The Switch(27)

I get up again after a few moments, because sitting still is even worse than running. I yell his name over and over, but it’s so windy I can barely even hear myself. One week ago, I was standing in a boardroom delivering a sixteen-point plan for ensuring stakeholder buy-in when facilitating a corporate change initiative. Now, I am weeping in a field and screaming the word Hank over and over into the wind with my feet rubbed raw and my hair – no doubt an absolutely fecking bird’s nest by now – hitting me repeatedly in the face. I can’t help thinking that I am coping with this extraordinarily badly. I’m normally good in an emergency, aren’t I? I’m sure Rebecca said that in my last appraisal?

I cling to this thought. I breathe as steadily as I can. There’s nothing else for it: I have to go back to Hamleigh. I don’t have Jackson’s number (huge oversight – what was I thinking?), and he needs to know what’s happened.

I feel sick. He’s going to hate me. Obviously. I hate me right now. Oh, poor Hank, out there in the fields – he probably hasn’t a clue what to do with himself now he’s realised he’s lost me. I’m really sobbing – it’s quite hard to breathe. I need to get a grip on myself. Come on. Come on, what’s the matter with me?

I thought the walk through Hamleigh was bad on the way here, but this is a hundred times worse. Silent eyes watch me from windows and doorways. A child points at me across the street and yells, ‘It’s Stig of the Dump, Mam!’ Roland whirs by on his mobility scooter again, then double-takes when he comes level with me.

‘Where’s Hank?’ he calls.

‘I lost him,’ I choke.

He gasps. ‘Good God!’

I grit my teeth and keep walking.

‘We must send out a search party!’ Roland says. ‘We must call a village committee meeting at once! I’ll speak to Betsy.’

Oh, God, not Betsy.

‘I need to speak to Jackson,’ I say, wiping my face with my sleeve. ‘Please. Let me talk to him before you speak to Betsy.’

But Roland is busy performing a very slow three-point turn and doesn’t seem to hear me.

‘Let me speak to Jackson first!’ I yell.

‘Don’t you fret, Leena, we’ll find Hank!’ Roland calls over his shoulder, then he buzzes off again.

I swear and trudge on. I’m trying to run through exactly what to say to Jackson, but it turns out there is absolutely no good way to tell somebody you have lost their dog, and running the conversation over and over is making me feel more and more nauseous. By the time I get to his front door I am in the exact state of nervous tension I enter just before a big presentation, which, based on recent form, presumably means I’m about to have a panic attack.

I ring the doorbell, then belatedly remember the key in my pocket. Oh, God, Jackson’s probably already left for work – am I going to have to go to the village school to tell him I lost his dog? This is not a conversation I want to have in front of a classroom full of small children.

But, to my surprise, Jackson opens the door.

I have an overpowering sense of déjà vu. Scrabble of paws, falling backwards, dog licking face, owner looming over us—

‘Hank!’ I shriek, burying my face in his fur and holding him as tightly as I can, given he’s moving like a bucking bronco. ‘Hank! Oh, my God, I thought …’

I become aware of Jackson’s eyes on me. I look up.

He looks very big. He was big before, but now he’s really … owning it. He doesn’t look like an affable giant now, more like a man who could end a bar brawl with one low, careful word.

‘I’m so, so sorry, Jackson,’ I say, as Hank clambers all over me, paws smearing new layers of mud on my filthy jeans. ‘Please believe me. I didn’t let him off on purpose, he just got away from me. I’m sorry. I thought I was prepared, but … I’m so sorry. Are you late for school now?’

‘I called in when the vicar phoned to say she’d seen Hank trotting down Peewit Street. The head’s covering my class.’

I bury my face in Hank’s fur.

‘Are you all right?’ Jackson asks.

‘Am I all right?’ I say, voice muffled.

‘You seem … a bit … err …’

‘Of a fucking state?’

Jackson’s eyes widen fractionally. ‘Not what I was going to say.’

I look up; his expression has softened, and he leans against the doorframe.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, wiping my cheeks. ‘I really do feel terrible – I should have been more careful.’

‘Look, no harm done,’ Jackson says. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

Hank begins a very thorough survey of my wellies, sniffing wildly, and intermittently whacking me with his tail.

‘You don’t have to be nice,’ I say, dodging the tail. ‘You can be angry with me. I deserve it.’

Jackson looks puzzled. ‘I was angry, but then … You said sorry, didn’t you?’

‘Well yeah, but …’

Jackson watches as I push myself up and make a vague attempt to brush the dirt off my jeans.

‘You’re forgiven, if that’s what you’re after,’ he says. ‘Hank’s a little bugger anyway, shouldn’t have let him loose on you.’