As the old taxi sputters away, Rosie totters across the road to the wooden bench under the beech tree. She sits gingerly on the edge of the wet bench, using her glossy magazine as a thin, makeshift cushion. Gazing around the sodden village, she watches wind-chased leaves tumble down the empty street. Cold raindrops are white slashes in the dusky gloom. The black road curves out of sight beyond the elms by the old churchyard.

Could it be this simple? To finally find the truth. The years of searching, the hopes, the letdowns, and even the smelly old taxi from the station would all be worth it. But what if it wasn’t what she expected? That might be worse.

Rosie looks again at the address on her mobile phone. That’s the pub, alright. It looks dark, but I guess it’ll be opening time soon. What an old-fashioned place this is with pubs closing during the day. She waits, the drizzle matting her hair against her face.

The gusting wind suddenly picks up, whistling through telephone wires. Funny how she had loved that eerie sound as a child – before it all went wrong. The tree suddenly shakes cold raindrops onto her pink, fluffy jacket. Shuddering, Rosie pulls the coat closer around herself and her companion. He burrows deeper into her warmth, his white fur still fluffy from the salon. His little woof touches her heart.

A random raindrop plops onto Rosie’s purple ankle boots. A hiss escapes her crimson-lipped mouth as she examines the wet blob and notices a ragged cut on one high heel; the dog stirs at the sound, brown eyes wary. She murmurs soft, baby sounds and it relaxes back into her body.

To her left, the lights of the village pub brighten through the encroaching twilight. Must be opening time. Time to find out. Gathering herself, Rosie heaves up onto her four-inch heels and puts the dog on the ground. She encourages him to walk alongside her, and starts walking, in an awkward limping style (those potholes!), towards the pub.

She notices smoke from the pub’s chimney. God, it must be old to have a proper fire. She walks as fast as she can in the boots. What was she thinking, wearing these things? Mind you, she didn’t know when she started out this morning that she’d end up here. It was only that text that finally gave her this direction. At least it’ll be warm in there.

From the other end of the road, Dora is rushing in the twilight, pulling a large dog on a ragged rope lead.

“C’mon muttface, ain’t you hungry, too? The best pie will be long gone at this rate!”

The hound increases its pace to a loping stride, tongue lolling out of its wet mouth. A purple and pink bandana tied loosely around its neck sets off its shaggy, dark brown fur. The material echoes the colours of the woman’s knitted beret, pulled down over her long white hair, turned silver in the drizzling rain.

Dora’s baggy black coat is also dotted with rain, and the black jeans are wet at the hem. Her feet are announced with crimson red sneakers.

The growing puddles on the rain-spotted road reflect the two women’s approaching passage.

Rosie is focused on the pub lights and keeping upright on the uneven ground. Suddenly, she sees a blue ball rolling along the gutter. Followed by a giant brown dog. A tatty rope lead flaps behind it, waving like an extra tail.

She sees a white-haired woman comes running form the same direction as the dog. “Oi! Idiot dog, leave it alone! Barny, stop!” Her low, smoke-ravaged voice is almost lost in the rising wind.

Barny finally stops and turns, ball firmly grasped in his laughing mouth. He walks back to the woman and sits down on the wet pavement. As the woman bends down to pick up the wet lead, her wet coat gapes and Rosie sees a crumpled photograph fluttering from an open pocket. A gusting wind snatches it up and flings it along the road. The woman reaches for it, but it flies a few yards, onto the opposite side of the street, urged along by the hustling wind, coaxing it ever closer to a puddle.

Dora gathers herself to run after the errant image when a small white dog appears, scampering after it. A young woman in purple ankle boots totters in the creature’s wake, calling out against the wind.

“Hey, Pumpkin Pie, leave that alone!” The high, unsmoky voice reaches across the street in the gloomy twilight. A wet white dog is running after the fluttering photograph.

A girl appears out of the gloom, trying to run after the dog, stumbling awkwardly in her high-heeled purple boots. The dog ignores her, its little mouth snatching at the errant image. Finally grabbing its trophy, it trots back to its mistress, its wagging tail scattering tendrils of rain with every step.

The girl stoops towards the dog, hand outstretched for the photograph. 

“That’s a good girl. Bring it to Mummy, bring it to Rosie. No, don’t chew it!”

She scoops up the wriggling dog and pulls the raggedy photo from its mouth. “That’s better,” Rosie croons. “Good Mummy’s girl, Pumpkin Pie.”

She scoops up the damp dog and manages to wrangle the tooth-marked photo from its mouth.

“That’s better,” Rosie croons. “Good Mummy’s girl, Pumpkin Pie.”

Dropping a kiss on the dog’s soft head, Rosie looks around to see an older woman watching her from the other side of the road. Along with an equally watchful, raggedy dog.

She gives her a brief wave and calls out: “Sorry about that. It’s OK. Pumpkin Pie has a very soft mouth. Hang on, I’ll come over to you.”

Wary of stumbling again, Rosie carefully makes her way towards Dora. As she gets nearer, she sees how raggedy the older woman looks. Lonely almost, like she had lost something important. Maybe that photo had something to do with it. Rosie looks sideways at the tall, hairy mutt who’s now watching her approach with curiosity in its brown eyes.

“Er, he’s safe, right?” She hesitates, a few steps away. “Just that he’s so big.”

“Oh, him? He’s a big softy, aren’t you, Barny?” Dora pats the hound’s hairy head, earning a wag of the long tail.

“OK, then.”

Rosie decides that while Barny might be a ‘big softy’, she’s taking no chances. She tightens her hold on Pumpkin Pie and ventures closer.

“Here you go,” Rosie says, stretching to pass the photo to the other woman. She glances idly at it as she does so.

Dora grabs the photograph out of Rosie’s leather-clad hand. “Thanks. That’s precious, that is,” she says. “Glad your little tyke didn’t chew it – mind you, not big teeth on that one, not like my Barny.” She pats the dog’s head again. “Thanks again, love.”

Dora turns towards the pub, anticipating her now-late supper.

Rosie nods absently. “Sure, you’re welcome.”

She watches the older woman and the dog as they open the pub door and disappear into the warmth. Through the closing door, Rosie catches a glimpse of fire-lit companionship, local accents raised in talk, and glasses clinking. Then the door clicks shut, and Rosie is left outside in the darkness and the rain.

Oh, this is silly. What are we doing here anyway, Pumpkin Pie? I don’t know about going to that pub anymore. They’ve probably all got great big dogs and dress like ancient crones. Anyway, she won’t be there. Not in that kind of place.

She should get back home. Or what passes for a home in the city. It was a remote chance, anyway. A real shot in the dark; Rosie looks around at night-darkened, silent street and grimaces. How often have those kinds of things worked out for her? Never, that’s how many.

Rosie snuffles into PumpkinPie’s fur again, comforted by the animal’s warmth and love. She can feel the dog shivering.

“Oh, little one! You’re cold, aren’t you?” she says. “What a cruel mum I am. C’mon, Pumpkin. Last chance saloon and all that. We can at least get you warm and dry. Then a taxi, if we can find one, back to the city.”

Rosie walks back to the pub. Raising the heavy iron latch, she opens the heavy door, Pumpkin Pie snug in her arm. Inside, the room is smoky and dim, but there’s welcome warmth from the coal fire in the opposite wall. Nobody seems to notice her.

She goes up to the long wooden bar. This place really is old, there’s even candles stuck into old wine bottles. Thought that fashion went out in the ’80s. looks nice, though, somehow.

“What kind of ciders do you have?” she asks the barman.

“What types?” He laughs, mocking her gently. “There’s just the one, my love. Local, mind you. Tastes just like summer, it does. Just right for this cold day.”

He reaches towards the wooden pump. She looks at the label. Old Rosie Cider – huh! She often wonders about her old-fashioned name. Guess it makes sense it’s local to here.

Taking the filled glass, she tentatively sips the golden liquid. Surprised, she says, “Yes, that is good. Thank you.”

Rosie looks around for a table to sit at and notices the dog. It’s that big hound again. Still with that curious look, watching her. Then the woman looks up.

“Oh, it’s you again, love. Lost, are you? I wondered if you’d come in. There’s a seat by me if you want.”

Rosie can’t figure out how to say no, so she smiles and goes over. Barny sniffs at Pumpkin Pie, who wriggles in Rosie’s arms. Flustered, trying to juggle a full glass, a squirming dog and her purse, Rosie manages to put the glass on the table before dropping her bag and the dog.

“Oh, fine! Go on then, get yourself all dirty.”

Pumpkin Pie squirms in delight as she snuggles into Barny. He looks bemused at the perfumed creature below him before slowly lying down and accepting the fuss.

Rosie stoops to pick up her purse and gather its contents, including a small brass photo frame. She glances at the two people in the photo, takes a big gulp of cider, and then finally looks at the older woman.

“Sorry, it’s been that kind of day, month, year.”

Horrified, she can feel tears coming.

“There, love, it’s OK. At least you’ve got your little dog. And some family by the look of that photo.”

Dora nods at the frame, still in Rosie’s hand.

“Oh, that, yes, it’s…  Oh, never mind.”

Rosie goes to put it away as Dora reaches across the table.

“Can I have a look? I loves old family photos, I do.”

Dora slants the photo towards the dim wall light.

“You can’t see much in here, but they look nice, they do. Mum and daughter? It’s a nice summer day, too.”

Rosie looks at the frame in Dora’s hand.

“Yes. It was a long time ago. It was taken just…”

“Oh, I know this place,” interrupts Dora. “It’s just down there by the river, down that lane where the telephone wires whistle with the wind on days like this. Can’t forget that sound! It’s properly eerie. In the summer, Barny likes to swim there on hot days – not that we get many of those these days.”

She breaks off as the barman comes across with a small tea light in a glass lamp.

“There you go, ladies, a little light to see by!”

“Thanks!” Rosie reaches for the photo. She looks at it briefly, ready to put it away.

In the suddenly brighter light, she looks more closely at the woman sitting across from her.

“How did you know where it was taken?” she says. “It’s all overgrown now. I tried to go there today.”

“Oh, yes, now it is, although Barny here can barrel his way through to the water. But it was all open and lovely when I was a young girl. I had some lovely picnics there, just like in that photo of yours. Just me and my little girl.”

Dora stops. Rosie can finally see the older woman’s features by the candlelight. Her eyes widen, and her leather-clad hand goes up to her mouth.

“You’re not… oh my God! Are you…? Is your name Dora?”

Dora’s blue eyes narrow, suspicion hardening their colour.

“Yeah. so what?” Her voice carries no warmth. Both dogs are silent now, seeming to wait. For something. Someone. A sudden gust rattles the pub door and the sign creaks outside the window,

Rosie shivers, damp seeping into her from the cold wind, the icy rain, and perhaps the look in Dora’s eyes. She hesitates, then, her voice cracking, says: “Mum?”

Silence. Even the wind seems to be listening. Dora doesn’t move for a second. Then she looks at the photo in her hand, the corners water-stained and chewed. Her eyes flick back to the unsure, yet defiant, girl.

Barny presses his head against Dora’s leg. She lays a hand on his head, almost absently.

“Rosie?” she says at last, the name tasting like a ghost on her tongue.

Rosie nods, her face damp with the remnants of cold rain and fresh warm tears.

A long, slow breath. Dora’s old fingers touch the edges of the photograph as if to confirm it’s real. As if the girl in front of her might still vanish into the mist outside.

“Just as well you came in out of the rain, then.” Dora’s voice is rough, reflecting the uncertainty in that sentence.

Rosie glances down at Pumpkin Pie, who’s now curled into Barny’s side. They both look at home. Maybe, Rosie thinks, they are.

Rosie notices her hands are still trembling. Across from her, Dora still watches, wary. But there’s something else in her eyes now – some flicker of remembering, or maybe hope, though she’d never call it that aloud.

The candle between them wavers in a draught. Neither woman speaks.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” Rosie says.

Dora shrugs, but her eyes have softened.

“Neither did I. That’s the truth of it. When my brother said he’s sent you that text, well, I didn’t know whether to kill ‘im or kiss’ ‘im.”

Outside, the wind hurls one last gust against the old pub windows before quieting. The fire crackles, and someone laughs near the bar.

Dora reaches out slowly. She not going for Rosie’s hand, not yet. She picks up the cider.

“You drink yours, love,” she says, lifting her own glass. “Let’s start with that. And maybe you can tell me what took you so long.”

Rosie exhales something that sounds like a laugh or a sob, or just a deeply held breath. She raises her glass in return.

“To starting, then,” she says.
“To starting,” Dora echoes.

And outside, the rain finally stops.