He smiled, a hazy look on his face. ‘Most romantic city in the world. You should take your chap with you, visit all the sites – Papillon House included.’
‘My chap?’
‘Your young gentlemen there,’ the man said.
Joe returned and put a glass of water in front of him.
‘Thank you, son, very kind. Seems very well behaved too,’ he said to Cat with a wink. ‘A trip to Paris would be just the thing.’
‘Oh, no, no, I—’ She glanced at Joe, saw him silently ask a question and turned back to the gentleman. ‘I’m Cat,’ she said. ‘I run Pooch Promenade.’ She held out her hand, and he took it.
‘Oh, yes, I know all about you. I’m Arthur, but people call me Captain.’
‘OK,’ Cat said quietly. ‘Can I ask—’
‘Why I’m called Captain?’
‘How you know about me?’
‘Elsie told me. We’re back-garden buddies, we chat over the wall. She said anyone and everyone with a dog would be here today, that I’d better hotfoot it down with my Paris. Don’t know why though, she doesn’t need more walks, doesn’t seem to want to do anything at the moment except hide under the sofa. Butterflies don’t do that, generally.’
‘I wonder why?’ Cat crouched and stroked the little dog, who was still trying to hide her nose under an inadequate paw. She started shaking. ‘She’s not unwell?’ Paris had a thin red collar, a tiny Eiffel Tower charm hanging off it in place of a name tag. Cat smiled at the old man’s romanticism.
‘Doesn’t seem so. I took her to the vet’s a couple of weeks ago, and they weren’t sure. She’s eating OK, she’s affectionate with me, but it seems she’s got that – arachnophobia thing.’
‘She’s scared of spiders?’ Joe peered down at Paris. ‘I guess she is quite sma—’
‘No no, not that. Going outside. When you don’t like going outside.’
‘Oh,’ Cat laughed, ‘agoraphobia.’
Joe shrugged and crossed his arms. ‘Arachnophobia is spiders.’
‘I am seventy-eight, boy,’ Captain scolded. ‘I can be forgiven for getting a word wrong here and there.’
‘Of course, I didn’t mean to—’
‘You young studs don’t like to be embarrassed, do you?’ He wagged a finger at Joe and Cat turned her attention back to the sad dog, hiding her smile.
‘Maybe I could ask my friend Polly to take a look at her? She’s a vet’s nurse, so—’ Cat was cut off by a loud squeal from somewhere beyond the periphery of the veranda. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, getting up.
Joe was already ahead of her, and Cat followed him back to where she’d left Polly and Chips. She stopped in her tracks when she saw that her friend was completely drenched, her mouth open aghast, water running off her and onto the hot grass. Chips was trotting backwards and forwards, her fur glistening. Cat thought she’d probably enjoyed the soaking more than Polly.
‘What the hell?’ Joe whispered. ‘Pol, are you OK? What happened?’
Cat took a step forward and then stopped. Mr Jasper was standing at the edge of the crowd that was beginning to form, holding an empty bucket. Mr Jasper, ex-headmaster and local dog hater, had a tendency to let his views be known in sneaky, underhand ways. This was the most public thing he’d ever done.
‘Oh my God,’ Cat said quietly, and then, much louder, ‘Mr Jasper, can I ask what that was in aid of? Because the last time I checked it was cats that didn’t like water and not dogs.’
Mr Jasper fidgeted, dancing backwards and forwards like one of Jessica’s Westies. She could see he was wavering, desperate to run away but knowing he couldn’t. ‘We don’t want this many dogs here!’ he shouted.
‘Who’s we?’ Cat asked.
‘Lots of us. Lots of people. They’re a menace. Pooing and biting and making a mess.’
‘It’s a park! It’s not like we’re traipsing them through the local museum! Where else should dogs go, except the park?’
Mr Jasper gave a smug little smile. ‘They should be in your homes, in your gardens. Leave the public spaces for the people.’
‘Even if that is your opinion – and it’s a pretty unrealistic and narrow-minded one – did you really think the best way to express that opinion was coming here and throwing a bucket of water over my friend? What possible purpose could that serve, except making a scene? It’s an unprovoked attack, it’s got nothing to do with dogs, and you don’t even have a banner!’
‘Yes, we do,’ said a familiar voice, and Cat shivered as she realized who it was.
Alison Knappett, Cat’s old boss at the nursery – otherwise known as Knickers-Too-Tight. Short and prim, her dark fringe low over her serious eyes, she stepped out from behind Mr Jasper and raised a cardboard placard. She was wearing a blue dress and flat, sensible shoes, as usual looking far older than her mid-thirties. The placard was white cardboard on a wood support, and the writing was bold but neat. It said, Say NO to dog walkers in Fairview.
Cat faltered. Mr Jasper she could face, but not Alison. Cat knew she didn’t like dogs – she’d found out to her cost just how much she hated them. But to go this far? To fire her and then try to sabotage her new business, felt very personal. ‘O-one banner?’ she stammered. ‘It’s not a very big protest, is it?’
‘But we’ve got everyone’s attention.’ Alison gestured around her, and Cat realized they were in the centre of a large circle of people and dogs, all waiting to see what would happen next. Polly was standing at the edge of the space and someone had got her a towel.
‘Go on then,’ Cat said. ‘Now you’ve got everyone’s attention, now you’ve ruined what was a perfectly good-tempered event, say what you wanted to say. Go on.’
Alison stepped forward but Mr Jasper put a hand on her arm.
‘We believe,’ he said, ‘that the recent trend for dog walkers is a growing menace to our society. Dogs are a part of life, I accept that, and so does my friend. We may not like it, but we accept it.’
‘No, you don’t,’ someone called, but Mr Jasper ignored them.
‘What we can’t accept, in our public spaces, where children and vulnerable people come to enjoy themselves, to get fresh air and a sense of calm, is the walking of multiple dogs in large and unruly packs. It’s a recipe for disaster. If you can’t control your dogs – and I defy anyone with more than four to be fully in control – then they will get loose, they will bite people, they will foul the grass and the paths where toddlers play, and they will ruin the serenity of this place.’
‘Nonsense,’ someone muttered.
‘I have already witnessed this woman struggling to keep control of a pack of dogs, in this very park! I have seen the damage that can be caused, and we will not stand for it!’
‘Dogs are dirty,’ Alison shouted, her prim voice straining to be heard. A few people had started to make low noises of dissent. ‘They’re dirty and they’re messy and they’re pests.’
‘Of course they’re not! What on earth are you talking about?’ A tall woman stepped forward, her black hair in corkscrews around her striking face, and Cat recognized her as Juliette Barker, one of her newest clients. She was half Jamaican and not, in Cat’s