‘Aye, that’s right.’ He scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s half standing on end now.

‘Well!’ I say, looking down at Hank, who has dropped my necklace and is now attempting the presumably quite frustrating task of trying to pick it up again without opposable thumbs. ‘I guess this is the dog!’

I’m exclaiming too much. Why am I exclaiming so much?

‘Aye,’ Jackson says, clearing his throat again. ‘This is Hank.’

I wait. ‘Great!’ I say eventually. ‘Well. Shall I walk him, then?’

Jackson pauses, one hand still on his head. ‘Eh?’

‘The dog. Shall I walk him?’

Jackson looks down at Hank. Hank gazes back at him, tail now methodically swiping my necklace back and forth on the doorstep.

‘Where’s Eileen?’ Jackson asks after another long, bewildered pause.

‘Oh, she didn’t tell you? She’s gone to London for two months. I’m housesitting for her and looking after all her projects – the little things she does around the village, you know.’

‘You’ve got big wellies to fill, there,’ Jackson says, scratching the back of his neck. It’s a gesture another guy might use as an excuse to show off his biceps, but it seems genuinely unselfconscious. There’s a shambolic sort of sexiness to Jackson, actually, helped by a pair of very blue eyes and that classic rugby-player nose, crooked to one side from having been broken.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage!’ I say.

‘You ever walked a dog before?’

‘No, but don’t worry, I am very well prepared.’ No need to tell him that I’ve extensively researched dog-walking, the Labrador breed, and the exact route of the walk Grandma instructed me to take.

‘He’s only eight months,’ Jackson says, scrubbing at his hair again. ‘He’s a bit of a handful, still. I really only ask Eileen to walk him on Wednesdays because she was so good with him, and it gives me a chance to go in early, get some lesson planning done before the kids get in …’

I reach to take back my necklace; Hank lets out a little yip and immediately tries to catch my hand in his mouth. I yelp despite myself, pulling my hand back, and then swear. That’s exactly what you’re not meant to do, I knew that. I should have reached forward with the back of my hand out first.

‘Hank! That isn’t polite. Sit.’

Hank sits, the picture of shame and dejection, head hung low. I’m not convinced there’s any real remorse going on there. Those hangdog eyes are still watching the necklace.

I clear my throat. ‘So I just bring him back in an hour?’

‘Thanks. If you’re sure. I’ll be at the school. Here,’ Jackson says, handing me a key. ‘Just pop him in the conservatory and lock up after.’

I stare down at the key in my hand. I know we’re not exactly strangers, but I’ve not had a conversation with Jackson in about ten years, and I’m a little surprised that he’s willing to give me permanent access to his home. I don’t have long to think about it, though, because soon Hank is contemplating the possibility that the key might be a treat and is jumping up at me to investigate.

Jackson pulls Hank back into a sit. ‘Little bugger. I’ve never met a dog that’s such a devil to train,’ he says ruefully, shaking his head, but rubbing Hank behind the ears all the same.

Oh, good. A devil dog.

‘You sure you’re up to this?’ Jackson asks, perhaps catching my expression. He’s looking doubtful.

After the near-biting incident I am slightly less excited about walking this dog, but if Jackson thinks I can’t do it, I’m obviously going to have to do it, so that’s that, really.

‘We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Hank?’

Hank jumps up at me ecstatically. I squeal and lose my footing. I’m starting to think Google has not entirely prepared me for this.

‘Off we go, then!’ I say, as confidently as I can manage. ‘Bye!’

‘See you soon,’ Jackson calls as we shoot off down the path. ‘If you have any problems just …’

I think Jackson is still talking, but I don’t hear anything after this point because Hank is very keen to get going. Christ, I hardly need to use any momentum for this walk, Hank’s dragging me along – oh, feck, he’s in the road, he’s in the – all right, back on the – what’s that he’s eating? Where’s he got that from?

The journey through the village to the open fields is the longest ten minutes of my life. We also pass literally everybody in Hamleigh-in-Harksdale – it seems they have all chosen right this very moment to be outside their houses, watching me get towed down the pavement by an extremely excited Labrador.

An old man tries to overtake me on his mobility scooter for the whole length of Middling Lane. He’s mostly obscured by a large waterproof cape to keep off the drizzle; through the plastic, he calls, ‘You ought to keep Hank to heel!’ at me.

‘Yes!’ I call. ‘Thank you!’

‘That’s what Eileen does!’ the old man yells, now alongside.

‘That’s good to know!’ I say brightly, as Hank attempts to dislocate my shoulder. ‘Heel, Hank,’ I try, in a spritely, talking-to-a-dog-or-baby voice. Hank doesn’t even glance around at me.

‘I’m Roland!’ calls the man on the scooter. ‘You must be Leena.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Heel, Hank! Heel!’

Hank stops abruptly, smelling something interesting, and I promptly fall over him. He licks my face while I’m down. Meanwhile Roland takes this opportunity to complete his overtake triumphantly, which I find incredibly annoying, because even though I hadn’t consented to this being a race, I clearly just lost.

When we’re finally through the village and out of sight of prying eyes, I drag Hank to a stop and lean against a tree. Bloody hell, this is more like route-marching than walking. How on earth did my grandmother manage this beast?

I look around the field – I remember this spot. It looks different in the grey weather, but Carla and I used to picnic here as kids; she got stuck up this tree, once, and burst into noisy tears, which didn’t stop even as I talked her down one step at a time.

Hank brings me back to the present with a yank of the lead. He’s straining so desperately he’s managed to lift his front paws off the ground. I’m pretty sure the Internet said not to let the dog strain at the lead – I’m meant to encourage him back to me, aren’t I?

I fish out one of my homemade treats and call his name; he shoots over, gobbles up the treat, then he’s straight back to the business of lead-straining. This happens three more times. The homemade treats have turned to mush in the sandwich bag; I can feel the residue of mincey egginess under my fingernails.

Defeated, I strike out again and powerwalk around the perimeter of the field. Every so often I try out an optimistic ‘heel’ or haul Hank back to my side, but I am largely, if we’re honest, getting taken for a walk by this dog.

Ironically, given Jackson’s ‘big wellies to fill’ comment, I am actually wearing Grandma’s wellies right now – I don’t have a pair of my own, and me and Grandma have the same size feet. The wellies have been rubbing my heels ever since I stepped out of Clearwater Cottage, and now there’s an enormous stone in the toe of one, too. I make an ineffectual attempt at getting Hank to stop, and then bend down to remove the offending boot.