My final treat came about half a mile from home, when I broke out of a particularly overgrown path into a clearing. The last rays of the day bathed the oak trees in soft gold, and a blackbird pecked amongst the scrubby grass. The air was utterly still, as if the trees were holding their breath. And then, a flicker of movement opposite me, and I saw her: the dappled coat and twitching ears of a deer, in the split second before she turned and slipped into the shadows.
I felt a fleeting pang of regret that I had no one to share this with, before shaking my head at the concept that you have to share something in order to fully appreciate it. I’d experienced a moment of magic, and that was something to treasure.
I was making a mug of herbal tea the following night when I heard a THUD outside the kitchen window. Grabbing my frying pan from the draining board, I zipped up my hoodie and slowly, slowly crept over to the door.
More scuffles accompanied frantic whispering loud enough to be heard through a pane of glass.
Wondering if Ebenezer might be up to more secret odd-jobs, I slowly pulled back the bolt, unlocked the door and then whipped it open.
‘Oh!’ a familiar voice cried out, accompanied by a louder thump as Joan toppled back into my overturned wheelie bin, landing in the mush spilling from a split bin bag.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, unable to hide my shock. I’d suspected that Joan and Leanne were struggling, but resorting to pawing through my rubbish was horrendous.
‘I was… looking for something,’ she said, breathless with panic. ‘I dropped it earlier and thought it might have fallen in your bin.’
‘Joan.’ I moved closer, offering a hand to help her up. ‘Are you looking for food?’
Eyes downcast, she nodded, miserably.
‘Does your mum know?’
A slow, sorry shake.
I squatted down to look at her properly, still holding on to her hand. ‘Have you run out of food?’
A scrabbling sound interrupted us from behind the bin, immediately followed by a high-pitched whine. Joan’s eyes grew round with alarm, darting to one side before she resumed her forlorn expression.
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’ This girl was no actor, that’s for sure.
I dropped her hand and took a tentative step towards the bin, lurching forwards and banging it with the pan a couple of times before jerking back again.
‘STOP!’ Joan cried. ‘You’ll scare him!’
‘Scare who?’ I folded my arms as she shuffled and fidgeted and decided whether or not she could trust me.
‘Nesbit,’ she finally muttered.
‘And who – or should I say what – is Nesbit?’
Turning around, she bent down and reached behind the bin, moving back to reveal what appeared, in the darkness, to be a bedraggled gremlin. The gremlin tilted his head, cocked one ear, and gave a soft whuffle, followed by another desolate whimper.
My heart dissolved right then and there.
‘Okay, so why are you and Nesbit knocking over my bin in the middle of the night?’
‘He’s hungry. And Mum would flip out if she knew I’d let him in the house. He’s trying his best but he weed on my bed and she thought it was me and went mad and if she knew Nesbit had done it she’d never say I could keep him so I’m just keeping him a secret until he learns to go in the garden and I save up enough money to buy his food and then she might let him stay.’
‘Joan, stop.’ I spoke softly. ‘Take a breath. No, even better, let’s go inside.’
‘Can…?’
I sighed. ‘Yes, that thing can come in, too. We’ll stay in the kitchen, though. I don’t want a wee on my sofa.’
In the glow of my fancy kitchen lights, it became clearer that Nesbit was, in fact, some sort of dog. I filled a plastic tub with water, but he wasn’t interested. When I opened a tin of tuna he immediately started whining again, unable to restrain himself once I’d tipped the contents onto a plate and placed it on the floor.
‘You’d better fill me in. And quickly, so you can get back to bed before your mum finds it empty and panics. Where did you get a dog?’
‘I found him in the woods, earlier on.’ Joan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There was a plastic bag and I saw it squiggling about and when I opened it up, he was there.’ She swiped at the tear trickling down her face. ‘Someone tried to kill him, and not even in a kind way. He was shaking and crying and it’s not his fault if he’s only small and that nasty owner never taught him how to wee and poo outside.’
By now, Nesbit had wolfed down every last speck of the fish. He trotted back to Joan and waited for her to scoop him up again.
‘You know he may well have fleas – or worse.’
Joan buried her head in his fur. ‘That’s not his fault, either!’
‘No, but I think Nesbit needs a level of care and attention that you can’t give him right now. He needs to see a vet, for starters. He might be microchipped, so we can find out his proper owner.’
‘No!’ Joan looked up in horror. ‘He can’t go back to them! They tried to kill him!’
‘Somebody tried to kill him. But what if he was stolen, and his owner is heartbroken, wondering where he is?’
Joan shook her head, squeezing Nesbit tighter.
‘How about this: in the morning, I’ll take him to the vet and see what he says. In a village this size, he should recognise the dog if he belongs to someone local. We can sort out his fur and whatever else he needs, and then decide what to do next. I think there’s a very strong possibility that you’re right, and Nesbit needs a new owner, but we need to check. Otherwise it’s stealing. And if you are going to keep him, you need to think about all the things he’s going to need, like a collar and lead, and a bed.’
‘He can sleep on my bed.’ Joan sniffed.
‘Maybe. But I don’t think he can live off bin scraps. It’s not safe for you or him.’
She pressed her head back into his fur, shoulders juddering.
I took a deep breath, as item nine on the Dream List elbowed its way into my head.
‘How about he stays here? For tonight, until we see what the vet says. And while we make a proper effort to try to find his owners, just in case he was stolen or lost. Then we can talk to your mum.’
Joan sat up, her tear-streaked face glowing. ‘Are you sure? Do you promise?’
I nodded, rolling my eyes while secretly delighted.
‘Now, get yourself back home to bed while I clear up the mess outside and find something for this one to sleep on.’
I made a cosy bed for Nesbit on the kitchen floor out of an old pillow and a blanket. He came to just below my knee, but it was impossible to tell what breed he was beneath the tangled mat of chocolate fur.
‘Right, time to get some sleep, boy,’ I said. ‘It might be a busy day tomorrow.’
Nesbit didn’t agree. After half an hour of plaintive cries and scratches at the kitchen door, I gave up and moved his bed into the living room. Plopping him back onto the blanket, I turned to get under my duvet and found him already stretched out across my pillow.
‘No!’ I scolded, plonking him back on his bed. ‘Bed!’
In the end, we agreed to compromise. I eventually drifted off to soft, snuffly snores emanating from the furry ball curled up on my feet.
8