The Puppy That Came for Christmas (23 page)

 

After Kirsty had left I poured us both a glass of wine and told Ian what she had said.

“It's going to mean you have to dig it all up and lay it all bare, and if you'd rather not, then we don't have to continue,” I said. “I wouldn't want a happy family but an unhappy Ian.”

Ian looked at me and looked at Freddy, and then seemed to disappear inside himself, as if the answer might be written on the walls he'd built inside his head.

“Truthfully, if that's what it's going to take, I'd rather not,” he finally said.

 

That evening, Ian was sitting at the computer and I was looking through my diary. We were trying to make sense of it all. Freddy, fostering, dogs and children, but most of all us. It had been so long since we'd thought about ourselves.

The date was set for Freddy to leave, and after that we'd have a few empty weeks, a gap in our lives, before Traffy was old enough to leave her mum; we still had the money we'd been planning to use for IVF, and we both felt as if we needed a holiday.

“Fancy a trip to New Zealand?” said Ian, who'd never been there in his life. Prior to getting married I'd spent a lot of time there and had made some good friends who I knew would love a visit. Ian was browsing on a travel website: we could afford the trip, with a lot to spare. It was booked before we went to bed.

Having a holiday to look forward to and old friends to contact took my mind off Freddy leaving, but only a little. As with Emma, I took him to all his favorite places and played his favorite games, and though I couldn't say it was any easier, at least this time around I knew what was to come. I was also on the phone to Rachel every day to chat about the arrangements; if he was going to be staying with anyone, I was pleased that it was going to be Rachel, and she said over and over again we were more than welcome to visit him—every day if we wanted.

Time passed quickly, as preparations accelerated for Freddy's holiday (which is how I was thinking about it) and also for ours. Then, a few days before we left, a letter came from the council, which I thought would be about tax or something similar. I opened it: it was from the fostering and adoption service. I'd forgotten about them completely, felt they'd forgotten about us too, but now they were saying that they'd decided it would be OK for us to foster a child—just one. With the covering letter there were countless forms to fill in to begin the application process.

I made a mental note to tell Ian about it later but put it straight in the recycling bin. I had more important things to do.

Half an hour later I was at Marion's and feasting my eyes on little Traffy and her brothers and sisters. All the puppies' eyes were now open, and though she'd grown a lot since I'd last seen her, she was by far the smallest of her litter. But certainly not the quietest! She was a bossy, tiny little thing who told her brothers and sisters off with her tiny puppy-girl yap and chased after them as they ran after the empty plastic water bottles and beakers they'd been given to play with.

“Much cheaper than real toys and just as much fun,” Marion's husband said.

I smiled and didn't mention Freddy's vast collection of “real” toys, or the zoo of stuffed animals that Traffy would soon own when she became ours.

I told Marion about our trip to New Zealand, and that we'd be back ten days before Christmas.

“I think little Traffy might be ready to come to you by then,” Marion said. “I usually don't let them leave until they're eight weeks old, but I think I can make an exception of seven-and-a-half weeks for you, so you can have her for Christmas.”

She'd be with us for Christmas. Our own, forever, Christmas puppy. Our first puppy who would never ever have to leave us.

I picked Traffy up and gave her a cuddle. “Maybe we should call you Holly,” I said. But I knew Ian had his heart set on Traffy.

 

All our bags were packed the morning before we were due to set off for New Zealand. So were Freddy's. I'd spent the day before gathering together all his toys, vacuuming his doggy bed, and making sure he had at least a six-month supply of his favorite treats. He could see something was up, but he seemed calm—much calmer than I was. In truth, I was keeping myself busy, thinking of the holiday, of Traffy, even the terribly long plane journey—anything not to think about Freddy leaving us. Even so, every now and then a tear would slip out, and I'd lock myself in the bathroom to make sure Freddy didn't see I was unhappy.

That afternoon, Freddy didn't seem to mind a bit getting into the car with all of his stuff, and Ian drove us up to Rachel's. Rachel gave me a big hug when I arrived and quickly took all of Freddy's things away. Freddy, meanwhile, accepted a slice of salami from her, then leaped out of the car and proceeded to lap the garden at top speed four times, rolling, tumbling and barking with Gandalf, who had grown a little bigger than when I'd last seen him, but definitely no wiser.

“We shouldn't hang around,” said Ian, knowing that the longer it took the harder it would be. I called Freddy over and said my goodbyes, whispering into his ear how much I loved him and was proud of him, and how even a forever puppy could never take his place. Ian said goodbye too, then we stood up to thank Rachel.

“Don't worry, he'll be fine,” she said.

We drove away, and I watched Freddy playing with Gandalf on the lawn in the rearview mirror. He didn't even see us leave.

We called Rachel from the airport before we boarded the plane.

“How is he?” I asked, full of worry.

“He's great—all he and Gandalf want to do is play.”

“They'll settle down soon.”

“I'm sure they will. Have a great time and don't worry about a thing,” she said. “Lots of love to you both.”

I hung up, turned my phone off and studied the safety demonstration as we taxied towards the runway, feeling equally excited and sad at the same time.

New Zealand was a complete change of scene. Three weeks of the open air, open roads, mountains and beaches—time and space like a brush to sweep the cobwebs from the corners of the mind. We hired a camper van in Auckland and traveled down to Papamoa and Rotorua, where we marveled at the mud pools and geysers and lounged in the thermal baths. The ferry between the North and South Island was smooth, and we drove on to Nelson and Kaiter-iteri. We kayaked on the amazing turquoise blue sea, and saw the seals at Abel Tasman National Park, before falling asleep on the golden sandy beach.

It made all our recent turmoil seem so far away. And, really, it was: half a world away, in fact, and Ian and I were free from pills and treatments, writing and work, families and fostering, free to have fun and enjoy each other's company. Whole hours passed, with old friends or just motoring along, without thinking about any of my puppies, past or future. We did, however, send Traffy a postcard saying we were looking forward to welcoming her to our home soon. Freddy got a postcard to say we hoped he was being a good boy and enjoying living with Rachel and Gandalf, and Emma got one saying that we hadn't forgotten her and we trusted she was still being just as good a friend to Mike as when we last saw her.

I was still feeling guilty about Freddy, about how much more I should have done with him while he was with us. If it hadn't been for trying for a baby and my hormones going crazy, he'd have gone on more walks, been to more classes, had more fun.

If it hadn't been for . . .

“Shhh,” Ian said. “He had a good time when he was with us and you did everything you could for him.”

“So did you,” I said. “All that puppy showering and cleaning up after him.”

“Ah, Mr. Pup-Pup,” Ian smiled. He was still hoping that Freddy would be returned to us. It was impossible not to hope.

We visited my London ex-neighbors, Ryan and Polly, who'd come to New Zealand for a holiday and ended up emigrating. They'd decided when they were dating—it had been mostly Ryan's choice—that they wouldn't have kids. He'd realized with a previous girlfriend that he didn't ever want children, and the relationship hadn't lasted; then he'd got together with Polly, fallen completely in love and become trapped in a dilemma. He knew that she badly wanted children, but he realized he loved her too much not to tell her the truth. During the course of one long night they'd bared their souls, found that it wasn't such a big deal and now, five years down the line, they were happier than ever.

Ry and Polly looked suntanned, relaxed and happy. They'd made tons of friends in New Zealand, plus they were setting up their own business together.

Over a beer Polly told me their lives were so full she didn't know how they'd have been able to fit a child in even if they had wanted to, which they didn't.

We went to an open farm with them and Polly fell in love with a baby pig that kept following her.

“Can we get a pet, Ry?” she said, as she stroked the piglet.

Ryan pulled a face.

“I hear pigs can be house-trained,” I told him.

 

Time we didn't spend with friends we simply relaxed on our own. The whole holiday was a complete chill out and we didn't argue once, except for one day when I'd had a slight prang in the camper van. I'd been upset, Ian had been a little bit cross and so he took over the driving, in a “For heaven's sake!” sort of mood. All was quiet until he drove into a closed drive-in and sliced off the very top of the van. We got out to inspect the damage: a long fiberglass splinter was sticking up at a jaunty angle.

“It looks as if someone's tried to open the camper like a tin of sardines!” I giggled.

“No, it looks like the feather in a cavalier's cap,” gasped Ian.

All we could do was laugh and laugh. Luckily, it was insured, and when we returned the van the people at the hire place laughed too.

 

Every few days, Marion e-mailed to update us with information about how our forever puppy was growing and the things she got up to. The puppies were weighed each and every day to monitor their progress.

“She's still the smallest and noisiest one,” Marion wrote, and sent a photo of them all looking adorably cute and mischievous.

When we got back to England, now dark, with Christmas decorations on the high streets being battered by drizzle, I felt relaxed and at peace for the first time in almost a year. We hadn't gone on holiday specifically to get away from our baby problems, and we hadn't tried to avoid talking about them either; we had simply not needed to say anything about it, and we came back with a better understanding of what we both wanted. Each other and our puppy. And the million and one other things that life had in store for us.

It was sad to come back to a house bereft of Freddy's presence. It felt very empty, though there were remnants of our time with him still around—a toy here under the sofa, a chew over there in the garden—that I found as we unpacked and settled back in. We were used to being greeted ecstatically, Freddy over the moon with happiness as soon as we walked in the door, as if each time he hadn't realized we were coming back. Now, though, we felt lonely. One of the benefits that Helper Dogs bring is simple companionship. Many disabled people feel isolated and lonely, but it's much more difficult to feel so if there's a dog around the house. It had surprised me to learn that many disabled people are taunted and bullied when they go out. One of the women we'd met at Emma's graduation, Sally, had told us how she used to be frightened by the kids from her estate every time she went out in her motorized wheelchair.

“One time they decided to use me like I was their goalpost as I tried to steer my wheelchair through them,” she said. “Every time one of them hit the chair with the football, or even better, me, they cheered. It was awful.”

Her Helper Dog, Ollie, licked her hand as if he knew the memory was hard for her. Sally smiled.