I normally have a relatively neat shoulder-length bob, long enough to tie back but not long enough to be a pain. After a month on the road, and a few nights sleeping in a Mercedes, I now look like Neanderthal Woman the morning after her hen party. My naturally dark blonde hair has lightened, it’s a few inches beyond my shoulders, and it is wild – which is what happens, I suppose, when you don’t bother using a hairbrush. My skin is bare of make-up and has been for some time, and although I have a nice tan, I also have bright red cheeks and am streaked in sweat and dirt. How did I get so dirty? How did I turn into this? One cuddly stray dog and a long trek through the woods, I suppose.
I splash water onto my face, and run my fingers through my hair. They get stuck, which doesn’t bode well for the detangling process. I decide that I don’t care, flick myself the Vs in the mirror, and head back out into the closed café. I wonder if there is CCTV, if I’ve triggered some kind of alarm, if the Dorset constabulary are heading this way, sirens blazing, guns and tasers at the ready…except, well, it’s Dorset, and they probably don’t send SWAT teams to apprehend women who sneak into buildings to use the toilet.
I emerge into the dim café, lit only by streaks of sunshine that land in swathes through the windows, and look around. It is pretty, the blonde wood theme continuing inside, all the accents and soft furnishings in shades of white and pale blue. There are seashells on shelves, and wild flowers in tiny vases on all of the tables, and a scent of sea-salt and lavender and sugar in the air.
There is also, I see, a giant fridge. A giant fridge stocked with all kinds of amazing items – cloudy lemonade, ginger beer, strawberry cordial, and yes – yes! – cans of Diet Coke. I am now faced with a huge moral dilemma, but luckily it only lasts for about three seconds. There is a small order pad and pen on the pale-wood counter, and I scribble on it: ‘I’m really sorry but I needed a drink. I am leaving the money and enough for a tip, just like if I’d been here when you were open. Will write a great review on Tripadvisor too!’
I scoop five pound coins from my purse and place them on top of the note, before creeping behind the counter and filling a bowl with water for the dog. He sniffs it suspiciously first, but then laps at it greedily. I open the giant fridge. I reach out and grab my prize. I feel its sweaty, ice-cold exterior, and feel like crying with joy as I crack it open, relishing the fizz and the hiss and the thought of how good this is going to taste.
I am holding the can to my parched lips when the lights behind the counter suddenly go on. I freeze, caught in the act, eyes blinking at the sudden illumination. The dog hides behind my legs, and I guiltily put the can down. Damn it. So near, and yet so far.
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice asks, and I turn around to see a very short, curvy lady looking up at me with her eyebrows raised. She might be tiny, but she looks like one of those people who doesn’t take any crap – in fact, with her blonde curls and hands-on-hips pose, I’m getting a distinct Dolly Parton vibe.
“Um…I’m sorry,” I say quickly, gesturing to the note and the coins. “I wasn’t stealing, honest – my car broke down and I was too hot and I had no water and then I found a dog and then we walked through the fairy woods and then you were…closed. But I wasn’t stealing.”
She nods, and walks towards me, her eyes taking in the note, the cash, and then the dog. Her eyes light up and she exclaims: “You found the weresheep!”
“Did I?” I ask, confused, as she crouches down and holds her hands out towards him so he can sniff her fingers. He hesitates, looks up at me, and I tell him it’s okay. He tentatively licks her outstretched palm. He definitely does that to everything, it seems.
She strokes the dog for a few moments, then stands up tall. Or as tall as it’s possible to get when you’re under five foot. She glances at the bowl, and smiles.
“You gave him water before you didn’t steal the can of Coke?”
I shrug, and she continues: “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve paid for it. Might as well enjoy it. It’s fine. My name’s Connie, by the way. Connie Llewellyn. Look, you’ve obviously had a rough day – why don’t you just sit down for a minute, get your bearings. When you’re done, you have two options – leave the way you came, or pop outside at the front and say hello. No pressure, but you’d be very welcome. I’ll leave it up to you.”
She pats my arm, and I almost recoil. I have not, I realise, been touched by another human being for a while now. It’s not just my hair that’s gone feral.
Connie gives me a little wave, and walks away, sashaying her way between the tables and chairs to the far end of the room, spilling out of her skinny jeans in a way that says ‘I know I’m hot, and I don’t care what you think.’
I follow her path, and see there is a mirror image at the other side of the building – walls of glass, a sliding door that she shimmies out of. Beyond it I see what looks like a patio with more tables, and past that a green space. There are people there, and now I focus, I can hear them – laughter and chatter and the sound of children playing, a dog barking, a ball hitting a bat.
I lean against the counter, and feel the dog’s reassuring touch as he leans against the back of my legs. I pause, take a deep breath, and finally do it – I drink that can of pop in three gulps, and my Lord, it is possibly the best thing I have ever tasted. Naturally enough, I let out a loud belch afterwards, and laugh as the dog looks at me with what I interpret as disapproval.
“I know,” I say, putting the can in the recycling bin, “I’m not very ladylike, am I? Now, what should we do, pal? I can hear another pooch out there. Do you like other dogs, or are you one of those small ones that thinks he’s a Rottweiler, eh? Should we stay, or should we go? On the one hand, I’m not sure I feel ready to plunge back into society. But on the other, my car isn’t working and I have no place to go. Tricky, isn’t it?”
By this point the dog has lost interest, and instead has trotted over to the door at the front and is barking excitedly to be let out. Looks like he’s voted with his feet.
ChapterFour
As soon as I step outside, I become so self-conscious I can barely move. Everyone is looking at me, and I try to keep my head up beneath the scrutiny. I cross the patio, and join the small crowd at the edge of what I now see is a very traditional village green.
The green itself is fringed by shops and homes, some thatched, some not, but all of them old and pretty and well-maintained. There are larger buildings, some barely bigger than sheds, some in a small higgledy-piggledy terrace made of warm golden stone. I spot a small shop, what looks like a bakery, and a pub, as well as a grander hall that looks like an old Victorian school. Every single one of them has a lush garden, whether it’s a courtyard covered in pots or green lawns or riots of flowers. It’s as though a multi-coloured patchwork quilt has been laid down across the whole place. Behind the green and the buildings, the hillside tumbles down, lush and vibrant, dotted with other homes that are perched precariously on the slope, the landscape cocooning the whole village.
Connie stands up, and waves me over. There are too many people for me to take in all at once, and I feel slightly overwhelmed by them all. I grip my phone tight in my hand, and wonder when I’ll be able to call for help and get out of this place. I enjoyed the Diet Coke, but this feels a bit too much.
“I told you!” Connie says, laughing, “she found the weresheep!”
I suddenly realise that the gathering of strangers is not, in fact, looking at me at all – they’re looking at the dog. Huh. So much for my ego.
The dog is suddenly skittish, planting itself between my legs. I pick him up and join Connie and her friends, holding him steady while he trembles. A little girl with bright red plaits runs over, soon joined by an even smaller one with exactly the same hair.
“Can we see him?” the older one asks, jumping up and down on the spot.
“Let him settle, now, Lilly,” an older man says, walking forward and placing a calming hand on her bouncing shoulder. “Poor thing looks scared to death. And hungry. Run over to mine, will you, get some of those gravy bones I keep in the tin in the kitchen?”
As soon as they scamper away, he winks at me, and adds: “I actually keep them in the porch. It’ll keep ’em busy looking though, eh? Give you and this fine fella a chance to acclimatise. I’m George, by the way. And this is Lottie.”
He points down at the elderly Golden Retriever at his feet. Her eyes are cloudy, and she’s sniffing the air to find the other dog she knows is there but can’t quite see.
