Love-40 by Anna Cheska Page B

back inside, called to Suzi, ‘OK if I take Hester out?’
    â€˜Out?’ Suzi looked up from the novel she was reading and raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜For a walk,’ he clarified, aware it sounded daft.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Why not?’
    Suzi shrugged. ‘Don’t lose her, then.’
    â€˜I won’t.’
    Michael returned to the garden, untied Hester, held on to the leash and attempted to open the back gate, usually a simple task that was hampered in this instance by the two dogs chasing each other between his legs and a surprisingly strong, lunging goat. Eventually he managed it.
    â€˜C’mon, girl.’
    After ten metres the struggle was becoming a mammoth one.
    After twenty, it was almost impossible. Hester (or maybe all goats? Michael wondered) did not like being taken out on her leash. Probably thought he was treating her like a damn dog.
    After thirty metres, Michael was about to give up. Hester, the placid goat, had become a goat from hell, one minute refusing to move, the next charging this way and that, irrespective of path, direction or river. Michael’s palms were sore, he was beginning to sweat and he had the uncomfortable feeling – remembering the expression on her face – that Suzi had known how it would be.
    â€˜Enough.’ He decided to let Hester off the leash. She’d probably stand quietly, munching, give him the chance of a sit down. And Suzi would never know he’d not made it further than fifty metres …
    He untied her. Hester promptly charged off down the path.
    Michael stared at her retreating back. ‘Er … Hester!’ And with rising panic, ‘Hester!’ at full volume. But Hester was now out of sight.
    â€˜Shit.’ Michael followed her, further down the path and then into the woodland beyond. ‘Hester!’ No sign. No sound. Only the gulls screeching in the near distance and the soft rush of the river, now just out of sight. The path grew more muddy as he hit the shade of the trees, made his way over the skeletal roots of beech and yew.
    â€˜Hester!’
    For fifteen minutes he trailed the woodland path, shouting at Hester, swearing at Hester, pleading with Hester, and then imagining what Suzi would say. Christ! What would Suzi say?
    *   *   *
    â€˜C’mon, Gazza!’ Liam tore a hand through his hair. ‘Switch that thing off!’ Liam hated mobile phones. He despaired of the way they’d become indispensable, infiltrated themselves into everyday existence. He hated people talking into them with self-important voices. And he worried that today’s youth spent most of its time punching out meaningless text messages or with the things permanently glued to their ears. God alone knew what damage they were doing to themselves and this fragile environment.
    Meanwhile, fourteen-year-old Gareth Brown was haring to the net of the tennis court, all wild ginger hair and heavy black-framed glasses, making for his over-sized hooded sports jacket, casually thrown on the support post ten minutes ago. ‘Might be important,’ he gasped theatrically, as the third rendition of ‘Old Macdonald had a farm’, began.
    Liam looked up at the grey sky and then into the middle distance that was Pridehaven. All he needed now was for the heavens to open, and they’d be off. Commitment wasn’t big around here. ‘Carry on, the rest of you,’ he called to the others. ‘Service practice.’ There was a collective groan.
    Gazza had thrown out half the contents of his jacket pockets, located the mobile, but seemed too out of breath to speak into the thing.
    That didn’t bode too well as far as his fitness was concerned. Liam eyed the black and silver pack of ten cheap brand cigarettes, assorted disposable lighters, packet of Rizlas with cardboard strips torn off, all lying on the asphalt, and sighed. Why was he bothering? He was trying to train a load of kids