‘You’re even older than I am, boy.’ She ruffled his floppy ears affectionately. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t make it a long one.’
It was a pretty afternoon. The air was still warm and the light had faded from its harsh noon brightness to a mellow, honey-coloured glow. Walking down the driveway from Furlings towards the village, Angie could smell wood smoke from the cottage fireplaces. Rooks cawed overhead, and a sweet scent, either honeysuckle or jasmine, wafted over from the hedgerows, mingling with the smell of freshly mown grass from the village green in a heady cocktail. Closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, Angie felt suffused with peace, and gratitude. Whatever mistakes she’d made in her life, whatever heartbreaks she might face, this place remained beautiful and unchanging.
She took a left turn at the start of the High Street, up Foxhole Lane, towards Wraggsbottom Farm. A number of long walks started here, with footpaths snaking up into the Downs, some going almost as far as the coast, although Gringo was too decrepit for such far-flung adventures these days. Taking one of the gentler paths through the woods, towards Brockhurst, Angela soon became lost in a daydream about Australia and her childhood friends. It was only after about twenty minutes that she looked down and realized that Gringo was no longer trotting faithfully at her heels.
Irritated, with herself more than the barmy old basset, she began calling his name, whistling and clapping loudly. The dog was so deaf, he wouldn’t hear her unless she made a serious racket, and even then the odds weren’t good if he’d gone too far.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then an hour. Angela crisscrossed all the paths in the vicinity and had gone twice up to the main road. She’d passed a number of fellow walkers in that time, but none of them had seen Gringo.
It was cooler now, but Angela dripped with sweat, a combination of exertion and anxiety. As much as she moaned about him, she’d never forgive herself if anything happened to that dog. In desperation she was about to head home – perhaps he’d somehow made his way back there, and if not she could call around locally and put the word out that he was missing – when a piercing scream stopped her in his tracks.
‘No! STOP IT! I said get off!’
She recognized the voice as belonging to Penny de la Cruz. Come to think of it, she must be near Woodside Hall, Penny and Santiago’s idyllic house nestled deep in the Brockhurst woods.
‘Penny!’ she shouted out, hurrying down the track. ‘Are you all right?’
Moments later, she saw what the commotion was about. Penny, wearing a pair of men’s pyjama bottoms, Ugg boots and a Greenpeace T-shirt covered in motor oil stains was standing in the garden at Woodside Hall waving a broom and shrieking at the top of her lungs. At first glance, she looked like a card-carrying lunatic. However, closer inspection revealed that the object, or rather objects, of her ire were Gringo, and Penny and Santiago’s wire-haired dachshund bitch, Delilah. Gringo, God bless him, was enthusiastically humping Delilah, who seemed by no means displeased by his attentions.
Catching sight of Angela, Penny waved frantically. ‘Can you get him off? If she has another litter of mongrels, Santiago’ll hit the roof.’
Angela giggled. ‘It seems rude to interrupt them. Poor Gringo.’
‘Poor Gringo my arse,’ said Penny, also laughing despite herself. ‘Your bloody dog is the Jimmy Savile of Fittlescombe. He must be ninety years old! Delilah’s only two.’
‘And living up to her name already, the hussy,’ said Angela. ‘She enticed him.’
‘Seriously, please help me!’
With both women in fits of giggles, and neither dog minded to cut short their happy union, a farcical few minutes of collar-tugging, barking and snarling ensued. Once they were finally separated and Delilah had been locked in the study while an exhausted Gringo collapsed contentedly in front of the Aga, Penny made herself and Angela a deserved pot of tea.
‘Do you think we caught them in time?’ Penny asked nervously, plonking a plate of Hobnobs down on the kitchen table on the one spot not covered with newspapers and half-finished works of art. ‘I really will cry if Delilah’s up the duff again.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘I can’t imagine Gringo’s sperm are up to much at this point. He is, as you say, ancient, though Brett and I like to think of him as more of a Bamber Gascoigne – “I’ve started, so I’ll finish”.’
Penny grinned. ‘How is Brett?’
Angela’s face visibly clouded over. ‘He’s OK. He’s travelling a lot.’
‘Do you miss him?’ asked Penny.