Casey Watson - A Dark Secret - Part 2 of 3

‘Well, that sounds like an excellent idea,’ Colin said as he slipped his jacket off the newel post. ‘And while you’re off doing that, I’ll go back to the office and check if they’ve left any spaces in my diary. I’ll come and visit you in the next week or so, Sam, okay? So have a think about the sort of thing you’d like us to do.’

‘I like doing everything ,’ Sam told him, beaming.

And Sam certainly seemed to love Luna. As it turned out, we got out later than we’d planned, so by the time we’d driven over to Kieron’s he’d had to pop out to collect Dee Dee from school and take her to her dance class straight after. So he’d texted me to tell me to let myself in, take Luna and drive back to mine to walk her. He’d come and pick her up from us on his way home again. So half an hour after that, Sam and I (him as excited as a puppy himself) set off to the park and woods at the end of our road, on what had turned out, though still windy, to be a lovely bright spring afternoon.

I’d been here many, many times before, of course. It was one of the main reasons we’d come to love living where we did so much. We’d moved to our current home several years back, in circumstances that weren’t exactly ideal (it had been with a heavy heart, and we’d only done so because of a previous foster child we’d cared for), but we’d settled in really quickly, not least because of the lovely (and, happily, tolerant) neighbours, plus the beautiful green space that was just a walk away. I’d brought previous foster children here, and my own grandchildren, obviously, who loved the woods and the play area and – best of all – being able to paddle in the small stream which ran through it.

And, as soon as we set off, I could tell straight away that to bring Sam here, perhaps daily – at least till a school was found for him – would potentially be a good thing for him too; not least to wear him out a bit and perhaps, as a result, take the edge off his rages and meltdowns.

We’d brought Luna’s ball, and her plastic ball-throwing doohickey. I carried the latter, while Sam took charge of lead duties, thrilled to be responsible for extending the line, and reeling her back in again to cross the road.

‘This is wicked ,’ he enthused, as if it was the best invention ever. ‘It’s like she can be on the lead but off the lead all at once. I think all dogs should be given them, on the Health Service.’

It was such a funny little thing to say that I almost laughed out loud. And did, when he declared the ball-throwing device to be, in contrast, the worst invention ever. ‘Why can’t people throw with their actual arms ?’ he wanted to know. ‘Doing it with that thing’s so lazy .’

I could only agree, so we abandoned the ball-throwing doohickey, and as I watched him enjoy the simple pleasure of spending time with Kieron’s dog, I was reminded of the oft-quoted truism about animals – that they really could be good for the soul. And for this little troubled soul, definitely.

And as is so often the case when you’re out with a dog, we passed other dogs, and other owners I knew. And one dog in particular, a Collie called Flame, who lived on our street, but who was tugging on his lead in his enthusiasm to say hello, but from the grip of an unexpected owner.

Flame was owned by a lady who lived a few doors down called Mrs Pegg, but he was in the charge of a teenager I didn’t recognise. At least, I thought I didn’t, but when he caught up with his overexcited canine, I realised his face was familiar from somewhere.

And I was right. He was Mrs Pegg’s grandson, Oliver. ‘She’s recovering from surgery,’ he explained, when I asked how she was. ‘She got her knee-replacement operation moved forward.’

I knew my neighbour was on the waiting list but, as with knee operations everywhere, had assumed it would be months away yet.

‘Is she okay?’ I asked. ‘Does she need anything?’

‘She’s fine,’ Oliver said. ‘Just can’t walk much for a bit, obviously.’ He made a grab for Flame’s lead so he wouldn’t trample Luna in his excitement. Then smiled wryly. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got a rota.’

‘What’s a rota?’ Sam piped up.

‘Like a chart,’ I explained. ‘With a list of who’s supposed to do what and when.’

‘I’ve got a chart! I’ve got a chart!’ Sam trilled to Oliver. ‘I do lots of different things when I’m supposed to as well. And when I do them I get a star on it. Do you?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘No, just one of my nan’s “brownie points”,’ he said, chuckling.

‘And her undying gratitude,’ I added. ‘Of that I’m sure. Will you tell her I’ll pop over to see her later?’

And as we parted, and I made a mental note to do just that, I reflected that while Sam had his chart, I had something equally useful.

An idea.

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