Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“Figgy Pudding. I’ll explain later.” I press the “end call” button.

Olwen drops Figgy into my lap without asking if I want him there. “So carry on,” she says. “You’d got to the part about your daughter telling you the name.”

“Right.” Is it acceptable to foist a dog onto someone who has expressed no wish to hold said dog? Figgy settles in and starts to lick the fingers of my right hand. “Yes, Ellen told me she’d Googled your address and found the house name: Germander, not German.”

“Both equally awful, if you ask me,” says Olwen. “The name was here when I moved in, and not my doing. I meant to take the sign down, but I was always too busy with the Beds, so I opted to let the letters fall off one by one instead. Three down, six to go.”

“The . . . beds?”

“Bedlingtons. Ha! Of course, you’re not Deborah. She’s a Beds nut like me, or so she said on the phone.” Olwen glances at her watch. “She’s not turning up, by the look of it—probably another fantasist who never had any intention of buying Yonder. I get them all the time. But, yes, Bedlington terriers. All my dogs are Beds. They’re the loveliest breed.”

Figgy stops licking and looks up at me, as if to make sure that I’m taking this pep talk seriously.

Don’t stare at me like that, please.

“Shall I tell you what’s so great about them?” says Olwen. “I don’t want to bombard you—”

“I’m really not in the market for a dog,” I interrupt. “Sorry. Figgy’s lovely, but my life’s difficult enough at the moment.”

“Ah, that’s the classic mistake everyone makes. You think a dog will make your life harder, but that’s so not true. It’s quite the opposite. Figgy will solve all your problems.”

I laugh. “Really? How will he do that?”

“You think I’m exaggerating. You’ll see!”

I shake my head. “So . . . are all the dogs in the house named after bits of Christmas carols, or just the new puppies?”

“Oh yes, all of them,” Olwen says proudly. “It’s my signature theme. You’d be amazed how many carols there are, and you can get a decent name out of almost every verse if you think creatively. I’ve got a five-year-old Wenceslas—Good King Wenceslas—and a three-year-old Stephen—Feast of Stephen. Same carol!”

I do my best to look impressed. “I’m afraid I really can’t take Figgy. You won’t persuade me.”

“That’s fine,” Olwen says. “I won’t need to. You’ll persuade yourself. Or Figgy will persuade you, won’t you, Figs? Do you believe that some things are meant to be?”

“I might have, a little, until today. Coming here’s persuaded me I was wrong.”

“Oh dear.” Olwen chuckles.

“I thought this house had some special significance for me, but it was just the name. I must have seen the outline of the missing letters, registered the name Germander subconsciously—”

“And?” says Olwen. “How does that explain it?”

“My house—the one I moved into that same day—is called Speedwell House. Germander Speedwell is the name of a plant.”

“Ah. So you think that’s all it was? The sum total of why you felt the way you did?”

“That and the stress of a house move, yes. I feel guilty for taking up so much of your time with my daft superstitions.” Gently, I move Figgy from my lap to the sofa and stand up. He makes a squeaky noise without opening his mouth.

Quit it, Figgy. You’re not helping.

“You know why I think you had that feeling when you first saw my house?”

I can guess.

“Because of Figgy. You knew you were looking at the house where your future dog would soon be born.” Seeing my face, she laughs and adds, “It’s no crazier than what you said you believed until today: that one day you’d live here, and be desperately grateful to live here.”

No, it isn’t. I want to jettison the crazy, not replace it with something equally nuts.

“Figgy’s gorgeous.” I move toward the door. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble selling him.”

“I’m not going to sell him. I’ll keep him if you really don’t want him. But—look, this is the last thing I’ll say about it, I promise—if you change your mind, give me a call. Any time. Or email me via the website: GermanderBedlingtons.co.uk. Yes, I’m afraid I called my business after the house—thought I might as well, since the name was there and kennel names are, as a genre, usually ridiculous-sounding.”

“Thanks. It was lovely to meet you. And the dogs.”

“Justine?”

“What?”

“I don’t want any money for Figgy. You can have him, gratis.”

“That’s silly. Why would you want to miss out on . . . however much someone would pay for a puppy.”

“About four hundred and fifty quid. Because I trust my instincts.” Olwen’s voice is authoritative and mischievous at the same time. “You and Figgy—it’s meant to be.”

No, it isn’t. No, it isn’t. Why do people keep telling me things are true when I know they can’t be?

The doorbell rings, prompting a surge of dogs into the hall. Great. Maybe I can hide in the crowd, sneak myself out the door. “This is probably Deborah Fuller,” I say. Come on, Deborah—buy Yonder Star, like you promised you would. Be the silver lining.

“Ooh! I hope so!” Olwen rushes to the door. I hear her say, “Are you Deborah?” and then, “Oh, wonderful!”

Right. Good. That’s me off the hook. Yonder will go to his new home as planned, and Figgy will stay here at Germander.

Why do you care, for God’s sake?

“Yonder!” Olwen yells.

“Come on, Yonder,” I say with as much authority as I can muster. “We’re off. Both of us.” He ignores me, so I confiscate the cushion he’s chewing. That does the trick. He hears Olwen call him a second time and runs to the front door, barking. She yells at him to be quiet. It’s a who-can-make-the-most-noise competition. I regret leaving the living room.

Yonder leaps up and starts pawing at Deborah, who looks as if she’s trying to say hello to me, though I can’t actually hear her.

Figgy pads out into the hall to see what all the fuss is about.

“Oh look at this little one,” Deborah coos.

“I know,” says Olwen proudly.

Figgy sniffs at Deborah’s shoes, then turns around and comes back to me. He starts to climb my leg like he did before, but changes his mind and drapes himself across my foot instead. His eyes close.

“Aw, he’s gorgeous ,” Deborah gushes. “He’s having a nap on your shoe, bless him!”

“His name’s Figgy Pudding,” Olwen tells her. “I know you said you didn’t want the smallest one, but Figgy’s really special.”

“I can see that. Hmm, this is tricky . . .”

What? She’s going to change her mind and leave Yonder stranded, having promised to take him?

Not that I care. Not that any of these people or dogs are any of my business.

“Poor old Yonder,” I say pointedly, thrown by this new development. Deborah has to take him. She owes Figgy nothing. Figgy will be fine staying here with Olwen. Whereas Yonder’s got his hopes up—you can see by looking at him.

“Hm?” says Deborah. “Oh, no, I’ll take Yonder, of course. But maybe I’ll talk to my husband about also—”

“No.”

I said that. Me. Oh God, this is stupider than stupid. I am about to do an insane thing.

“I’m afraid you’re too late,” Olwen tells Deborah. “Justine’s taking Figgy.”

Chapter 6

Who Was It, Sitting on That Tree Branch?

Later that night, after their parents were asleep, Lisette and Allisande met in the library to discuss the startling new developments that the day had brought. Perrine was not invited to their secret meeting. Since the death of Malachy, the bond between Lisette and Allisande had grown stronger, and they left their younger sister out of as much as they could.