3

The Dower House, Monks Bottom

Roger Fuller’s ear had been sharp-tuned all day for the merry summons of his mobile’s ring tone (the theme music from The Magic Roundabout) and Timothy’s emotional updates had come in with regularity.

‘…Oh, Skipper, having to cope without you is agony… She’s drifting in and out of consciousness… Andrew Gibson called in at lunchtime and said it won’t be long now… Sally says her pulse is weakening…’

As Roger listened he’d formed the expected words of sympathy and concern. ‘Angel, just hold tight. I’m with you every step of the way.’ Now, at last, with the final pronouncement, Roger responded with well-rehearsed cooing tones, to convey deep compassion and understanding. ‘Just hold on, honey. I’ll be there.’

‘We’ve got to wait now for Andrew to do the paperwork. I’ll ring with the all clear.’ He rang off without further exchange.

Roger’s hand gripped the goblet of white wine he was holding so tightly the stem broke from the bowl and the contents fell on his shoes. His heart thumped. His stomach lurched. He had a spontaneous erection. He thought with horror that he might actually cry, but Finnegan’s noisy presence broke the moment, lustily licking the spilt wine from the sturdy Lobb brogues.

Roger had known Marina Proudfoot for most of his life, and in decent terms of respect, he should have been sorry. But sorry wasn’t the word that sprang to mind. Fucking, frigging, bollocking delighted was more apt. He fell on his knees with joy and clumsily embraced the slobbering Wolfhound. ‘Oh, thank you, God,’ he said aloud. ‘I’m dancing with delight. Could relief ever be more glorious?’

He staggered to his feet, dizzy with happiness. At last she was gone. Hurrah! How he hated the cow. Forever the fly in the ointment, the spider in the web, swanning around like Lady Muck, and swamping Tim with her power. But – being trained and experienced in HR – he would act his part to perfection. Sympathetic noises and head-angled concern would be the order of the day. He’d be the listener, the hugger, the kisser, the lover.

Unable to shake off his euphoria, he jumped up and down on the spot like a marathon runner on the starting grid. Finnegan, instinctively picking up the mood of his master, pirouetted with the grace of a foal, thumped his tail and eyed Roger with a ‘what comes next’ look.

‘I can tell you’re as happy as I am, old boy,’ Roger said to the bounding hound. ‘You thought you were staying behind with Mummy, but I’ve decided you’re coming with me. That’s a surprise, isn’t it? Suppose I’d better write a note.’

Roger looked around for a pen.