It’s all been a bit manic. I haven’t managed to get on the laptop for a few days so now I need to catch up with myself. Where was I? Ah yes. The pub. Rommel. Seems years ago.
Saul gave us one of those ‘bloody sentimental incomers’ looks and mumbled: ‘Dunno if he will; dunno if he won’t.’ But produced a length of string from behind the counter, fastened it to Rommel’s filthy collar and handed me the end.
‘Try ‘im.’
He had that sort of ‘this’ll show ‘em’ look and I figured we weren’t the first to try to rescue Rommel. But the little dog gave us the once over and found my fingers which held a big fat soggy chip left over from lunch. A big slurp, a lick of his lips and he hopped down and tucked himself in behind my heel. ‘Good dog.’
‘Well, I’ll be….’ Said Saul, doing his best job of being the archetypal grumpy peasant landlord. And so we walked out of the pub dog-owners. Or was it that Rommel left the pub a human-owner?

When we got to the car, Rommel jumped straight up onto the dashboard and refused to come down, wobbling furiously as we bumped our way home. Aidan vanished into his study so I took Rommel around the outside and over the land to acclimatise him. But it seemed like he knew his way around already. I thought he’d run off, disappear down a rabbit-hole but no, he stuck pretty close by me. A companionable dog. I have to grudgingly admit that March in the countryside is pretty stunning. I’d forgotten the shimmer of green sliding over the trees, the hedgerows bursting into life. Above all the scent of green. Memories flooded back.

By the time we got back, Aidan was in the hall, his laptop bag propped up against the large leather holdall. So, not a quick trip. My heart did a bit of a flip.
‘You’re not going now?’
‘Sorry darling. Got to. Very early morning meeting. I’ll call you.’ A swift kiss, barely brushing my lips, and he walked out. I watched the Landcruiser bump down the track. Rommel nosed my knee as if in sympathy.
Well, sod him. Tempting though it was to call a cab and book myself into a nice hotel (preferably with a spa) I knew that’s what he thought I’d do. We have a strange relationship – almost competitive in some way. It’s like he throws me challenges to see how I’ll respond. I decided to Get Things Done.
An hour’s worth of scrubbing and the flagstones in the hallway looked pretty incredible. I was so pleased with myself that I picked at a bit of the vinyl in the kitchen and – bingo! – underneath were more of the same, dusty and grubby but gorgeous. I started tugging it up and Rommel helped. Well, OK, he sat and watched. It didn’t take that long before I had the lot up and lugged it to the front door. I was left with a gentle undulation of a floor. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows at the back, catching the dust motes. Rommel sneezed and looked affronted. Then sat down and scratched. A lot.

I added a few things to my To Do list:

· order skip
· call window cleaner AGAIN
· buy Frontline!!!!!

I rustled up some sandwiches for us and watched the sky turn salmon pink/cerise as dusk fell – a good omen for the next day. I suddenly realised just how exhausted I was, so I lit a fire in the vast walk-in fireplace, poured an even more vast glass of Fleurie, lit the candles and stuck my nose in a book (Iain Pears’ The Portrait). Rommel curled up next to me and I tried not to think about fleas.

None of our furniture looks or feels right here. Hopefully our trawl from W*** will arrive soon. But the fire sprang to life and a fire is one of my most favourite things in the whole world (the one thing I missed in London). I found myself laying down the book (not that good, to be honest) and fell into a reverie. OK, I was thinking about babies. I’m thirty and although I know it’s ‘still young’, I do panic about time passing. If I’m going to stay here, I’ll need something to keep me busy (my book still languishes blatantly unwritten).
So I was miles away when Rommel did that horrible dog thing of suddenly going on alert, the hackles rising up his back, growling low in the throat – a warning. He was staring……..at the ceiling. Stupid dog.

Then I heard it again. That horrible scuffling, scrabbling noise.
‘C’mon Rommel. Time to earn your keep.’
I marched him upstairs and rummaged around for the key to the attic. I’ve never been up there. I hate attics – I’m totally phobic about spiders. The key turned quite easily and I fumbled around for the light switch. Damn it, there had to be one. It seemed not. I tried to push Rommel up but he twisted out of my grip and raced to the bedroom. So I grabbed the torch I always keep by the side of the bed, stuck the dog back under my arm and went back up the stairs.

It wasn’t as bad as I had feared. It’s floored and has reasonably high ceilings. There were a few of our packing cases – mainly books and the more ultra-modern of our bits and bobs that looked plain silly here.
I put Rommel down and pushed him forwards. His whole body language was weird. You wouldn’t have known him as the same cocky dog from before. He looked as though I’d whipped him, tail stuck between legs, head lowered, ears flat back. He slid behind my legs and whined.

I didn’t really like it myself. It had a sort of thick, cloying atmosphere. The scrabbling had stopped but instead I could hear a squeaking noise. Not like mice though, more mechanical and rhythmical. Like something slightly rusty – maybe a window come loose? I edged forwards, flashing the torch around. Walked gingerly past a pile of boxes and then froze.

At the far end of the attic my torch picked out…… a cradle. Surely not? I stepped forwards, my heart thumping. Was this a sign, an omen? But then, to my horror, I realised where the squeaking was coming from. The cradle was, ever so slightly, rocking.
Rommel made a horrible keening noise, turned tail and fled. I confess I followed him, racing down the stairs and slamming shut the door.