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The thought of being without him now is unbearable. He’s only been in my life for a relatively short amount of time, but I don’t know how I’ll manage without him, his innate charm, his infectious smile, his dry wit, his calm manner, his elegance, his strength, his fabulous body. I could go on and on.
On the bench beside me, Archie complains.
‘Let’s go in,’ I suggest. ‘There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’
So Archie pads into the kitchen after me. I give him some cat treats as I don’t know what else to do to ease his pain.
After that, I lie down on the sofa still wrapped in Dominic’s kanga and will the morning to come quickly.
Chapter Eighty
The next day follows the same pattern. Mike comes to collect me and as he marks out our route for the day on an Ordinance Survey map of the area, he forces me to eat breakfast before we leave the house. Then, as soon as we turn out of the village, he has to stop in the nearest lay-by so that I can throw it all back up again.
While I’m cleaning myself up with a tissue, he calls the local radio station and explains our situation. They take down the details and say they might run something later. Then he tries the regional television company who broadcast to our area. In polite and measured tones, Mike begs them for help. I’d be screaming down the line by now. They instantly dismiss it, saying that they only cover important stories. One man lost in a sea of many isn’t even on their radar.
We criss-cross the country lanes again. Every now and then we park up and trudge about in the fields, checking the hedgerows. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. It’s as if Dominic has simply vanished off the face of the earth.
Once more, we visit the police station. I drop off Dominic’s photograph and fill in another form. The officer behind the desk offers more platitudes.
When it gets dark we decide to go home, have a quick bite to eat, and then do another couple of hours searching tonight. Mike has one of those ridiculous torches that have ‘the power of a million candles’. I always teased him about it. Who knew that it would come in so horribly handy one day?
I’m just letting us into Little Cottage, when I see a delegation of the ladies of The Nashley Church Flower Committee coming along the lane. They’re all wearing heavy coats, stout boots, and hats that look like tea cosies.
‘Hello, ladies,’ I say tiredly as they approach.
‘Janie.’ Mrs Duston, their self-appointed spokesman, puts her hand on my arm and addresses me. ‘We heard about Dominic from Mrs Appleby in the post office. I’m sorry. So terribly sorry. We can’t believe it.’
Me neither.
They all huddle together. ‘We’ve been out searching,’ Mrs Duston continues. ‘Can’t have our best boy catching a cold.’ Under the streetlight, tears sparkle in her eyes. They spring to mine too. I’m humbled by their concern for Dominic. I wish he was here to see how much they love him. ‘We walked the fields behind the village.’ Her demeanour tells me that, like us, they found nothing.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say gratefully. ‘Very kind indeed.’
‘Nonsense,’ she counters. ‘It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, ladies?’
All the other elderly women nod earnestly.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
‘We’ll do it again tomorrow. Won’t we, girls?’
‘Oh, yes,’ they all say in unison.
‘And the day after,’ she adds. ‘And every day, for as long as it takes.’
Much nodding in agreement.
‘He’ll be back, Janie,’ she assures me. ‘He’ll definitely be back.’
I hope that this statement is based on some wise, old wives’ intuition and isn’t just blind hope like my own. My own fear is that if Dominic wants to stay disappeared, then he is resourceful enough to do so.
‘Mr Codling-Bentham is going to go out on that dratted quad bike of his to look too,’ Mrs Duston then tells us. ‘It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever been grateful that he has it.’
‘Tell him thank you from me,’ I say. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’ve some soup on the stove,’ Mrs Duston continues. ‘My lovely homemade cream of chicken. Dominic’s favourite.’ Her voice catches. ‘That will perk you both up. You both look all in.’
We are, I think. We are exhausted, on our knees.
‘I’ll run back with a flask for you both in just a moment. I don’t even suppose you’ve had time to think about eating.’
‘No,’ I agree. Food is the last thing on my mind.
Yet, a few minutes later, Mike and are sitting with trays on our laps in my living room eating Mrs Duston’s soup chicken soup – which is, indeed, lovely – while she is busy making us a cup of tea in the kitchen. I could weep at her motherly kindness. As soon as we’ve eaten this, then Mike and I will go out again. The million-candle-power torch is at the ready and, somehow, I don’t find that funny any more.
