“No, not yet.”
“If you go inside and have your juice, I’ll see if I can teach Buddy how to fetch the ball.”
“Okay.” She ran into the house.
Even before I’d had the chance to speak to him, the dog said, “Forget it. If you think I’m chasing around this muddy garden after that stupid ball, you’ve got another think coming.”
“And a very good morning to you too, Buddy.”
“I mean it. I’m not chasing after a stupid ball.”
“Fair enough, but here’s the deal. We’ll buy your ridiculously expensive food, but only if you play ball with Florence.”
“But it’s a stupid game. She throws the ball, I bring it back to her, and then she does the same thing all over again. What’s the point of that? I’m not doing it.”
“It looks like you’re stuck with the ‘slop’, then.”
“That sounds a lot like blackmail.”
“Blackmail’s a very emotive word. I’d prefer to call it quid pro quo.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll fetch the ball, but I’m not doing it all day long. Fifteen minutes at a stretch, max.”
“That’ll do. Do we have a deal?”
“I suppose so, but I want it noted that I’m only agreeing under duress.”
“So noted.” I went back into the house. “Florence, darling. Buddy knows how to play ball now.”
“You’re so clever, Mummy.”
“That’s very true. Why don’t you go and play with him again?”
She put on her shoes, ran back out to the garden, and threw the ball for the dog. Buddy didn’t exactly sprint after it, but he did manage to pick it up in his mouth and return it to Florence. She was clearly delighted, beaming from ear to ear.
“How on Earth did you manage that?” Jack said.
“All it took was a little negotiation.”
“Huh?”
“It seems our friend, Buddy, isn’t very impressed by the food you’ve been giving him.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“According to him, it’s ‘slop’. I promised we’d buy the food he prefers, and in return he’s agreed to play ball with Florence.”
“Is Florence able to talk to him?”
“No, it’ll be a while before her powers have developed enough to allow her to talk to animals. It’s probably just as well because I wouldn’t want her to hear some of the things Buddy has to say. I’m starving. I’m going to make myself some toast. Do you want any?”
“You’ll be lucky. We don’t have any bread.”
“How come?”
“I called at the local shop yesterday afternoon, but they were all out. That shop’s useless, Jill. You can’t rely on them to have anything. We’re going to have to get all our shopping from the supermarket.”
“They must have had a delivery of bread by now. I’ll nip over there.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Although we’d lived in Middle Tweaking for a few months, I’d not yet stepped foot in the local shop. The bulk of our shopping was delivered by the closest supermarket. As Jack was home all day, he was able to nip out to pick up anything we ran out of. I was quite sure the local shop couldn’t be as bad as Jack had made it out to be—like every man in the world, he had a tendency to exaggerate.
As I made my way across the village, I reflected on how nice it would be to have a ‘normal’ local shop and shopkeeper, instead of the crazy that had been Little Jack’s Corner Shop. Nice as he was, Little Jack was a true eccentric. How else did you explain a man who spent all of his time on stilts in a wind tunnel? During the time we’d lived in Smallwash, he’d tried to introduce all manner of new schemes including loyalty cards, home delivery and online ordering—all of which had failed spectacularly.
Middle Tweaking’s village shop, which was next-door to the greengrocer, was called Tweaking Stores. From the outside, it looked slightly smaller than Little Jack’s Corner Shop. A bell chimed as I walked through the door, but there didn’t appear to be anyone behind the counter. The interior of the shop was quite old fashioned and reminded me of the local shop where I used to buy sweets as a kid. The layout was very confusing because there didn’t appear to be any obvious grouping of like items. Instead, everything seemed to have been placed on the shelves in a random fashion.
“Good morning.” The woman, who had appeared behind the counter, was wearing a floral-patterned apron and had a blue rinse. “I’m Cynthia Stock. My sister, Marjorie and I own this fine establishment. Are you visiting the village?”
“Actually no. My husband, myself and our little girl moved into the old watermill recently.”
“You must be Jack’s wife.”
“That’s right. I’m Jill.”
“Your husband has been in here a few times, but I think it’s the first time you and I have met, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I haven’t had the chance to pop in before.”
“That little girl of yours is a darling.”
“Florence? We like to think so.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Actually no. We found ourselves without bread and butter this morning, and I really fancy toast for breakfast.”
“Oh dear.” She frowned. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The bread delivery won’t arrive until eleven.”
“Isn’t that rather late?”
“Actually, it’s earlier than usual. It doesn’t normally arrive until midday.”
“O—kay. What about butter? Where would I find that?”
“Hmm.” Her frown deepened. “I’m afraid we’re all out of that too. We should be getting some more in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Or the day after. Definitely by the weekend.”
“Right. Okay, well never mind.”
“I tell you what we do have, though.”
“Yes?” I assumed she was going to offer a non-dairy spread.
I was wrong.
“Yesterday, we took delivery of some lovely body warmers.” She pointed
