The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,33

‘He’s been gone for two weeks, but I just can’t get over it – he was my best friend.’ She took a photo frame from the windowsill and handed it to me. ‘There he is, you see … my perfect little man.’

A more ragtag of a dog the world had never seen, but you could tell in his eyes he was a sweetheart, and I swear he was smiling at the camera.

‘Always there for me, he was’ she said with a sniff. ‘Always. Thick and thin, day and night, either sitting on my knee or by the side of the chair or the end of the bed. Dogs only know love – how to love and be enthusiastic – that’s all they know. And I keep on hearing his little footsteps padding around the house, then I hear him scratching at the door to get in, and I open it and he isn’t there, just like my own little Cathy from Wuthering Heights. And I worry about him being all alone, you know …’ she glanced up and her voice broke revealing the deep and desperate outpouring of a broken heart. She dabbed her eyes again. ‘And he hates to be on his own, hates it. He’s never been left on his own, never.’ She blew her nose on paper towel. ‘Sorry, love. You don’t need to hear all of this.’

‘Don’t be silly. I don’t mind. Not a bit.’ I sat immobilised by the impotency of the listener and began to finish my toast but then realised that eating during such a discussion was a bit … irreverent. Fenella pointed to a pine shelf to the right of the kitchen window.

‘See those boxes on the shelf?’

I twisted my neck to look. Three boxes (that looked remarkably like the one on the table) sat on top of a bigger box – which also looked like the little wooden box on the table.

‘That’s my life, that is … my life in dogs. Every single one of them loved. And that’s not all of them, either. The earlier ones were buried in the garden, bless them.’

The kettle began to whistle on the Aga. Fenella busied herself making a fresh pot of tea while talking. I stared at the boxes with the words, my life in dog, ringing in my ears. But I couldn’t get my head around the bottom box. It was massive. What the hell kind of horse-dog needed a box that big?

Fenella read my mind.

‘The bottom box isn’t a dog, mind you …’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s my mother. She liked to have a dog sitting on her lap. And there they all are, sitting on her lap in heaven. How about a biscuit? Blue Ribbon? Rich Tea?’

Despite my enormous breakfast – and extra toast – I couldn’t refuse a biscuit and it was definitely a Blue Ribbon kind of a moment (actually, it was more of a Jaffa Cake moment but I didn’t want to be picky at a time like this).

‘Oh, go on then.’

She jumped up and opened the larder.

‘But to get another dog now …’ she said, finding the biscuit barrel, closing the door, placing it on the table and sitting down. ‘I don’t think I’ve enough time left. I’m eighty next and I’m not as steady on my feet as I used to be.’ She let out a laugh. ‘It’ll be my own box up there soon, and I wouldn’t want to go before the dog … wouldn’t be fair. No, it’s time to put my walking boots away. I’ll give them to charity.’

Charity? They were falling apart.

‘Actually,’ she crossed the room to pick up the boots. ‘– what size are you? You could have them. There’s loads of miles left in these little beauties.’

‘I’m a six.’

‘Perfect! Take them with you when you go.’ She put the boots back on the floor under the lead. ‘But listen to me, moaning on …’ She poured the tea. ‘Happy bloody Christmas, eh? Oh, by the way. Did Gerald say anything to you about the gin?’

Now we were talking!

The teapot was returned to the table.

‘Gin?’

‘Gin.’

I remembered Gerald’s letter.

‘I think he said there would be gin. Why?’

Fenella pressed her hands on the table to push herself up. I swear the woman never sat still for two minutes straight. She nodded her head towards the door.

‘Follow me.’

I put down my biscuit and followed on. Fenella’s small back garden was blessed with a twee stone barn. She took a flowerpot off the top of a milk pail