Watching the brindle pointer bounce up the lane with Tess in tow, Devon felt the guilt loosen. This was the first time he’d been out with Dexter for a decent walk all week. Quick circuits of the park didn’t count. He was a vet, for Christ’s sake, he knew how important it was to exercise a dog this size.
He welcomed the earthy tang of the fresh air with its sharp breeze assaulting his senses and the lighter floral scent of Ella by his side. She seemed subdued today, thoughtful rather than cross or resentful. They’d both lapsed into silence on the short car journey here and she seemed quite happy not to talk.
Until he’d started the steep climb up the Chiltern hills towards the Beacon high above the village of Ivinghoe, he hadn’t realised how much he needed this to scour out the fug of the week. That last trip into London had cost him dear, tempting him back to the edge of depression. The size of the debt hanging over him seemed insurmountable, dogging his waking thoughts for the last few days. Not having a run for a while hadn’t helped either. Running had become essential.
Exercise had clearly paid off for Tess; the black Lab was looking so much slimmer as she trotted up the chalk strewn path ahead. Ella looked brighter and healthier too, a touch of roses in her cheeks compared to her sallow complexion the first few times he’d seen her, although something wasn’t right about her this morning. Too much like how she’d been when she’d first arrived, shuttered and reluctant to let her real self out.
Maybe his own blackness made him aware of hers today? Her face, shuttered like a building with the windows firmly boarded up, gave nothing away.
‘Was it nice seeing your friend?’
She shrugged.
‘Are you OK?’ The words came out a little blunter than he’d meant them to and she turned and stared at him, stopping on the incline. ‘Sorry, you just seem . . . ’
Indecision warred on her face and when he thought she’d ignored the question, her mouth firmed and she started to walk again, stepping over the uneven tussocks of grass dotting the area like a mogul field. Then she stopped, let out another of her heavy sighs, and to his surprise began to talk in a low unemotional voice.
‘Seeing Britta brought everything back. I thought I wanted to go back to London when Magda gets back, but now I’m even more confused. I don’t know where I belong or what I want any more.’ Her eyes moved across the horizon. Despair, bleak and anguished, filled her face as she looked ahead of him towards Ivinghoe Beacon. ‘I do know I’ve been an idiot.’ In a quieter voice, she added, ‘About so many things.’
‘Welcome to the club,’ he said touching her arm, with a self-deprecating smile. He could take the prize on idiocy. ‘Idiots Anonymous. The first step is recognising you’ve been an idiot. Hi, my name is Devon.’
She smiled although it didn’t quite meet her eyes.
‘Hi, my name is Ella.’
‘Want to talk about it, Ella? When did you first realise what an idiot you’d been?’
A range of expressions crossed her face as if she were trying to pick out her reference point, where the best place was to start.
‘I’m not sure about the first time,’ she pulled a face, ‘it’s been creeping up on me but this weekend with Britta . . . ’ She raised her hands, ‘it didn’t go well. Although I’m not sure she realised.’
‘Ah, yes. Interesting character.’ He felt he was being super circumspect.
‘I’ve known her for years. She’s Patrick’s friend, really,’ Ella said the words softly and to his relief, she clearly hadn’t taken offence. ‘But . . . she’s kind of symbolic of everything that went wrong.’ She stopped abruptly and looked appalled. ‘I’ve been a complete . . . idiot. And – this sounds pretentious, but – not true to myself, not true to what I really, deep down believed in and I don’t mean things about art and style and taste, which were all we ever talked about. I mean important things, about values, how we live our lives, family, love.’
‘It doesn’t sound pretentious; it sounds as if you need to let your real self out,’ he said, suddenly realising that was what he’d seen about her from the start. Someone hiding in there.
Ella frowned. ‘I realised I was every bit as bad as Britta. I’ve been too scared of being laughed at . . . by God knows who . . . to be myself. To have a single original thought of my own; I was too reliant on what “they” thought. And half the time I don’t even know who “they” are.’ She let out a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do you know what the crunch point was? When she told me I could do so much better than my mice. For years I’ve been outwardly agreeing with people like Patrick and Britta when they say those drawings aren’t real art, but do you know what?’ Her face filled with indignation, slightly red as she puffed up like an irate pigeon. ‘There’s a little piece of me in them, in each of them. Those characters, Cuthbert and Englebert, they’re like my ba—’ she faltered, ‘they’re mine.’
‘Those drawings looked pretty skilful to me. So what is art?’
She turned to him, her expression sceptical.
‘Seriously, how do you define proper art?’
‘It’s . . . it’s . . . ’ She glared at him. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I don’t need to understand. If you want my opinion, a lot of what I see is a load of bollocks. Messy beds. A load of blue carrier bags.’ He couldn’t even bring himself to mention dead animals which he found wrong on so many levels. ‘But you must understand all that. What does art mean to you?’
The sudden confusion on her face was really rather cute. She considered the question for a minute, her breath even again as if she’d walked herself into her stride. ‘The expression of emotion through artistic medium that has an impact on another person, a shared . . . experience.’
Devon understood that. ‘Don’t you enjoy drawing the mice? They looked like a lot of fun.’
A range of emotions ran across her face and she sighed, her mouth curving into a secretive smile which grew as if with dawning awareness. ‘Actually, they’re coming a lot easier.’ An unexpected glow of satisfaction lit her face. Everything softened like a filter over a camera. Her cheeks filled out, a dimple appeared and her mouth . . . he shelved that thought quickly.
‘This last few weeks I’ve really enjoyed working on them. It’s like someone’s . . . ’ she shot him a sudden, unexpected mischievous look, ‘to be artisty about it, unlocked a treasure chest of new ideas.’
She lapsed into thought, her teeth worrying at her lip. ‘When I first started drawing them, it was so easy. I didn’t even have to think about it. Then after a while, it got hard.’ With a slight start, she tilted her head. ‘Now it’s easy again.’ Her smile held a touch of the eureka moment, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before.
‘Your books bring happiness to lots of people.’
‘I don’t know about lots.’
‘Well, I don’t know about your book sales but the mice themselves are certainly very popular. They’re everywhere.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The merchandise.’ At the posh stationers that Marina liked to drag him to, the shelves had been full of pencil cases, glasses cases, bags, rulers, pens and pencils featuring the cheeky antics of Cuthbert and his brothers. ‘Both Bets’ sister’s kids have Cuthbert pencil cases, rulers and I’m sure I saw a pair of wellies with them on.’
‘Are you sure? I know I signed a merchandise thingy but Patrick said it wasn’t worth very much.’
‘Well, someone’s making some money.’
‘I’m not sure who.’ Her face sank back into a gloomy expression and he found himself wanting to touch her face, lift the corners of her downturned mouth and take away the residual sadness etched there. Did his face look like that, lined with the weight of misery?
‘I know that feeling.’ He gave her a half-hearted smile, forcing the muscles to work a bit harder. Maybe if he smiled a bit more, it might encourage her to.
‘I thought vets earned a fortune.’ Her eyebrow quirked in question. ‘Everyone complains about vets’ bills.’
‘Yeah, they don’t know how much it costs to run a veterinary practice. We’re running a tiny hospital with all the same sort of medical overheads. Drugs, oxygen, anaesthetics, plus the staff to manage all that.’
‘Ouch, no wonder you have to do so much locum work. Have you resolved anything with . . . with Marina?’
He snorted, ‘Let’s just say hell hath no fury like a woman denied her exchange of contract.’ He tried to avoid badmouthing Marina to other people but frustration got the better of him today. ‘I understand why she’s desperate, but I can’t conjure up money I don’t have.’ He pushed a hand through his already wind-blown hair. ‘The TV production company is getting rather twitchy.’
‘What’s it got to do with them?’ He couldn’t help but smile as Ella’s voice peaked with indignation on his behalf.
‘The TV series is filmed in her consulting rooms, which are in the basement of our house. We knocked through to accommodate the production crew and equipment. Marina says they need to know that they’ve got a secure location for filming for the next series. Apparently if I don’t sell my half to her, her career could be hanging in the balance. But if I sell, the negative equity situation means I’ll owe her nearly twenty grand. I’ve an appointment with my bank in a couple of weeks. I’m praying that with the additional work I’ve been doing, they’ll give me a loan.’
‘What about your job here?’
‘I got conned into it. Dad had a health scare. I said I’d stay to cover for him for a few weeks and suddenly he’s talking about needing more time to recuperate. Which is bollocks. I know what he’s doing.’
His vehemence drew a startled frown from Ella.
‘I’m a thirty-two-year-old man. I don’t need my parents rescuing me.’
‘I . . . ’ She lifted her hands in mute surrender but it was like a cork had been popped and it all came spilling out.
‘I don’t want anyone rescuing me. I’m quite capable of sorting myself out. It drives me crazy that everyone wants some kind of input. Bets trying to rehabilitate me, like I’m some drug dependent crackhead who needs to be weaned off his addiction, because she thinks I’m hung up on my ex and that I’ll find redemption by becoming the vet with a heart of gold. Dad’s protracted recuperation. He’s training for a marathon; how does that make him too ill to work? And Mum trying to save me from boredom by finding me things to do all the time. I don’t need any of them. I just want to draw a line and get on with my life.’
‘Me too.’ Her quiet words silenced his rant.
The anger and resentment simmering inside him whistled out like a slow puncture as he paused and looked around him, sneaking extra glances at her profile as they marched in tandem up the steep gradient. His irate words seemed a bit silly now in comparison to her quiet, calm acceptance, but he didn’t need or want any help.
Any further conversation died as they focused on reaching the triangulation point topping the Beacon. They had the hilltop to themselves and both of them naturally gravitated to the stone-built platform with its map of the ancient Ridgeway on top. Leaning against it they contemplated the view spread out before them, stretching away to the distant horizon.
‘On a clear day, you can see the spires of Oxford from here.’ Despite this fact, he’d never actually seen them himself. Perhaps you also needed binoculars.
She didn’t say anything but conversation seemed superfluous. It was quiet, apart from the buzz of two gliders circling and vying for the wind in the sky above them.
His eyes scanned the view, picking out local landmarks: the Pitstone Windmill, Grim’s Dyke, the Whipsnade Lion. Despite being away for so long, it all seemed so familiar, as if he’d never been away. Taking a deep breath, he sighed. Maybe he had missed this. Maybe it was good to be home. He glanced over to Ella and spotted a single tear running down her face. Her throat convulsed but she remained ramrod straight, as if refusing to acknowledge it. Not wanting to intrude, he diplomatically turned away to study the contours of the Dunstable Downs where more gliders swung and dipped with the thermals.
‘Actually, I lied earlier – the crunch point wasn’t with Britta at all.’ Her sudden words, almost lost on the wind that battered the hill, were laden with sorrow. ‘It . . . came when I was in London. That’s when everything broke.’ She lifted her chin higher. ‘I came out here to try and work things through. Find a way to go back. A way to go back to my life with Patrick and all that it is, but I can’t go back.’ Another tear slipped down her face. ‘There’s nowhere to go back to.’
She remained still, not turning towards him. Remembering the brief touch of comfort she offered him in the pub, he wove his fingers between hers and gave them a squeeze. Somehow he knew she didn’t want him to talk. He recognised that point where the dam burst. It didn’t matter who he was, he just happened to be there when the water came flooding out.
‘I found out I was pregnant. Not planned.’ Her voice held cynical heaviness.
He stilled; that wasn’t what he was expecting at all. What the hell did you say to that?
‘Definitely not planned. Patrick was even more shocked than I was.’ Ella turned her head, giving him a bleak twisted smile, before turning back to the vista before them. ‘I figured that at our age it was probably the next step. I hadn’t given the children thing a lot of thought, I just assumed that it would happen one day.
‘One day turned up out of the blue. Completely out of the blue, but the minute I thought I might be, God, I was so excited. Funny – I was on my way to work, grabbed my usual mochaccino, took one sip and thought I’d throw up, which was really weird. I’ve been drinking them every morning for the last five years. You don’t suddenly go off something without a very good reason.’
A wistful expression lit her face. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it, because it wasn’t planned. I didn’t tell anyone, just in case I was wrong. In case it tempted providence. I remember going to buy the testing kit.’ She held up a hand. ‘I was shaking like a leaf when I opened the packaging.’
She gripped his hand tighter. ‘When the line turned blue, I thought my heart would burst. The enormity of it seemed so huge. Me, having a baby. I couldn’t wait to tell Patrick.’
She swallowed hard. ‘It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t feel the same. Even though it was a bit of a surprise, I thought Patrick would think like me, that it was the next step. Logical.’ Her eyebrows creased, meeting in a dark frown. ‘He didn’t. Said it was bourgeois. Not us. People like us didn’t have children. It would limit us.’ Her mouth twisted with terrible weariness. ‘Spouted a whole load of stuff. I presumed it was just the shock at first. That he’d come around. He didn’t.’
Ella turned to Devon, her face haunted with sadness, and then she looked up, watching the gliders for a minute, as if trying to contain her emotion before she went on.
‘He wanted me to have an abortion.’ Her lips quivered. ‘Get rid of it. That’s what he called our baby – “it”. As if the baby were nothing to do with him.’ She shook her head, still in disbelief. ‘When I tried to talk to him about it, when I said I wasn’t sure I could go through with an abortion, he,’ her breath hitched, ‘he told me I was “being far too emotional about it”.’
With his thumb, Devon rubbed her hand. She held herself so still, he was worried that if he put his arm around her or even tried to offer any other comfort, she might shatter like ice.
‘I thought maybe he was right. It was the hormones. So I went for the first appointment.’ Her face creased as if in pain. ‘Except I couldn’t get through the door. I couldn’t do it. I froze. I knew then I wanted to keep the baby.
‘Luckily for him, I miscarried.’ The words, spoken without emotion, cold and blank, dropped like stones.
The grip of her fingers on his tightened but she faced away into the headwind. He could see her swallowing but the words had dried up for a moment. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to offer platitudes. Then, she spoke again.
‘It was only the size of a bean. Who’d have thought there’d be so much blood?’ She laughed mirthlessly, dry and heart-wrenching. ‘No wonder Lady Macbeth got into such a tizz. I had to throw away my favourite pair of jeans.’
He could tell by the tightening of her jawline that she was working hard to hang onto her control. ‘I r-really miss those jeans.’ She winced, her other hand going to her stomach. ‘When you have something, it’s only when it’s gone you realise how much you wanted to keep it. God, I miss those jeans.’
Tears stung his eyes at the heartbreak in her voice, at the way she worked so hard to keep her emotions in check, pretend that she was unharmed by it all. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and offer comfort. It took a lot of effort putting on a face that brave. He knew how damn hard it was and how easily the façade could shatter if someone was kind to you. Staunchly he hung onto her hand as the two of them stood motionless gazing out over the view.
Standing straight and tall she leaned into the headwind, imagining herself like the prow of a ship cutting through the waves. His hand in hers anchored her, when she felt as if her emotions might take flight and leave her rudderless. The fingers interweaved between hers gave her strength. She could weather this, make it through. Patrick’s casual dismissal, so cold, emotionless. Uncaring. How could he not care? For her that loss had slammed into her, leaving her adrift.
With the strong breeze whistling around them on the summit of the Beacon, picking and tossing at her hair, awareness shimmered through her. There was land ahead. The ever-present lump of misery lodged just beneath her heart was still there but it had lost its malignant presence and the threatening sensation that it might overpower her one day.
With a grim twist to her mouth, she tossed her head back, welcoming the fierce slap of the wind. When Patrick had suggested they had a break, she’d clung to that idea as if it might save her. It gave her enough distance to not have to think how much she hated him for not caring. It made her believe that in a few months’ time she could go back and everything would be normal again. She’d have grieved. Her hormones, which Patrick had patiently explained were all over the place, would be righted. She’d see things differently. She’d realise that they were all right as they were. The two of them.
With heartsick sorrow, the knowledge came to rest like a feather gently but surely coming into land: there was no going back. She could never forgive Patrick for not wanting their child. Or forgive him for being able to forget so easily about it once she’d miscarried.
And she would never forget.
It was like trying to get those jeans back. She’d never find a pair quite like them. There’d be others but not the same. She hadn’t wanted a baby but it didn’t mean she didn’t want one at some point in her life. She knew that with a fierce certainty. One day she wanted a family.
She closed her eyes. Despite the eddies and swirls around her, she’d resolved something, achieving close to some sort of equilibrium after being out of kilter for weeks.
‘You know, he didn’t even come to the hospital when I lost the baby. I didn’t tell anyone else. I was ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes. Ashamed that I’d even considered an abortion and that this was my punishment. Ashamed that he felt like that. Ashamed that I didn’t know that his reaction would be like that. Ashamed that I loved someone so . . . so heartless. That I’d got it so wrong with him.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘His relief was palpable. We’d had a lucky escape. He didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t relieved. I put on a brave face, I did pretend. Made out it was OK. But it got harder and harder.’
‘But he must have been sympathetic.’
‘Not really. That makes him sound like a bad person. He wasn’t. Just didn’t understand.’ She closed her eyes, suddenly wanting to spill the horrible dirty truth. ‘He got fed up with me feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help myself. It finally dawned on me that he had no idea one night when we went to a new gallery opening. Gallery 99.’
It was a horrible night. She’d wandered around the gallery in a haze of misery, barely registering, in fact almost tripping over, the frankly ugly metalwork contraptions dotted around the floor. The only thing she remembered about them were that they were hard and sharp-edged when all she wanted was softness and warmth.
She’d tried to talk to Patrick before they went out. Her stomach contracted now at the memory and she put her hand on it, pressing lightly as if that might take away the dull ache.
‘I don’t think I’m up to going to the show tonight,’ she’d told him as she’d tried to pull on knee-high boots and losing the battle when what little energy she had ran out with the suddenness of the last sand grains in an egg timer.
‘Ella, I get that you’re feeling rough.’ He’d pulled his sympathetic face. The one where his mouth under his sandy moustache stretched wide in an encouraging smile but the eyes stayed watchful. Just thinking about his mouth gave Ella a pang. Once she’d loved kissing it, feeling the bristles skating her lips, his beard brushing her chin.
‘But seriously . . . this is going to sound harsh, but I’m doing it for us. You need to pull yourself together. You have to start acting normally again.’
Ella had gaped at him. His words were like physical blows. She wanted to clutch her middle to protect herself from them. He watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, nodding and smiling with patronising sympathy.
‘Your body’s been through a bit of a storm. But it’s over now. Done. We’ve got to move forward. You’ll feel better soon. In the meantime, why don’t you try and harness the experience, paint it, sculpt it. It would make a dramatic installation. Think of it as an experience. Use it. Create a series of work. It would make a great selling point. We could say they’re a manifestation of the artist’s angst at losing an unborn child. It would have a lot of traction with the media. A great human story.’
‘A story?’
He nodded.
But it wasn’t a story, she wanted to say. It was real. I, we, lost our unborn child. It was a real child, Patrick. But if she put voice to the words, she’d have started to cry and she wasn’t sure if she could stop.
That was when she’d given up trying to talk to him about it. That night she realised that Patrick couldn’t understand what she’d lost and worse still, she couldn’t bring herself to make him understand. It was almost as if she wanted to spite him for his lack of empathy.
In stark contrast, Devon moved closer and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
Unable to help herself, she nestled into him. He smelt of outdoors and life. The shield she’d battled to keep in place for so long, so that she could function day to day, slipped. Stripped back, all the vulnerability and longing to be safe again came flooding through with a piercing sense of relief. When was the last time she’d done this? Let someone else be there for her. Lean on them. Trust them totally to hold her up. The storm of emotions that she held fiercely in check for the last few weeks loosened. As she started to cry, Devon’s arms came around her and it seemed right to lean into his chest and feel the rise and fall of his steady breathing. Silent tears ran down her face, tucked into the heavy Guernsey sweater. Devon held her closer and let her cry, a soothing hand rubbing her back.
Cocooned against him, like a ship protected in harbour, she closed her eyes. If she kept them closed she could pretend all the other things didn’t exist. She could stay in this moment, savouring his warmth and strength. The moment stretched out. She closed her eyes tighter, focusing on the sound of the wind whistling around the hill top and the rough feel of wool against her face and trying not to think about the proximity of Devon’s thighs against hers. A low level ache of desire snaked through her. She wanted to nuzzle into him.
The gentle hand on her back stilled. Oh God, she was about to make a complete fool of herself. Had he felt that tiny shift of weight? The last thing he needed or she did for that matter. She stiffened, schooling her face, and stepped back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to unburden on you like that.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m glad you were able to tell me. It sounds as if you’ve had a tough time.’
With his stern face in profile, his shoulders rigid, she had a feeling he’d been duelling his own demons up here in tandem with her. Whether he’d won or not was not her place to ask, but then he turned to face her.
‘I know about crunch points,’ he said quietly. ‘I keep wondering about going back to Marina.’ He sighed. ‘It would make life easier. Solve all my money problems.’
He shrugged, lifting his shoulders up to his ears, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘If I went back, everything would just go away. I loved her once, why not again? The truth is, I caught her in bed with the film producer. Skinny little guy, nearly twice her age, married as well. Rick. Looks like the weasel he is. Wish I’d punched the little git. We were already on the rocks, that was my crunch point.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I haven’t told anyone else that. Pride more than anything else.’
‘I don’t know that it’s pride. It’s such a horrible thing to happen. I can’t imagine it but I can imagine why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone.’ She looked at his worried face, guessing that he now regretted saying it. ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone.’
‘Thanks. Come on, you’re getting cold. I think we both need a hot drink. Let’s round up those dogs, they’re probably halfway home without us.’
Whipping her head round, she scanned the hillside below – sure enough, there in the distance, she could just make out the two dogs criss-crossing the path. Her heart lifted at the sight of them. ‘They don’t ask for much, really do they? Life is so much simpler. Walks and food.’
The car journey back to the cottage passed in silence, as if each of them was worn out by the excess of emotion. The two dogs panted happily in the back, steaming up the windows.
When they pulled up outside, Devon got out and opened up the boot to release Tess. Ella got out of the car, suddenly tongue-tied. So much had passed between them, and she wanted to say something but didn’t know what. She was on the verge of asking him to come in for a coffee when Tess began to bark.
She stood at George’s gate, nudging at it with her head, her barks increasing in volume.
‘Tess, stop that.’ Ella went over to grab at her collar but the dog danced away. ‘What’s the matter with you? Stop it.’
‘Probably spotted a cat or something,’ said Devon, trying to close the boot of the car, but Dexter had now joined in and before Devon could stop him, he too jumped out and joined Tess at the gate, barking furiously.
Tess’s head butted the wooden fence, poking her head through the wooden posts and then Ella caught sight of a flash of George’s favourite virulent mustard yellow on the path leading to his front door.
‘George!’ she called out, and ran over, fiddling to unlatch the gate. He lay crumpled on the path. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ Ella ran to his side and bent down. His face had a doughy grey cast with a slight clammy sheen to it. Too scared to touch him, she crouched down next to him.
‘Can you feel a pulse?’ asked Devon, pushing her out of the way and crouching down beside her.
Ella gave him a helpless look, hating feeling so useless. ‘I . . . ’
He placed one hand on the old man’s chest, the other one with unerring accuracy homing straight in on George’s pulse. ‘He’s breathing. Just. And there’s a pulse.’
Now she was beside him, she could hear short rasping breaths.
Devon began to tap George’s sallow face very gently.
‘George, can you hear me? Hello, George. It’s Devon. If you can hear me, give my hand a squeeze.’
Ella watched, dry-mouthed, as Devon picked up the lifeless arm and took George’s hand in his, holding her breath until she saw the older man’s fingers move in a feeble attempt. George let out a weak, breathy, incoherent moan.
‘OK.’ Although Devon’s face looked grave, he managed to give Ella a reassuring but grim smile. ‘He’s alive. Breathing, conscious and has a pulse. All good signs but we need to get him warm and comfortable. Can you get blankets and a pillow and I’ll call an ambulance?’ He fished his mobile out of his pocket.
Relieved that she had a practical task, Ella jumped to her feet and raced back to the cottage.
When Ella returned, Devon was on the phone talking to the emergency services. He nodded towards George’s prone body and then at the duvet.
She knelt and tucked it around George, biting her lip. He looked so uncomfortable lying on the hard path but she guessed they shouldn’t move him. Thank God Devon was here otherwise she wouldn’t have known what to do.
Even now he was giving the person on the other end of the phone concise information about George’s breathing, pulse and age.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he said tucking his phone back in his pocket. ‘Well done.’ He leant over George and took his hand again.
‘George. Can you hear me? Don’t try to talk, just squeeze my hand to say yes.’
Ella stared at the wrinkled brown hand, dotted with liver spots and the joints gnarled through years of use, cushioned in Devon’s larger capable fingers. Something shifted in her chest at the sight of Devon’s broad masculine hands. Capable, strong and still gentle. They’d offered her comfort earlier. It was easy to imagine him at work, in command, dealing patiently and calmly with his patients. Animals and owners would trust him.
‘We need to keep him conscious if we can,’ said Devon in a very low voice. ‘I’m going to run inside and just check if he takes any medication and grab some things for him.’
Taking a sharp breath, she nodded and watched Devon leave.
‘Hi George, it’s Ella.’ She took his cold hand in hers and rubbed the back of it, feeling the bones just beneath the skin. His eyes were glassy and unfocused but every now and then she felt his fingers move beneath hers. ‘You’re going to be fine. There’s an ambulance on its way. So it looks like it’s my turn to keep an eye on your place. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s all locked up properly.’
Another gentle squeeze butterflied against her hands. What would have happened if they hadn’t come back when they did? And how long had he been lying there? Ella looked over at Tess. Clever dog. She and Dexter, for once, sat side by side at a respectful distance, watchful and still as if on bodyguard detail. How did they know to do that, when normally they were racing and bounding about like idiots?
‘Tess found you, George. She’s a bit like Lassie. I bet you remember Lassie.’
Quite where she dredged it up, Ella couldn’t recollect later, but she chatted inanely to George for the next ten minutes.
In the quiet of the village they heard the siren coming way before they spotted the blue lights of the ambulance speeding down the road.
At last the paramedics loaded George onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.
It was only when they went to shut the door, something snapped inside Ella. It felt all wrong, the vulnerable figure tightly wrapped in the red blanket all on his own.
‘Wait. Can I go with him?’
‘Are you family?’
She hesitated. She couldn’t bear the thought of him going on his own and being alone in hospital. ‘Yes, I’m his niece.’