The Switch(69)

I look outside again and wince: the dog is currently digging a hole in the middle of Betsy’s lawn. I should probably put a stop to that.

‘Hank! Hank, come!’ I call, and then – this is the part Jackson gave me very firm instructions on – I crinkle the plastic packet of dog treats in one hand.

Hank’s head shoots up and he freezes mid dig. Within half a second, he’s bounding towards me. Betsy lets out a tiny shriek, but I am prepared: I grab him before he can change his mind, and fix the lead to his collar. He continues bouncing about undeterred – once he’s collected his snack, of course – and I swivel to avoid him completely entangling me in the lead.

I can sort of see what Jackson means, now: Betsy isn’t OK, is she, but what can I do to make her say it? This may not have been my finest plan. It’s very hard to have a personal conversation with somebody when you’re also trying to stop a Labrador from licking their face.

‘And you’re sure everything is all right?’ I try, as Hank redirects his attention from Betsy to the bin.

‘Everything is fine, thank you, Leena,’ Betsy says.

‘Betsy, what the bloody hell’s going on?’ yells a gruff male voice.

Betsy stiffens. Her eyes flick to mine, then away.

‘Nothing, love,’ she calls loudly. ‘Be with you in a moment.’

‘Is there somebody in here? Did you let somebody in?’ A beat, then, low, like a warning: ‘You didn’t let somebody in, did you, now, Betsy?’

‘No!’ Betsy says, eyes flicking to mine again. ‘Nobody here but me, Cliff.’

My heart thumps. I’ve gone cold.

‘Betsy,’ I begin, my voice low. I give Hank a hard yank on the lead and tell him very sternly to sit; blessedly, this time, he does. ‘Betsy, he shouldn’t speak to you like that. And you should be allowed to have friends around. It’s your house as much as his.’

Betsy moves then, out into the garden, leading me to the passage running from the front to the back garden. ‘Goodbye, Leena,’ she says quietly, unbolting the gate.

‘Betsy – please, if there’s anything I can do to help you …’

‘Betsy … I can hear voices, Betsy …’ comes Cliff’s voice from inside. Even I flinch this time.

Betsy meets my gaze square on. ‘You’re one to talk about needing help,’ she hisses. ‘Sort your own life out before you come in here and try to fix mine, Miss Cotton.’

She steps aside. Hank strains beside me, eyes on the pathway through the open gate.

‘If you change your mind, call me.’

‘You just don’t take a hint, do you? Out.’ She nods to the gate as if she’s talking to the dog.

‘You deserve better than this. And it’s never too late to have the life you deserve, Betsy.’

With that, I go. The gate clicks shut quietly behind me.

*

I hate how little I can do for Betsy. The next day, I research local services that offer support for women who are in controlling relationships – I can’t find much that’s specific to older people, but I think there are some resources that might still help her, and I print them off, carrying them in my rucksack whenever I’m out in the village, just in case. But as the week passes, she’s still as frosty as ever, and every time I try to speak to her she shuts me down.

I don’t have much time left here. It’s May Day next weekend, then I’ll be back to London, and back to work the week after that. There is an email from Rebecca in my inbox to discuss which project I’ll be working on when I return to the office. I keep opening the email and staring at it – it feels as though it’s meant for somebody else.

For now, I’m just focusing on May Day. The final elements of the festival are falling into place. I have sourced a hog roast, I have worked out how to fix five-hundred lanterns to the trees around the field where the main bonfire will be, and I have personally transported six bags of biodegradable green glitter to the village hall so that it can be scattered along the parade route. (That, it turns out, was what glitter meant on the to-do list Betsy gave me. My protestations that glitter is not very medieval were met with a firm, ‘it’s traditional’).

I can’t step in and try to help Betsy without her consent, but I can help her coordinate a large-scale project.

And there’s something else I can do, too.

‘Can’t you look frailer?’ I ask Nicola, straightening her cardigan and brushing some lint from her shoulder.

She shoots me a glare that I make a mental note to imitate when I next want to eviscerate a rude co-worker.

‘This is as frail as I go,’ Nicola says. ‘I thought you said you were taking me to Leeds to go shopping. Why do I need to look frail?’

‘Yes, absolutely, shopping,’ I say. ‘We’re just dropping in on a few corporate law firms first.’

‘What?’

‘It won’t take a minute! All our meetings are scheduled for twenty minutes at most.’

Nicola glowers. ‘What do you need me for?’

‘I’m getting a sponsor for the May Day festival. But I’m all, you know, Londony and corporate,’ I say, waving a hand at myself. ‘You are sweet and elderly and get the sympathy vote.’

‘I’m not even from Hamleigh! And sweet my arse,’ says Nicola. ‘If you think I’m going to sit there and simper for some fat-cat lawyer …’