Heather rounds the corner into South Street, past the long-standing ironmongers and the ice cream shop which sells, reportedly the best icecreams in Scotland. Now, where was thepub where she left Maisie? Halfway down? One third of the way down? On the left-hand side? Right?
Heather propelled herself into so many pubs when she arrived, she can hardly remember which bartender insisted she left the dog outside. Her thoughts race as she powerwalks down the street, past the ancient gates leading to the university courtyard known as the Bute, looking at each lamppost in turn. It takes fifteen minutes for her to establish that Maisie’s not there.
So where is she?
Another street?
Heather stops outside the last pub on South Street by the thick stone archway of West Port and racks her brains. No. It was definitely this street. Probably this pub. And therefore, almost certainly this lamppost. The only thing is, there’s no sign of Maisie or her tartan lead.
Shit.
Heather’s heart thunders in her chest. In her quest to find her perfectly safe daughter, she’s lost her brother’s dog. Panic stumbles through her veins, and her stomach knots. Poor Maisie. Where can she be? And what the hell is she going to tell Fraser?
There must be somewhere else she can look. A search party. That’s what she needs. But where does she find a search party in a town she barely knows? She only has one option. To go back to the pub and commandeer the teenagers, who are tied up for a three-legged race and completely off their faces, to help her look.
***
‘So, the lead is gone?’ asks Trey when she tracks them down in the next pub in their pub crawl.
‘Yes. Of course,’ she says, trying – and failing – to hide her irritation at the ridiculous fixation on tartan leads. ‘Why does it even matter, Trey?’
Trey holds up a wobbly finger, indicative of his inebriated state. ‘Well, it shows there’s more chance you didn’t tie her securely enough to the lamppost rather than she’s been dog snatched.’
Heather’s hand leaps to her chest in horror.
‘Is dog snatching even a thing?’
Georgia’s eyes are wide in indignation at her mother’s naivety.
‘Yes! Mum. Yes!’ she shouts, thumping at the table and causing the amassed pile of glasses to clatter alarmingly. ‘Especially for a pure breed like Maisie.’
Shortly afterwards, Heather and four intoxicated teenagers are rushing through the streets of St Andrews, dodging tourists, drunk students and those on a weekend break, shouting after Maisie. In all honesty, the students are so pissed, they’re no help at all. But Heather is now frantic. It’ll be getting dark soon. Maisie’s only a puppy. Their chances of finding her once the sun sets must be near zero.
They stop by the fourteenth-century arches known as the Pends near the cathedral, the ancient bricks give no clue to Maisie’s whereabouts.
‘What should I do? We’ve tried everything,’ Heather says, more to herself than to the four teenagers who are now beginning to talk about having the munchies and wondering when the chip shop opens. Orange light begins to pool around the Cathedral towers and the sun lowers in the sky. Trey, bless him, senses her distress.
‘Why don’t you put something on the parents' forum? My mum says people are always posting weird things on there and people often help.’
‘What would I say?’ says Heather. ‘Anyone visiting St Andrews and noticing a West Highland Terrier on her own with a red tartan lead, please let me know?’
‘Do you have a picture?’
‘The only one I have is a photo of the painting I’m halfway through.’ She shows Trey.
He takes her phone and peers at the screen. ‘Wow,’ he says, returning the phone. ‘That's amazing. Even as a photograph of a painting, it's brilliant.’
It’s off topic, but Heather can’t suppress her feeling of pride. The picture of Maisie is one of the best pieces she’s ever done.
‘Thanks, Trey,’ she says in what she hopes is a modest voice.
Three clicks and a few sentences of text later, Heather posts her plea for help on the Parent’s Forum:
If you’re in town today, please can you keep an eye out for my brother’s dog, who absconded from South Street an hour ago. Below is a picture I’m mid-way through painting of her. She’s wearing a red tartan leash.
She adds a prayer emoji for good measure.
‘Right, done,’ she says, slipping her phone into her jeans pocket. ‘Shall we have another look on The Scores whilst we give the message a chance to circulate?’
