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Authors: Fiona Walker
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breathless. At a mock awards ceremony the college put on, friends hailed Kat the ultimate mate they wanted onside in a crisis. At the time, her heart hadbeen set on a career in humanitarian aid work, but then she’d met Nick and her plans had changed. As Kat’s life contracted into the self-protective, imprisoned minutiae of a destructive relationship, she’d lost her natural confidence. It had started to resurface here, in her safe harbour, but it still needed a lot of buoyancy aids.
‘If we knew which of the rumours to believe, life wouldbe a lot easier.’ She sighed.
‘What about the solicitor’s letter on your phone?’
‘They emailed it because the postman won’t deliver anything beyond the first gate. There are owls nesting in the box there right now, so he leaves all our post at the pub for Russ to collect, and he keeps forgetting.’
‘What was
in
it, Kat?’
‘Owls, I told you.’
‘I meant the letter!’
‘Oh, I haven’t read it. It’ll just be the usual guff about access rights, or another offer to relocate the sanctuary so the farm can be sold with the estate.’
Dawn groaned. Kat had an aversion to formal paperwork, which was probably why she was living in a damp grace-and-favour fleapit while ex fiancé Nick was sitting on mounting equity in the house they’d bought together. ‘So whycan’t the sanctuary be moved somewhere else?’
‘Constance was emphatic that it had to be here at Lake Farm.’
‘What do the animals care as long as they’re looked after?’ asked Dawn, who now suspected Constance had been certifiable. The place was barely habitable. ‘Why not relocate somewhere warm and dry with a functioning letterbox, somewhere a bit nearer to a road?’
‘I’ll showyou.’ Kat whistled for the dogs.
Dawn wished she hadn’t asked as she was forced to abandon her mug of tea and climb back into the whiffy oversized wellies – she suspected they were Russ’s – to squelch outside into the rain again.
It was still coming down in sheets but Kat seemed hardly to notice as she led her out of the farmyard and across a gnarled, skeletal orchard to the oldestoak at the edge of the woods, its girth as fat as a cooling tower’s.
Beneath its vast canopy there was a cluster of tiny headstones.
Dawn’s eyes filled with tears as she read the names – Toby, Alice, Mungo, Hetty, all with such short lives. ‘Oh, the poor little things.’
‘I know, it’s impossibly sad.’ Kat wrapped a comforting arm around her. ‘The family buried all their favouritepets here.’
‘
Pets?
’
‘Yes. What did you think they were? Children?’
That was exactly what Dawn had imagined lying under their feet, a tragic illustration of infant mortality statistics from another era. Instead she was looking at the graves of some of the Mytton family’s favourite dogs, whose names and dates were etched in the pocked, mossy little slabs. In some cases theirlikeness had been carved in limestone and marble – Benji, 1892–1904, had been a particularly roguish-looking bull terrier, while Catkin, 1907–23, was a kind-eyed whippet.
Kat patted the tiny domed head. ‘This was one of Constance’s favourite places. She’d talk about her childhood and the pets she remembered, like Catkin here. “Exquisite little thing – always looked like she’d faint if youso much as clapped your hands, but she was as brave as a lion, rather like you, Katherine.”’
Listening to her, Dawn felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Kat had always been good at impersonations – her Björk was a legend, Janet Street-Porter less so – but this was something else. The voice seemed to come from someone totally different: rich, warm and killingly upper class. Itwasn’t mockery: someone real was speaking. Any minute now Kat’s head would spin around and ectoplasm jet out. ‘I think you need a holiday,’ she said kindly, wondering how best to get her on a spa break and then back to Watford.
But Kat was
‘If we knew which of the rumours to believe, life wouldbe a lot easier.’ She sighed.
‘What about the solicitor’s letter on your phone?’
‘They emailed it because the postman won’t deliver anything beyond the first gate. There are owls nesting in the box there right now, so he leaves all our post at the pub for Russ to collect, and he keeps forgetting.’
‘What was
in
it, Kat?’
‘Owls, I told you.’
‘I meant the letter!’
‘Oh, I haven’t read it. It’ll just be the usual guff about access rights, or another offer to relocate the sanctuary so the farm can be sold with the estate.’
Dawn groaned. Kat had an aversion to formal paperwork, which was probably why she was living in a damp grace-and-favour fleapit while ex fiancé Nick was sitting on mounting equity in the house they’d bought together. ‘So whycan’t the sanctuary be moved somewhere else?’
‘Constance was emphatic that it had to be here at Lake Farm.’
‘What do the animals care as long as they’re looked after?’ asked Dawn, who now suspected Constance had been certifiable. The place was barely habitable. ‘Why not relocate somewhere warm and dry with a functioning letterbox, somewhere a bit nearer to a road?’
‘I’ll showyou.’ Kat whistled for the dogs.
Dawn wished she hadn’t asked as she was forced to abandon her mug of tea and climb back into the whiffy oversized wellies – she suspected they were Russ’s – to squelch outside into the rain again.
It was still coming down in sheets but Kat seemed hardly to notice as she led her out of the farmyard and across a gnarled, skeletal orchard to the oldestoak at the edge of the woods, its girth as fat as a cooling tower’s.
Beneath its vast canopy there was a cluster of tiny headstones.
Dawn’s eyes filled with tears as she read the names – Toby, Alice, Mungo, Hetty, all with such short lives. ‘Oh, the poor little things.’
‘I know, it’s impossibly sad.’ Kat wrapped a comforting arm around her. ‘The family buried all their favouritepets here.’
‘
Pets?
’
‘Yes. What did you think they were? Children?’
That was exactly what Dawn had imagined lying under their feet, a tragic illustration of infant mortality statistics from another era. Instead she was looking at the graves of some of the Mytton family’s favourite dogs, whose names and dates were etched in the pocked, mossy little slabs. In some cases theirlikeness had been carved in limestone and marble – Benji, 1892–1904, had been a particularly roguish-looking bull terrier, while Catkin, 1907–23, was a kind-eyed whippet.
Kat patted the tiny domed head. ‘This was one of Constance’s favourite places. She’d talk about her childhood and the pets she remembered, like Catkin here. “Exquisite little thing – always looked like she’d faint if youso much as clapped your hands, but she was as brave as a lion, rather like you, Katherine.”’
Listening to her, Dawn felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Kat had always been good at impersonations – her Björk was a legend, Janet Street-Porter less so – but this was something else. The voice seemed to come from someone totally different: rich, warm and killingly upper class. Itwasn’t mockery: someone real was speaking. Any minute now Kat’s head would spin around and ectoplasm jet out. ‘I think you need a holiday,’ she said kindly, wondering how best to get her on a spa break and then back to Watford.
But Kat was
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