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1
Poppy Hargraves watched as the taxi pulled away from the side of the road, a sheen of rainwater splashing her jeans as the car hit a puddle.
Shrugging, she turned towards the narrow lane behind her and listened as the metal sign swung in the wind, the creak slow and methodical as the wind blew inland. If it wasn’t for the picture of the dog and the words ‘Wagging Tails Dogs’ Home’ hand-painted on it, people would likely pass by without realising the dogs’ home was situated a few short metres away.
She remembered Aunt Flora telling her that was why she and Uncle Arthur had fallen in love with the once ramshackle cottage. For one, it had enough land to realise their dream of building and opening up a dogs’ rescue, but also, lying on the outskirts of the small village of West Par, it was close enough to socialise the dogs into the local community but far enough away as not to worry about any noise affecting close neighbours.
Taking hold of the handle of the suitcase, Poppy began the short walk towards the gates at the end of the lane. The taxi driver had offered to drop her closer, but she’d fancied the walk, a last moment to savour the time and space alone before seeing Aunt Flora.
It wasn’t even Aunt Flora she was worried about seeing. Well, not worried. Apprehensive. She’d told Aunt Flora everything, right from the moment she’d had the conversation with Ben about ending their relationship to deciding to move out of their mutual home. She’d even rung her from the school toilets after running out of class, mid-teaching Year Six about the rainforest canopy, a topic she normally loved, crying down the phone that she couldn’t face going back home and spending another evening sitting in silence with Ben knowing full well that he had arranged to take a work colleague for a lunch date the following week. And that was fine. It really was. They were separated. He was free to do what he wanted. See who he wanted. But did he have to tell her? Have to make it clear that he was ready to move on so soon? No, it wasn’t seeing Aunt Flora that she was delaying, it was going in and acknowledging that she was running from a failed relationship.
She hated that phrase – failed relationship – yes, it had failed, but it wasn’t just on her. She’d tried. She’d tried everything these last two years to keep their love alive, to win Ben back, to have him look at her as though she was the best thing in his life again, but nothing had worked.
She stepped in a puddle, the water seeping in through her trainers. She supposed she had failed. Maybe the phrase made sense after all. But he’d failed too.
Brushing the raindrops from her fringe, she yanked the suitcase up the kerb and onto the path, forcing her lips into a smile. She could do this. She was strong. Besides, this was just what she needed, being away from the mutual home, from Ben, a break from supply teaching. Yes. And how many times had she walked down this lane? At least four times a day every summer for three weeks. Wonderful weeks of the school holidays until she’d gone to uni and suddenly her summers had been filled with trying to earn money – jobs at the petting farm, at the corner shop, or filling freezers at the supermarket, anything she could find close to Durham – where she’d studied – to supplement her student loan. She’d had the best time here at the dogs’ home, visiting Aunt Flora and the dogs. An escape from the relentless arguments between her parents at home and the bullying she’d endured at school. Particularly during her teenage years, the couple of years before her parents had finally decided to walk away from their unhappy marriage and when Gail Patterson, the worst of the school bullies, had really stepped up the vendetta against her.
Yes, Aunt Flora, Percy, Susan, and the numerous dogs in their care had been just what she’d needed – a chance to regain her confidence even if it had only been for those few glorious weeks each year. Even as an adult, she’d visited one weekend a month, staying longer during the summer, or tried to. Up until five years ago.
And now, after five years of not visiting, she was back. Once again, with her life in tatters. Once again in need of the comfort and security only her aunt could provide for her.
She set the suitcase back on its little wheels and just as she began to unlatch the gate, something caught her eye behind her, a flash of brilliant yellow against the dreary lane. It couldn’t be, but with those little golden bees emblazoned across the yellow material, it must be. Turning, she slumped her shoulders. It was. The floaty blouse she’d packed for no other reason than it was her favourite was being carried on the breeze, dipping and dancing down the lane.
Abandoning her suitcase, she ran towards it, jumping up and catching it just before it was propelled into the brambles along the side of the road.
‘Got you.’ She folded it before smoothing the material down with the pads of her fingers. She’d worn the blouse on her first date with Ben. Not that that was the reason she loved it so much. No. It was just her go-to top. The smart floaty piece was perfect for all occasions – interviews, dates, meeting Ben’s parents for the first time, girls’ nights out. Everything. And it looked as new as it had the day she’d bought it over six years ago.
Poppy picked at a loose thread on the collar.Almostas good as new. How had it even worked its way out of the suitcase? Hadn’t she zipped it up properly? As she stepped forward, her trainer squelched into a puddle again, and she looked down. Great, she’d just stepped on one of her white vest tops.
She picked it up and held it at arm’s length, the murky puddle water dripping to the ground. As she looked towards the suitcase, her heart sank. The zip had come undone at the bottom and an array of clothing now littered the lane – all wet and muddy.
Her friend, Melissa, had warned her the suitcase was old when she’d borrowed it, but Poppy would have remembered if she’d mentioned a fault with the zip. Wouldn’t she?
She sighed. Maybe she wouldn’t have. When she’d picked it up, she’d been in such a daze after a difficult week supplying at the most notorious school in her local vicinity and surviving on next to no sleep hunched on the sofa bed in the spare room. Melissa could have likely said anything and Poppy wouldn’t have remembered.
Turning her face to the sky, she rolled her shoulders back as raindrops dribbled down her face. There was something about the rain she loved; the way it made her feel. It was almost freeing, especially here, so close to the ocean. The raindrops were laced with that unmistakable salty aroma of the sea. Salty rainwater washing her worries away.
She scoffed. If only it were that easy.
Poppy walked back to the suitcase, picking up underwear, tops and pyjamas as she did. She’d have to replace the suitcase when she went home. Whether the zip had already been dodgy or not, it hadn’t been this bad.
Pushing open the door to the reception to Wagging Tails, Poppy scanned around, noting the empty reception desk. The gentle tunes of instrumental Christmas music, which was playing quietly from the radio behind the counter, immediately enveloped her.
‘Aunt Flora?’
Nothing.
She set the suitcase next to the counter and heaped her muddy clothes on top before stepping around the reception desk and peering into the kitchen. That was empty, too. Shrugging out of her wet coat, she moved around to the back door which led to the kennels and quietly opened it.
As soon as she stepped inside, a raucous rally of barking and whining began. She winced. She’d forgotten how excited the dogs got when someone walked in. As a child, she’d loved running up and down the corridor next to the kennels, waving and petting the dogs one by one, trying to share her time equally between them.
She peered into each kennel, quietly approaching each dog, holding out her hand and letting the dogs get used to her before she fussed them.
Still no sign of Aunt Flora though, and with the excited barking there wouldn’t be much point in calling out for her again. Still, it was nice to meet the dogs. There were two empty kennels, which she guessed meant they must have had some luck on the adoption front. That was probably down to Darren, the reporter her aunt had told her about. She’d said he was writing a weekly column in the local paper featuring dogs Wagging Tails had up for adoption.
Poppy frowned. Was his name Darren? Or Darryl, maybe? Whatever it was, according to her aunt, his columns had been having an enormous impact on the rate of adoptions.
As she approached the next kennel, she paused, a huge smile taking over her face.
