‘I know you think I’m too thin, but this is ridiculous. These pants belong to Jonah.’
Harriet went pink. ‘I’m sorry, I get muddled. I’m just putting eggs on for Chattie and Jonah. Do you want one?’
Cory grimaced.
‘It’d be so good for you,’ she said.
‘All right. I suppose so.’
He sat down and picked up the paper.
‘I haven’t finished my general knowledge homework,’ said Jonah, rushing in, one sock up and one sock down, hair unbrushed, waving an exercise book.
‘Who was Florence Nightingale?’ he said.
‘She was a lesbian,’ said Cory, not looking up.
‘How do you spell that?’ said Jonah.
‘You can’t put that,’ said Harriet. ‘Just say she was a very famous nurse, who looked after wounded soldiers in the Crimea.’
‘She was a lesbian,’ said Cory.
‘Can I have sandwiches today?’ said Chattie. ‘We always have mince and nude-les on Monday, it’s disgusting.’
‘You’ll eat what you’re given,’ said Cory.
‘What has a bottom at the top?’ said Chattie.
‘I really don’t know,’ said Harriet.
‘Legs,’ said Chattie, flicking up her skirt, showing her bottom in scarlet pants and going off into fits of laughter.
‘Oh shut up, Chattie,’ said Jonah. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. Why is a Black Maria called a Black Maria?’
‘She was a large black lady who lived in Boston,’ said Cory, ‘who helped the police arrest drunken sailors. She kept a brothel.’
‘What’s that?’ said Jonah.
‘Better call it a house of ill-fame,’ said Harriet. ‘Oh God, the toast’s burning.’
She rescued it from the grill, and cut three pieces into strips, then unthinkingly cut the tops off three eggs, and handed them out to Cory, Jonah and Chattie.
‘Toast soldiers,’ said Cory, ‘and no-one’s taken the top off my egg for years either.’
Harriet blushed: ‘Sheer habit,’ she said.
‘What’s a house of ill-fame?’ said Chattie.
Harriet dropped off Jonah and then Chattie.
‘Don’t forget to feed Tarbaby,’ shouted Chattie, disappearing into a chattering sea of little girls.
As Harriet walked out of the playground, she met a distraught-looking woman trying to manage three rather scruffy children, and a large grey and black speckled dog, who was tugging on a piece of string. Harriet made clicking noises of approval. The dog bounded towards her pulling its owner with it.
‘What a darling dog,’ said Harriet, as the dog put his paws on her shoulders and started to lick her face. ‘Oh isn’t he lovely?’
‘We can’t bear to look at him,’ said his owner. ‘Come on Spotty.’ She half-heartedly tried to pull the dog away.
‘Why ever not?’ said Harriet.
‘I’ve got to take him to the dogs’ home, after I’ve dropped this lot.’
The children started to cry. ‘I can’t afford to keep him,’ went on the mother. ‘I’ve got a job, and he howls something terrible when I go out, so the landlady says he’s got to go. They’ll find a home for him.’
‘But they may not,’ said Harriet. ‘They put them down after seven days, if they can’t. Oh dear, I wish we could have him.’
Spotty lay his cheek against hers and thumped his plumed tail.
‘What kind is he?’ she said.
‘A setter, I think,’ said the owner, sensing weakness. ‘He’s only a puppy.’
Harriet melted. ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and ring my boss.’
Cory had started work and was not in the mood for interruptions.
‘Er-Mr Erskine, I mean Cory, there’s this absolutely sweet puppy here.’
‘Well,’ said Cory unhelpfully.
‘He’s got to be put down unless they can find a home for him. He’s so sweet.’
‘Harriet,’ said Cory wearily, ‘you have enough trouble coping with William, Chattie, Jonah and me, not to mention Tadpole and Tarbaby. We haven’t got rid of any of Ambrose’s kittens yet and now you want to introduce a puppy. Why don’t you ring up the zoo and ask them to send all the animals up here for a holiday? Telephone Battersea Dogs’ Home, and tell them we keep open house.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Harriet, chastened.
‘What’s his name?’ said Cory.
‘Spotty,’ said Harriet, ‘and he’s a setter.’
There was a long pause.
‘Well, you’d better think up a new name before you get him home,’ said Cory and rang off.
Harriet couldn’t believe her ears.
‘We
She was worried Spotty’s owner might burst into tears, but she seemed absolutely delighted, and later, as Harriet drove off with the dog, she saw her chattering very animatedly to a couple of friends. Not so Spotty, who howled lustily for his mistress for a couple of miles then got into the front seat beside Harriet, and finally collapsed moaning piteously all over the gear lever, his head on her lap.
‘I must think of a name for you,’ she said, as they got home. She opened the AA book and plonked her finger down blindly. It landed on Sevenoaks.
‘Hullo, Sevenoaks,’ said Harriet. ‘You’ve got a cattle market on Monday, two three star hotels and you’re twenty-five miles from London.’
‘Harriet,’ said Cory, as Sevenoaks charged round the drawing room, trailing standard lamp wires like goose grass, ‘That is not a puppy — nor is it a setter.’
‘Come here,’ said Harriet, trying to catch him as he whisked past.
‘He’s fully grown,’ said Cory. ‘At least two and virtually untrainable.’
Sevenoaks rolled his eyes, charged past Cory, and shot upstairs, followed by Tadpole, who was thoroughly overexcited. Sevenoaks had already received a bloody nose from Ambrose, a very frosty response from Mrs Bottomley, and tried to eat one of Cory’s riding boots. Now he could be heard drinking out of the lavatory. Next he came crashing downstairs, followed once more by Tadpole, and collapsed panting frenziedly at Harriet’s feet. She looked up at Cory with starry eyes.
‘Look how he’s settled down,’ she said. ‘He knows he’s going to be really happy here.’
All in all, however, Sevenoaks couldn’t be described as one hundred per cent a success. Whenever he wasn’t trying to escape to the bitches in the village, he was fornicating with Tadpole in the front garden, digging holes in the lawn, chewing everything in sight, or stretching out on sofas and beds with huge muddy paws.
The great love of his life, however, was Harriet. He seemed to realize that she had rescued him from death’s door. He welcomed her noisily whenever she returned, howled the house down if she went out and had a growling match with Cory every night because Cory refused to let him sleep on Harriet’s bed.
The following Wednesday was another day of disasters. Cory was having trouble with his script and was not in the best temper anyway, particularly as William was teething and spent the day screaming his head off, and Sevenoaks had chewed up Cory’s only French dictionary. Harriet botched up Chattie’s lamb chops by burning them under the grill while she was filling in a How Seductive Are You quiz in a women’s magazine, and she’d just finished pouring milk into William and Tarbaby’s bottles when Ambrose came weaving along and knocked the whole lot onto the floor. She was also in a highly nervous state, having at last promised Sammy she would accompany her to the Loose Box that evening.
It was half past seven by the time she’d cleared up and got everyone to bed. There was no time to have a
