The Café in Fir Tree Park. Katey Lovell
Читать онлайн книгу.
href="#ulink_f8707352-857c-59af-9e65-7fcfd0ab6507"> Pearl
“Stop pulling, Mitzi!”
I should get that put on loop on a tape so I can play it whenever I need to. It seems to be all I’m saying at the moment.
I knew a puppy would be hard work, especially as I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more. It’s eighteen years since Alf and I bought Bluey, our darling little Westie. He’d been a bundle of ruffled white fur, scruffy and cuddly and revelling in attention. Even as a pup he’d played on his cuteness, pricking his ears up and peering longingly at us with his head jauntily angled until we’d give him just one more titbit or allow him to sit up on the sofa with us. He’d been the baby we’d never had, although not for want of trying. Heck, we’d tried morning, noon and night for years. But it wasn’t meant to be, and in the end we decided enough was enough. Bluey might not have been a child, but he was a dog with real personality and charm, one that everyone would fuss over when we walked him in the park. Even when he was older and his fur turned a more silvery tone he’d had this perfect mix of cheekiness and elegance that drew park-goers to him. And he’d had a lovely temperament, always eager to please. He’d been the apple of our eyes.
Mitzi, on the other hand, is an absolute minx. She’s only six months old so has the excuse of still being a puppy, but she’s a total tearaway. Who’d have thought a miniature dachshund would be able to do so much damage? My poor slippers look like they’ve been mauled by a wild animal. She might only stand an inch or so off the ground but she’s a demanding little thing and hasn’t yet learned how to take no for an answer. And that’s not to mention the constant straining against the lead every time we’re out on a walk. For such a small creature, Mitzi’s surprisingly strong-willed.
She turns to look at me, all dark, wide eyes and open mouth, tongue hanging out like a strip of uncooked bacon.
“You can give me that look all you like,” I say sternly. “You’re a terror, and well you know it.”
It’s a warm afternoon. The sunshine reflecting off the lake causes me to squint and the ducks are dipping their heads under the water to keep cool. Mitzi’s probably in need of a drink too. After we’ve done the lap of the lake we’ll pop past the café, Maggie’s got a bowl of water outside ready for any thirsty pooches who happen to be passing. She’s thought of the lot, that one, which probably explains why the café’s so popular.
Mitzi’s still dragging me around, pulling the lead taut as her little legs scurry along the winding pathway. A young boy on one of those bikes without pedals comes zooming past and her head whips around in a flash. She’s nosey like that, desperate to know what’s going on.
The little boy’s feet are pushing him along, first the right foot and then the left. He’s going at quite a pace. He’s like Fred Flintstone in his Stone Age car, feet whirring until he picks up speed, and his parents smile on proudly at his achievements.
There’s an older girl too, probably around eight, but I’m terrible at estimating the ages of children. She’s bouncing a tennis ball as she walks, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump getting ever nearer.
The tug on the lead is more determined now, Mitzi’s long, lean body straining to play with the ball.
“Mitzi!” I chide. “For goodness’ sake. Behave!”
But my words are too little and too late, because the round black handle of the lead is already out of my hand, trailing along the floor behind my bouncy pup.
I give chase as best as I can, but for a dog with such short legs Mitzi is deceptively fast. It must be that boundless youthful vivacity, something I myself am rapidly losing.
She’s already sniffing around the little girl’s ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arm’s length. Mitzi thinks it’s all a game. Of course she does, everything’s a game to her, but I can see the girl’s nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.
When I finally reach her, flustered and out of puff, I apologise profusely to the girl and her parents for Mitzi’s exuberance. “She doesn’t mean to scare you though, she just wants to play. In dog years she’s still a child, like you.”
The girl looks at me thoughtfully. “So she wants to be my friend?”
“That’s right,” I say. “She’s not really used to being near children, so she gets excited when she thinks she’s found someone new to play with.” I smile. “Especially someone with a ball.”
“Don’t you have any children?” The girl’s face crinkles up, as though that’s almost inconceivable.
“No,” I reply sadly. “There’s only me and Mitzi.”
I swallow down the lump of grief that lodges in my throat. It’s still so very raw, being alone.
I can’t believe I’m a widow. When I was young I thought widows were old women with walking sticks and purple rinses, people who lived in ‘rest homes’. I’d laughed at that, thinking retirement would be a rest compared to the endless slog of first school, and then, in later years, work. I never thought Alf would die on me aged fifty-nine, when we were still wearing jeans and trainers and had all our proverbial marbles. My hair’s not even grey yet, let alone purple. The box of dye I buy from the chemist each month sees to that and does a reasonable job, although being blonde helps too. The greys are less obvious; they blend in.
“She’s cute,” says the girl, crouching down and tentatively reaching forward to stroke Mitzi’s smooth, brown coat. Mitzi’s tail wags happily from side to side at the attention. “I’d like to be friends with her.”
“Well, maybe we’ll see you in the park again. We’re here a lot, me and Mitzi. We only live over there.”
I gesture in the general direction of my back garden, the same house Alf and I bought soon after getting married. We’d never be able to afford it now, prices have gone silly. It was a stretch even then, but we were both working so we’d decided to take it. The three-storey villa had a curb appeal that was too hard to resist. Everything about it was attractive, from the pointed gable that crowned the building to the climbing peace roses around the front door that reminded me of dreamy summer sunsets. The bay windows had been the clincher though, huge glass panes that flooded the front room with light.
The house’s proximity to the park had been a draw too, back when we’d envisaged having a family of our own. We’d imagined lazy days in the sunshine with a picnic of jam sandwiches and savoury eggs. Alf and our children kicking a ball about. Hunting for squirrels as we walked through the wooded area at the far side of the park. As it turned out, children were never meant to be for us, but the park remained a blessing. It was perfect for dog walking for starters, a real community hub where I’d bump into people I knew, and on the rare occasions I cover a shift at the café it’s only a five-minute walk back home. I like having the greenery to look at too. It’s nice to be close to nature.
“See you,” the girl calls, waving as she chases after her brother.
I wrap Mitzi’s lead tightly around my hand, winding it twice so there’s no chance of her running free again. She’s a little Houdini, escape artist extraordinaire.
I’m thankful for the shade of the tall firs that line the pathway; it’s slap-bang in the middle of the day and exceptionally warm. It’s a little tricky with Mitzi pulling at the lead in my hand, but I manage to shuffle the sleeves of my blouse up so my forearms are exposed. I’m instantly convinced I can feel the heat prickling against my skin, despite the branches overhead offering protection from the scorching rays.
“Pearl!”
The voice rings out from the other side of the hedge in front of me and I spy the familiar face peeping out from over the dark green leaves.
“Oh. Hello, Carrick.”
He’s better prepared for the weather than I am, a floppy brown sun hat perched