Creature Comforts. Trisha Ashley

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      At that time of year the Lady Spring and the healing pool below it were only open to the public from two till four, and it wasn’t much after half-past one now. Often, Tom didn’t even see a visitor at all on weekdays in early spring, so he might be pottering about in his garden, or round his beehives. There’s a big brass bell visitors can ring by the turnstile if they do turn up and he’s not in his hut.

      ‘It’s a bit chilly for swimming,’ Judy objected, shivering at the thought.

      ‘I know, but the water’s always OK once I’m in – not warm, but not unbearably cold, either.’

      I went in to fetch my things and Babybelle set up a howling the minute I turned my back that continued until my return. Then she instantly stopped and instead barked at me imperatively.

      ‘She wants to go with you,’ Debo said, elegantly resting her arms on top of her yard brush and looking as if she was posing for a magazine picture, rather than cleaning an empty dog run. If anyone could make dungarees and wellies fashionable, it would be Debo.

      ‘No way,’ I said. ‘Tom won’t allow a dog into the enclosure, and anyway, she’d probably take a year to plod down there.’

      ‘Pity, because she does need the exercise and she’s definitely taken to you.’

      ‘But we don’t want her to get attached to me, because I’m sure she could find a good home with someone else,’ I said. ‘If she’s costing a fortune in dog food, the sooner, the better.’

      ‘Perhaps Tom might like her,’ Judy suggested. ‘He rang to say he might pop in sometime later today to see if any of the dogs took his fancy. He lost Duke recently, you know.’

      Tom and his father, Jonas, had now rehomed two of Debo’s Desperate Dogs and they’d both reached a good age. They always seemed to give them regal names, too.

      ‘If they took Babybelle, she could find herself a Princess or a Queenie,’ I said, with a grin.

      ‘I don’t think she’s his kind of dog,’ Debo said doubtfully. ‘Jonas, now he’s living with Lottie behind the shop, says he wouldn’t mind a little dog to keep him company, only we mostly get the big ones, as you know.’

      I did indeed: it was the bull terriers, Rottweilers, Alsatians, Dobermans and large mixed breeds of the canine world that generally got dumped first, and some of them had been treated so badly they never could be rehomed. Others, however, when Debo’s dog therapist friend, Chris, had worked his magic on them, were placed with new owners.

      ‘I’m off to fetch a greyhound in a minute,’ Debo said, looking at her watch. ‘Judy’s coming with me, for a change of scene.’

      ‘A greyhound? You haven’t had one of those before, have you?’

      ‘No, because there are specialist greyhound rescue places. But this is urgent – if I don’t fetch her by three this afternoon, she’s going to the vet’s to be put down. She’s retired from racing, but her new owners put her out in the back garden when the pet rabbit was loose, and you can imagine the result.’

      ‘Yes. Bit silly of them.’

      ‘It was the neighbour who suggested me and rang up. She said it was a nice dog, but they were going on like it was a blood-crazed monster and had locked it in the garden and left it there. But they’ve given permission for me to take it if I pick it up before they get back, and the neighbour will let me in.’

      ‘That might be one to send straight to your friend Lucy, to rehome,’ I suggested.

      ‘Maybe, but I’ve just had a thought: greyhounds don’t need a lot of exercise and they make good pets, so I might be able to persuade Jonas that he’d like her instead of a little dog.’

      ‘So long as he hasn’t taken to breeding rabbits. Or what about that little white mongrel, Snowy?’

      ‘Unfortunately he barks his head off whenever the TV’s on, so until we can break him of doing that, he’s going to be a bit difficult. Chris is thinking up a plan.’

      ‘Let’s hope it works,’ I said, then set off for the Spring, with Babybelle’s imperative barks turning into long, blood-curdling howls behind me.

      I slowed down once I was out of earshot – or perhaps Babybelle had just given up. I had so much on my mind that I really needed a little peaceful time to be alone and let the birdsong and the buzz of busy insects soothe me … but unfortunately, I didn’t get it, because Dan Clew, the Sweetwell gardener, stepped out of a side path right in front of me, blocking my way.

      He was a big, bullishly handsome man, in a heavy-jawed kind of way, with a high complexion and small, dark eyes. He seemed to hold a certain charm for some women, though now that he was getting on a bit, his black hair was liberally streaked with grey and his strong frame starting to run to fat, the latter probably due to the pies and pasties he consumed most evenings in the public bar of the Screaming Skull. He had a handful of cronies there, but he wasn’t popular, due to his bad temper.

      As usual, now that he fancied himself as gamekeeper-cum-estate manager, he had a shotgun under his arm, though even if Baz had allowed him to load and use it, there wasn’t anything to shoot in the overgrown woodland that circled Sweetwell Hall. I mean, the red squirrels weren’t vicious, and anyway, they were a protected species.

      Still, it wasn’t exactly helping to dispel the faint air of menace that always hung around him.

      Dan eyed me in the way he did all women, as though examining dubious heifers at a cattle show.

      ‘You’re back visiting, then?’ he asked.

      ‘Hi, Dan,’ I said levelly, though my heart was still thumping from the suddenness of his unwelcome appearance. ‘I’m back indeed – but for good this time.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re staying here in Halfhidden? I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to do that. No one wants you here after what you did to Harry. You’re not welcome.’

      ‘So you say, but you seem to be the only person who thinks so, or who holds me to blame for letting Harry talk me into driving that night,’ I said evenly, standing my ground, for as Judy had pointed out, I’d had years of battles with obstinate village elders and petty officials while working abroad and I was no longer a traumatised young girl able to be scared off by bully-boy tactics.

      ‘Cara Ferris told me straight that you insisted on driving and wouldn’t even stop at the Lodge to let Harry take over. And my boy, who they’d made drunk, was out of it in the back seat.’

      ‘Well, you can’t blame that on me,’ I said. ‘Spiking his drink was another of Harry’s bright ideas. And I still don’t remember a thing about what happened, not even getting into the car, let alone driving, so she could say anything, couldn’t she?’

      ‘You’re calling her a liar?’ he demanded.

      ‘I’m saying that I know I would have been so terrified at the idea of driving the car on the main road, that I’m certain I wouldn’t have insisted. So yes, that has to be a lie, at least.’

      ‘Sez you!’ he sneered.

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