘I’ll take that for her,’ he says.
‘My watch? Oh, but it’s…’ She is going to say broken but then notices the hands are moving; it is working again. ‘… It was a present from my husband.’
The man shrugs. ‘Do you want the dog or don’t you?’
She hesitates for only a moment, thinking of Mat and how pleased he had been when he found the watch for her, and then knowing what he would want her to do. Slipping the watch from her wrist, she hands it over and takes the chain before the man can change his mind. She whistles softly at the dog to encourage it to go with her and is relieved when it limps along beside her quite willingly. She is aware of the men watching her as she struggles to help the dog over a low bit of hedge and back onto the path, and finds she is only breathing steadily again once she hears them stomping off across the field in the opposite direction.
It takes an age to reach the house, as the dog is lame, sore, and undernourished. Tilda’s running clothes are unequal to the chilliness of the morning without the warmth exertion would produce, so that by the time they arrive at the cottage both she and her new housemate are shivering. It follows her inside meekly. Only now does she realize she did not ask for the dog’s name. There is no tag on its chain collar, which has started to rub, so she takes it off.
‘What am I going to call you, pooch? You are a weedy thing. All skinny and gray and tufty. I know; Thistle! Yes. That’ll suit you. Now, what would you like to eat, eh, Thistle? What do lurcher dogs eat, I wonder?’
It feels strange, the sound of her own voice in the house she has only ever been alone in. Strange, but nice. She fetches a saucer of milk and the dog gives her a look that clearly says I’m not a cat, but drinks it all the same. Tilda empties a tin of tuna into a cereal bowl. It is wolfed down in seconds. The sight of the dog licking hungrily at the empty dish reminds her that she will have to buy more supplies soon. Without a car, this is not a simple task.
When Tilda had informed her parents of her intention to live at the cottage without Mat it was the first thing her mother had brought up.
‘How can you possibly live in such a remote place if you refuse to drive? Really, Tilda, it’s just not sensible. How will you shop?’
‘There’s a post office and stores in the village.’
‘You can’t live on canned food and chocolate bars.’
Wrong again, Mother.
Thistle stands on her stringy legs, head on one side, watching Tilda quizzically.
‘Okay, maybe you will need proper food. Later on I’ll have a look on the Internet to see if there’s a supermarket that delivers around here, okay? Later. Now, we need heat.’
Tilda opens the door of the Rayburn and pokes at the smoldering fire inside. She takes a log from the basket and feeds it in. There is a great deal of smoke, but very little warmth. Shutting the stove door, she pulls a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and calls the dog to lie on it. But the cushion is small, and however tightly Thistle tries to curl herself up onto it, her legs still dangle over the edges onto the cold kitchen floor.
‘Now you’re making me feel like a bad dog owner. Don’t you know how lucky you are? I haven’t time to fuss over you. I have work to do. A studio to set up. Orders to fill.’ The dog regards her with a woeful expression.
With a sigh Tilda drags the electric fan heater out from the corner of the room and positions it close to the dog’s bed. She switches it on, expecting a cheerful light and a gentle puffing of heat. Instead there is a nerve-jarring bang and all the lights go off.
‘Damn!’
In the gloom of the hallway, she squints at the ancient fuse box. It is a tangle of wires and dusty fitments, but she is eventually able to find the master switch. She flicks it down, and light is restored.
Feeling quite pleased with herself, Tilda returns to the kitchen.
‘Right,’ she tells the dog, ‘I’ve got to get into the studio. You’ll just have to make do with the Rayburn. I’m not risking switching that heater on again.’ As she heads for the door she is painfully aware of a pair of beady brown eyes following her.
Will it be lonely? Should I take it with me? Oh, this is ridiculous.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she calls to Thistle, her hand on the latch of the door. She is just about to go out when there is a second loud bang and the power goes off once more.
‘Damn it! Again?’ She turns and strides through the kitchen. Not seeing that Thistle has got up from her cushion she stumbles into the dog, tripping, her knee connecting with the edge of a wooden chair. ‘Stay in your bed! Ouch, for pity’s sake.’ Cursing further, she sits heavily on the floor, clutching her knee. The dog is back on its cushion, making itself as flat and small as it can. Tilda is filled with remorse at having spoken harshly. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes tight. She knows if she lets herself cry–properly cry—grief will claim her again.