The Sweetest Thing by Cathy Woodman

task ahead.I’ve been visualising how I’m going to swan into each shop with a positive mental attitude, but that ‘can do’ feeling wanes as I approach the first destination, the greengrocer’s, so much so that I walk straight past.
    ‘Mum, you’ve missed it,’ Georgia hisses.
    ‘Oh, so I have. Silly me,’ I say brightly, although my heart is pounding nineteen to the baker’s dozen. Jennie, you have to do this, I murmur under my breath. Summoning my courage, I turn back and step past the fruit and veg on the pavement and into the shop. I hesitate, wondering if I should buy something to help start the conversation, but Sophie’s ahead of me, already introducing herself to the man behind the till. He’s about fifty-five, short and chubby with a whiskery moustache and a crown of thick dark hair around a shiny bald spot.
    ‘My name’s Sophie and my mummy’s got something to show you,’ she announces.
    ‘I’m Peter,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He looks towards me and smiles. ‘If it’s cucumbers, the answer is no, I’m afraid. I’m inundated. People bring me the extras from their greenhouses to sell and there’s been a glut this year.’
    Adam pushes me forward, a bit like I do to him when we’re at parents’ evenings.
    ‘This is about Mum’s cakes.’ Georgia opens one of the boxes of samples with a flourish and holds them in front of Peter, saying, ‘Take one or two. They’re the best cakes in the world.’
    In the time it takes him to sample a flapjack and a mini-muffin, Peter agrees to put a leaflet in his window for me. I buy some apples and lettuce in return, and we move on.
    The half an hour in Market Square is a doddle, andthe trip into town is officially a success. The boxes are empty, there are leaflets in four shop windows – the ladies’ boutique, the wine shop, greengrocer’s and ironmonger’s. What’s even better is that I picked up a regular order for a weekly chocolate cake from the ironmonger himself, Mr Victor, who keeps a parrot in his shop. I did have to agree though for him to pay me ‘in kind’, seeing that it made sense for me to pick up a few ‘bits and bobs’ such as light bulbs and washers in exchange.
    The bells on the church, a rather grand affair for a small market town, with both a spire and a tower, strike twelve.
    ‘Can we go and choose a dog now?’ Adam sighs. ‘Please, Mum.’
    We return to the car, pile in and make our way – using the SatNav who is talking to us today – to St Martin’s Park, a road in the older part of town. I pull up on the drive of number ten, an impressive pebble-dashed Edwardian house. When we get out of the car, our ears are assailed by the sound of barking. It sounds like a choir of dogs, alto, soprano, tenor and bass. The different parts for different voices seem to mingle then merge into a crescendo of howling.
    ‘Do you think there’s a wolf in there?’ Georgia says worriedly.
    ‘No,’ I say, trying to mask my uncertainty as Sophie clutches my hand tight.
    We don’t need to ring the doorbell. The front door opens a mere couple of centimetres, so that I’m talking to a disembodied voice.
    ‘Hello,’ it says. ‘Are you here about a dog?’
    ‘Yes.’ I force a small smile. ‘It seems we’ve come to the right place.’
    ‘Get back, dogs. Oh, do please be quiet! How many times do I have to tell you, it isn’t the postman?’ The door closes again then, just as I’m feeling rather affronted, re-opens, revealing a stout middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a ruddy complexion. She wears horn-rimmed glasses, a navy and white crew-necked sweater, dark trousers and moccasin slippers. ‘You must be the Copelands. I’m Wendy. Do come in.’
    She shows us through to her living room at the front of the house. It’s decidedly shabby, and an odour of wet dog and bad eggs pervades the air. Sophie looks at me as if she’s about to pass comment, but I silence her with a frown. There are dogs everywhere – a