One Intimate Night

Upstream from the town, on the site of what had originally been the area’s corn mill, the original buildings had been turned into a tourist attraction—the millpond cleaned out and its weir restored to its original glory. It was a popular site for picnickers and walkers and Georgia, who loved the countryside, couldn’t help thinking how fortunate she was to live and work in such a beautiful environment.

She felt completely at home here, and had even begun to daydream of the admittedly at the moment remote possibility that she might one day be able to afford to buy into the partnership as a junior partner.

Under Philip’s traditional management the practice had a slightly old-fashioned air to it, so Georgia had been thrilled when the response to her pleas to be allowed to introduce a pet-visiting scheme to a nearby old people’s home had met with overwhelming success.

The pets, carefully chosen and nominated by their vets and accompanied by their enthusiastic owners, visited the home on a regular basis to see their human ‘friends’.

One elderly man, who had always had a dog throughout his adult life before entering the home, had cried emotional tears to see the chocolate-brown Labrador who had visited him.

‘He’s just like my Brownie was,’ he had told the dog’s owner in a choked voice as he’d stroked the obliging dog.

Georgia had several other similar schemes she wanted to introduce as and when the opportunity arose. But with a black mark hovering over her, thanks to Piers, how could she do so?

It was pointless, of course, blaming Ben or Mrs Latham. Even so, she was hoping that the opportunity might arise to suggest tactfully to the older woman that both she and Ben would benefit from Ben undergoing a complete retraining course at the hands of someone with the expertise to teach the dog properly on a one-to-one basis.

Opening her car door, Georgia got out and walked determinedly towards Mrs Latham’s house.

* * *

Piers was in the kitchen when Georgia rang the bell—and feeling rather out of temper. He had driven his godmother to the nearest mainline station earlier in the day and then gone on from there to do some essential food shopping. The diet of an old lady who, whilst not totally vegetarian nevertheless seemed to prefer a very light menu, was not one that he, as a six-foot, twelve-and-a-half-stone mature adult man felt happy with. Not that he didn’t believe in healthy eating—he did—but he liked substantially more on his plate than his godmother enjoyed.

He had returned to her house via the estate agent’s, where he had had an in-depth talk with the representative he had seen, outlining his requirements, and had come away with half a dozen promising property details to look over, feeling more than ready for the lunch of locally grown new potatoes accompanied by Scottish salmon, fresh vegetables and a hollandaise sauce he had promised himself.

His first intimation that this was to be a delayed pleasure had occurred when he’d opened the front door and seen the soft drift of feathers floating innocently down the stairs and into the hallway.

Feathers...!

He’d studied them frowningly as the draught of air from the open kitchen door drew them outside.

Feathers?

An unpleasant suspicion had gathered as ominously as the frown corrugating his forehead.

Putting down his shopping, he’d called out sternly, ‘Ben?’

Silence...

Nothing...!

Closing the back door, Piers had hurried upstairs. The door to his godmother’s bedroom was open, and as he’d looked into the room his heart had sunk. There was Ben, lying fast asleep on his godmother’s bed, surrounded by feathers; a torn pillow on the floor had pointed to their origins and Piers had taken a deep breath before saying firmly, ‘Ben!’

In his sleep the dog had breathed deeply, and then wrinkled his nose as a feather landed softly on it.

Grimly Piers had surveyed him. No way could the dog be asleep, and, as though to prove him correct, Ben had suddenly lifted one eyelid just the merest fraction and then closed it again.

Wrathfully Piers had taken action, marching over to the bed and getting hold of Ben’s collar and yanking him firmly onto the floor.

* * *

Four hours later, having made do with a sandwich for his lunch, he had finally cleared away the last of the feathers, walked Ben, given him his meal and responded to his godmother’s anxious phone call that, yes, he and Ben were getting on fine, albeit through fiercely gritted teeth.

Now, just as he was about to sit down and study the estate agent’s properties, someone was at the door. No doubt some crony of his godmother’s, who would want to have the full story of where she was and who he was.

Irritably Piers walked towards the hall door.

Immediately Ben got up to follow him. He was a sociable dog, and in his experience visitors to the house meant an hour or so of entertainment and the added attraction of some of Mrs Latham’s home-made cake—plus, if he was really in her good books, his own special mug of tea. Ben liked tea.