A Girl’s Best Friend by Jules Wake (31)

She stumped across the green, wanting to feel the thump, thump of Tess’s tail against her leg and to have to slow her pace when Tess sniffed at every gatepost along the path.

Without Tess’s bustle and fuss, the cottage seemed hauntingly silent, except when Ella listened she could hear the creaks, taps and ticks of the house, the hot water pipes from the boiler in the kitchen expanding, the broken latch on the bathroom window lifting and rubbing in the early evening breeze and the familiar click of the wood of the bedroom door as it cooled down after a day in the sunshine.

She wandered into the kitchen, did a circuit but was too listless to tackle the small pile of washing-up. The empty coffee cups she and Patrick had used earlier sat on the side along with a breadboard full of crumbs. Breakfast seemed a lifetime ago. The nerves of public appearance long forgotten. With a shake of her head, she paused before walking back into the hall.

She couldn’t face going up to the studio, there was no way she could even think about doing any work.

Drawn to the door, she unlatched it, slipped out into the garden and went to sit down on the stone bench, her ears pricked ready for the sound of her mobile. Summer was just around the corner. She could paint the reservoir in summer under brilliant blue sky with sunlight as streaks of gold on the water. Please God, let Tess be all right. It was impossible to imagine making her way along the footpaths at the edge of the water without Tess crossing and doubling back in front of her. Her tail just visible waving through the undergrowth. Or Devon accompanying them. Which was stupid, because like he’d said, this was temporary. Always had been. It shouldn’t matter that Marina was back on the scene or that he might go back to her. He was never staying anyway. But it did.

Ella swallowed and focused on the petals of the blousy lilacs as the light breeze caught them, ruffling the edges. She lifted her feet onto the bench and clutched her knees to her chest.

What a day. Funny, why was it the things you didn’t know you wanted that made the strongest impression? The baby. Tess. Devon.

Thinking about the baby brought with it that deep-rooted pull tugging low in her belly but it was less insistent. The sense of loss was still there but not so overwhelming. It didn’t blanket her thoughts in grey any more.

Tess couldn’t die. Devon wouldn’t let her. With bone-deep certainty, she knew he would save her. He just would.

Devon. Friend. Rescuer. Always there when she needed him, even when she didn’t know she needed him. His image came easily; she could almost smell the outdoor woodsy scent she associated with him, the slow serious smile and that unruly hair lifting in the wind, flipping over his face up on Ivinghoe Beacon. That steady, sexy masculinity that made all her hormones sit up to attention whenever he was in the vicinity. Her skin prickled at the memory of his kisses.

Where Tess was concerned, he wouldn’t let her down. Where her heart was concerned, she wasn’t so sure.

Magda’s lavender bags had no effect that night and despite the relief of Bets’ text to say that Tess was stable and snoring gently, Ella didn’t get much sleep. Leaving Tess behind had been as hard as seeing Marina laying her perfectly manicured hands on Devon’s sleeve and cooing up at him.

After fitful sleep, she got up early, checking her phone for any more news.

Nothing. She went up to the studio but couldn’t bring herself to pick up her brushes. She checked her phone. Still nothing.

She returned to the kitchen. Cleaned the sink. Wiped down the cupboards, removing a pawprint from one of the doors. Checked her phone again. Exasperated with herself, she pulled out the broom to sweep the floor. As she rounded up the dark dog hair, it only reinforced the emptiness of the house. Eventually, after several aimless circuits of the cottage, she gravitated to her favourite spot in the garden for her morning cup of tea. Looking up at the sky, she took a deep breath. This was crazy, but she needed all the help she could get. She pulled the blue envelope which she’d snatched from the pinboard from her pocket and quietly spoke the words, glancing about to make sure no one was about.

As the wind whispered through the plants, did she feel a sense of ease settle upon her? Or was it her imagination? What had she expected, some sort of pumpkin-changing, mice-into-footmen, glass-slipper magic?

‘Yoohoo.’

She started.

‘Ella. There you are. Is everything all right?’ Doris’s head popped up over George’s fence. ‘I saw Devon taking your dog away with his lady friend. And I saw your gentleman friend.’ Coy curiosity filled her faded blue eyes.

‘Hello, Doris.’

The older woman swayed a bit and then disappeared before popping back up again like a determined jack-in-the-box.

‘Sorry, love. Damn wheelbarrow moved. So what’s wrong with the dog?’

‘Tess has had a bit of a . . . ’ Ella found she was able to say it without bursting into tears, ‘ . . . mishap. She ate chocolate.’ To her relief, she felt a lot calmer. ‘Did you know it’s poisonous to dogs?’

‘Well I never. Oh, you poor love. Don’t you worry. Devon’s a good vet. Might not have the kennel-side manner but he’s good. She’ll be fine.’

‘I had to leave her behind.’ Ella hadn’t wanted to do that. Bets said that someone would be checking on her at regular intervals. How often was that? It seemed heartless. Tess might just be a dog but she’d be lonely.

‘You come right over. I promise you Tess will be as right as rain. I feel it in my bones. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Come on. You can’t mope there by yourself. I’ve got some lemon cake. And if you’re really good. I’ll show you some photos from my dancing days.’ She waggled her eyebrows with great gusto.

A refusal was at the ready, tipping her tongue – she’d rather be on her own – but something, possibly Doris’s hopeful expression, made her say, ‘Thank you,’ and swallowing and dredging up a reluctant smile, she added, ‘That’s an offer I can’t turn down.’

‘I’ll have you know my lemon drizzle cake brings folks over from Long Marston when the Spring Fayre’s on.’

‘I meant the photos.’

‘I was a Tiller Girl, you know.’ Doris drew herself up with pride.

‘Were you?’ Ella asked politely, not having a clue what that was. Probably nothing to do with farming; her only frame of reference to the word came from some song: ‘we till the soil.’

‘See there. That’s the London Palladium. On the bill, we were, on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. Appeared on ITV.’

‘Wow, these pictures are amazing,’ exclaimed Ella as she studied the black and white shots of a long line of girls in identical costumes, their legs kicking in perfect unison. She was glad to focus on the pictures as the lounge contained a rather distracting Aladdin’s cave of stuff. Who’d have thought that Doris would have such a large television screen or a state of the art Bose sound system?

‘Some famous photographer came in and took those.’ She turned the pages of the album. ‘That’s us on Broadway. And at the Folies Bergère in Paris.’ With a perfectly painted fingernail she tapped one of the pictures. ‘That was us on the Eiffel Tower. Lord, we had so much fun.’

‘Gosh, Doris. I had no idea. You were quite famous in your day.’

‘Had a lovely time, I did. Of course I’m not nearly as famous as Alice Benthall, the WI treasurer.’

‘Did I meet her yesterday?’ The talk seemed a lifetime ago and with a sudden thrill, Ella remembered Margery Duffle.

‘Yes, you would have done. Pink rinse, with a tinge of purple.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember her.’

‘Hair like that, you’re not going to forget her,’ observed Doris with a cheerful grin that robbed the words of any malice. ‘She, Alice, was a world-famous cellist. Contemporary of that Jacqueline du Pray woman. Soloist with the New York Philharmonic.’

With a guilty start Ella realised how much she’d underestimated the people in the village. Although the fact that they were famous or successful once didn’t take away from the way they’d all welcomed her and been kind to her.

A ping announced a text. Doris’s eyes sharpened and Ella eagerly pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Tess fine. Sleeping it off. You can pick her up this afternoon.

‘Phew.’ Ella sagged, suddenly aware of the weight of her fears. ‘She’s going to be all right.’

‘Of course she is, dear.’ Doris waved a serene hand. ‘I think this calls for sherry.’

Before Ella could answer, she jumped up a bit too quickly and then winced. ‘Oops.’ She rubbed at her knees. ‘Still paying for all that dancing the other day. Bit stiff.’

‘Let me. In the kitchen?’

‘Yes,’ Doris sank thankfully back into her high-backed arm chair. ‘Always keep my Tio Pepe in the fridge.’

Like the living room, Doris’s kitchen was full of very expensive gadgets: a cranberry-coloured Kitchen Aid, a rather grand Rangemaster oven, two sets of Le Creuset saucepans, one red and one blue, hanging from shelves on the wall and a pink Smeg fridge in the corner.

You could barely see the front of the fridge for the little magnets pinning all sorts of notes and reminders. As Ella grasped the bottle of sherry and went to close the door, she noticed a familiar sheet of navy blue paper and the slash of silver writing.

Doris appeared at the door. Ella averted her eyes quickly.

‘Glasses are in that cupboard.’ She pointed.

‘Oh my word.’ The cupboard was full of fine crystal glasses in every shape and size.

‘I do a lot of competitions. Win a lot.’ Doris grinned. ‘All down to Magda, of course.’

‘Magda?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s got the magic touch. Ever since she discovered she was related to a witch, she’s been dabbling with a few spells here and there.’

‘Spells?’ Ella raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Mmm – that’s what I thought, but ever since she gave me a little poem to say before I send off my entries, I’ve had the devil’s own luck. Won all sorts, I have. Although I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with the Mini Cooper. Never had a driving licence in my life.’

Ella smiled, thinking of the sense of serenity she’d felt after reciting Magda’s blessing. ‘I think you might be right.’

Maybe Magda did have a touch of magic after all.