They all turned horrified eyes upon William, who coloured slightly but continued to eat a piece of cake with an unconvincing air of abstraction.
‘I thought you said you’d taken that dog to the Police Station, William,’ said Mr Brown sternly.
‘I did,’ said William with decision. ‘I did take it to the Police Station an’ I came home. I s’pose it must of got out an’ come home an’ gone up into my bedroom.’
‘Where did you leave it? In the Police Station?’
‘No – at it – jus’ at the gate.’
Mr Brown rose with an air of weariness.
‘Robert,’ he said, ‘will you please see that that animal goes to the Police Station this evening?’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Robert, with a vindictive glare at William.
William followed him upstairs.
‘Beastly nuisance!’ muttered Robert.
Jumble, who was chewing William’s door, greeted them ecstatically.
‘Look!’ said William bitterly. ‘Look at how it knows one! Nice thing to send a dog that knows one like that to the Police Station! Mean sort of trick!’
Robert surveyed it coldly.
‘Rotten little mongrel!’ he said from the heights of superior knowledge.
‘Mongrel!’ said William indignantly. ‘There jus’ isn’t no mongrel about him. Look at him! An’ he can learn tricks easy as easy. Look at him sit up and beg. I only taught him this afternoon.’
He took a biscuit out of his pocket and held it up. Jumble rose unsteadily on to his hind legs and tumbled over backwards. He wagged his tail and grinned, intensely amused. Robert’s expression of superiority relaxed.
‘Do it again,’ he said. ‘Not so far back. Here! Give it me. Come on, come on, old chap! That’s it! Now stay there! Stay there! Good dog! Got any more? Let’s try him again.’
During the next twenty minutes they taught him to sit up and almost taught him ‘Trust’ and ‘Paid for’. There was certainly a charm about Jumble. Even Robert felt it. Then Ethel’s voice came up the stairs.
‘Robert! Sydney Bellew’s come for you.’
‘Blow the wretched dog!’ said the fickle Robert, rising, red and dishevelled from stooping over Jumble. ‘We were going to walk to Fairfields and the beastly Police Station’s right out of our way.’
‘I’ll take it, Robert,’ said William kindly. ‘I will really.’
Robert eyed him suspiciously.
‘Yes, you took it this afternoon, didn’t you?’
‘I will, honest, tonight, Robert. Well, I couldn’t, could I – after all this?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robert darkly. ‘No one ever knows what you are going to do!’
Sydney’s voice came up.
‘Hurry up, old chap! We shall never have time to do it before dark, if you aren’t quick.’
‘I’ll take him, honest, Robert.’
Robert hesitated and was lost.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you just mind you do, that’s all, or I’ll jolly well hear about it. I’ll see you do too.’
So William started off once more towards the Police Station with Jumble, still blissfully happy, at his heels. William walked slowly, eyes fixed on the ground, brows knit in deep thought. It was very rarely that William admitted himself beaten.
‘Hello, William!’
William looked up.
Ginger stood before him holding his bow and arrows ostentatiously.
‘You’ve had your bow and arrow took off you!’ he jeered.
William fixed his eyes moodily upon him for a minute, then very gradually his eyes brightened and his face cleared. William had an idea.
‘If I give you a dog half time,’ he said slowly, ‘will you give me your bow and arrows half time?’
‘Where’s your dog?’ said Ginger suspiciously.
William did not turn his head.
‘There’s one behind me, isn’t there?’ he said anxiously. ‘Hey, Jumble!’
‘Oh, yes, he’s just come out of the ditch.’
‘Well,’ continued William, ‘I’m taking him to the Police Station and I’m just goin’ on an’ he’s following me and if you take him off me I won’t see you ’cause I won’t turn round and jus’ take hold of his collar an’ he’s called Jumble an’ take him up to the old barn and we’ll keep him there an’ join at him and feed him days and days about and you let me practise on your bow and arrow. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
Ginger considered thoughtfully.
‘All right,’ he said laconically.
William walked on to the Police Station without turning round.
‘Well?’ whispered Robert sternly that evening.
‘I took him, Robert – least – I started off with him, but when I’d got there he’d gone. I looked round and he’d jus’ gone. I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I came home.’
‘Well, if he comes to this house again,’ said Robert, ‘I’ll wring his neck, so just you look out.’
Two days later William sat in the barn on an upturned box, chin in hands, gazing down at Jumble. A paper bag containing Jumble’s ration for the day lay beside him. It was his day of ownership. The collecting of Jumble’s ‘scraps’ was a matter of infinite care and trouble. They consisted of – a piece of bread that William had managed to slip into his pocket during breakfast, a piece of meat he had managed to slip into his pocket during dinner, a jam puff stolen from the larder and a bone removed from the dustbin. Ginger roamed the fields with his bow and arrow while William revelled in the ownership of Jumble. Tomorrow William would roam the fields with bow and arrow and Ginger would assume ownership of Jumble.
William had spent the morning teaching Jumble several complicated tricks, and adoring him more and more completely each moment. He grudged him bitterly to Ginger, but – the charm of the bow and arrow was strong. He wished to terminate the partnership, to resign Ginger’s bow and arrow and take the irresistible Jumble wholly to himself. He thought of the bow and arrow in the library cupboard; he thought, planned, plotted, but could find no way out. He did not see a man come to the door of the barn and stand there leaning against the doorpost watching him. He was a tall man with a thin, lean face and a loose-fitting tweed suit. As his eyes lit upon William and Jumble they narrowed suddenly and his mobile lips curved into a slight, unconscious smile. Jumble saw him first and went towards him wagging his tail. William looked up and scowled ungraciously. The stranger raised his hat.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely. ‘Do you remember what you were thinking about just then?’
William looked at him with a certain interest, speculating upon his probable insanity. He imagined lunatics were amusing people.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, if you’ll think of it again and look just like that, I’ll give you anything you like. It’s a rash promise, but I will.’
William promptly complied. He quite forgot the presence of the strange man, who took a little block out of his pocket and began to sketch William’s inscrutable, brooding face.
‘Daddy!’
The man sighed and put away his block.
‘You’ll do it again for me one day, won’t you, and I’ll keep my promise? Hello!’
A little girl appeared now at the barn door, dainty, dark-eyed and exquisitely dressed. She threw a lightning flash at the occupants of the barn.
‘Daddy!’ she screamed. ‘It’s Jumble! It is Jumble! Oh, you horrid dog-stealing boy!’
Jumble ran to her with shrill barks of welcome, then ran back to William to reassure him of his undying loyalty.
‘It is Jumble,’ said the man. ‘He’s called Jumble,’ he explained to William, ‘because he is a jumble. He’s all sorts of a dog, you know. This is Ninette, my daughter, and my name is Jarrow, and we’ve taken Lavender Cottage for two months. We’re roving vagabonds. We never stay anywhere longer than two months. So now you know all about us. Jumble seems to have adopted you. Ninette, my dear, you are completely ousted from Jumble’s heart. This gent
leman reigns supreme.’
‘I didn’t steal him,’ said William indignantly. ‘He just came. He began following me. I didn’t want him to – not jus’ at first anyway, not much anyway. I suppose,’ a dreadful fear came to his heart, ‘I suppose you want him back?’
‘You can keep him for a bit if you want him, can’t he, Daddy? Daddy’s going to buy me a Pom – a dear little white Pom. When we lost Jumble, I thought I’d rather have a Pom. Jumble’s so rough and he’s not really a good dog. I mean he’s no pedigree.’
‘Then I can keep him jus’ for a bit?’ said William, his voice husky with eagerness.
‘Oh, yes. I’d much rather have a quieter sort of dog. Would you like to come and see our cottage? It’s just over here.’
William, slightly bewildered but greatly relieved, set off with her. Mr Jarrow followed slowly behind. It appeared that Miss Ninette Jarrow was rather a wonderful person. She was eleven years old. She had visited every capital in Europe, seen the best art and heard the best music in each. She had been to every play then on in London. She knew all the newest dances.
‘Do you like Paris?’ she asked William as they went towards Lavender Cottage.
‘Never been there,’ said William stolidly, glancing round surreptitiously to see that Jumble was following.
She shook her dark curly head from side to side – a little trick she had.
‘You funny boy. Mais vous parlez français, n’est ce pas?’
William disdained to answer. He whistled to Jumble, who was chasing an imaginary rabbit in a ditch.
‘Can you jazz?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’ve not tried. I expect I could.’
She took a few flying graceful steps with slim black silk-encased legs.
‘That’s it. I’ll teach you at home. We’ll dance it to a gramophone.’
William walked on in silence.
She stopped suddenly under a tree and held up her little vivacious, piquant face to him.
‘You can kiss me if you like,’ she said.
William looked at her dispassionately.
‘I don’t want to, thanks,’ he said politely.
‘Oh, you are a funny boy!’ she said with a ripple of laughter. ‘And you look so rough and untidy. You’re rather like Jumble. Do you like Jumble?’
‘Yes,’ said William. His voice had a sudden quaver in it. His ownership of Jumble was a thing of the past.
‘You can have him for always and always,’ she said suddenly. ‘Now kiss me!’
He kissed her cheek awkwardly with an air of one determined to do his duty, but with a great, glad relief at his heart.
‘I’d love to see you dance,’ she laughed. ‘You would look funny.’
She took a few more fairy steps.
‘You’ve seen Pavlova, haven’t you?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You must know.’
‘I mustn’t,’ said William, irritably. ‘I might have seen him and not known it was him, mightn’t I?’
She raced back to her father with another ripple of laughter.
‘He’s such a funny boy, Daddy, and he can’t jazz and he’s never seen Pavlova, and he can’t talk French and I’ve given him Jumble and he didn’t want to kiss me!’
Mr Jarrow fixed William with a drily quizzical smile.
‘Beware, young man,’ he said. ‘She’ll try to educate you. I know her. I warn you.’
As they got to the door of Lavender Cottage he turned to William.
‘Now just sit and think for a minute. I’ll keep my promise.’
‘I do like you,’ said Ninette graciously as he took his departure. ‘You must come again. I’ll teach you heaps of things. I think I’d like to marry you when we grow up. You’re so – restful.’
William came home the next afternoon to find Mr Jarrow in the armchair in the library talking to his father.
‘I was just dry for a subject,’ he was saying; ‘at my wits’ end, and when I saw them there, I had a heaven-sent inspiration. Ah! Here he is. Ninette wants you to come to tea tomorrow, William. Ninette’s given him Jumble. Do you mind?’ he said, turning to Mr Brown.
Mr Brown swallowed hard.
‘I’m trying not to,’ he said. ‘He kept us all awake last night, but I suppose we’ll get used to it.’
‘And I made him a rash promise,’ went on Mr Jarrow, ‘and I’m jolly well going to keep it if it’s humanly possible. William, what would you like best in all the world?’
William fixed his eyes unflinchingly upon his father.
‘I’d like my bow and arrows back out of that cupboard,’ he said firmly.
Mr Jarrow looked at William’s father beseechingly.
‘Don’t let me down,’ he implored. ‘I’ll pay for all the damage.’
Slowly and with a deep sigh Mr Brown drew a bunch of keys from his pocket.
‘It means that we all go once more in hourly peril of our lives,’ he said resignedly.
After tea William set off again down the road. The setting sun had turned the sky to gold. There was a soft haze over all the countryside. The clear birdsongs filled all the air, and the hedgerows were bursting into summer. And through it all marched William, with a slight swagger, his bow under one arm, his arrows under the other, while at his heels trotted Jumble, eager, playful, adoring – a mongrel unashamed – all sorts of a dog. And at William’s heart was a proud, radiant happiness.
There was a picture in that year’s Academy that attracted a good deal of attention. It was of a boy sitting on an upturned box in a barn, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He was gazing down at a mongrel dog and in his freckled face was the solemnity and unconscious, eager wistfulness that is the mark of youth. His untidy, unbrushed hair stood up round his face. The mongrel was looking up, some reflection of the boy’s eager wistfulness showing in the eyes and cocked ears. It was called ‘Friendship’.
Mrs Brown went to see it. She said it wasn’t really a very good likeness of William and she wished they’d made him look a little tidier.
BORN TO RUN
by Michael Morpurgo
There’s a picture-book village green not too far from where I live. It has a duck pond, a little white church, a row of cottages with wonderful flower gardens, and a farm shop where I go to buy all my summer fruit and vegetables. One day we were driving past this green when I saw a greyhound – then another and another and another! We had to stop the car to appreciate the amazing sight of at least fifty greyhounds, all with their owners, happily gathering together.
It turned out that this was a special Rescued Greyhound Club. All the proud owners and their dogs meet up every couple of months and go for a lovely long walk in the nearby woods to celebrate their new lives together.
I wondered about writing a story about this – but the King of Animal Stories, Michael Morpurgo, has written a greyhound novel that can’t be surpassed. Born to Run is a riveting read, subtly dealing with various serious issues. It’s a total page-turner. The extract that follows is near the beginning, when Patrick has rescued a sack of greyhound puppies from the canal, and is desperate to keep just one for himself.
BORN TO RUN
All that really mattered now was taking Best Mate home with him and looking after him. His mum kept hugging and kissing him. Patrick wasn’t so keen on that, not with everyone else there. So in the end he turned and walked away. He was tired of all the talk, all the chatter going on around him. He wanted to be alone with Best Mate.
But they wouldn’t leave him alone. Within a couple of minutes he found there was someone else crouching down beside him. He had on a blue uniform and a peaked cap. He explained he was from the RSPCA. He spoke with a very soft understanding voice, the kind people use when they know you’re not going to like what they’re about to say – a bad news voice. He had come to take the puppies away, he told Patrick, and look after them for him. ‘We’ll find good homes for them all, Patrick. OK?’ he said.
�
��I’ve got a good home,’ Patrick replied. ‘So I can keep one of them, can’t I?’ He looked up at his dad. ‘We can, can’t we, Dad?’ But his dad wasn’t saying yes and he wasn’t saying no. He was looking down at the floor and saying nothing. His mum was biting her lip. She wouldn’t look at him either. That was the moment Patrick realised for the first time that they might not let him take Best Mate home with him.
His dad was crouching down beside him now, his arm around him. ‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘we’ve talked about this before, about having a dog, haven’t we? Remember what we said? We can’t keep a dog in the flat. Mum’s out at work most of the day. You know she is, and so am I. It wouldn’t be fair on him. That’s why we got Swimsy instead, remember? You did such a brave and good thing, Patrick. Mum and me, we’re so proud of you. But keeping one of these pups just isn’t on. You know that. He needs space to play, room to run in.’
‘We’ve got the park, Dad,’ Patrick pleaded, his eyes filling with tears now. ‘Please, Dad. Please.’ He knew it was hopeless, but he still wouldn’t give up.
In the end it was Mrs Brightwell who persuaded him, and that was only because he couldn’t argue with her. No one argued with Mrs Brightwell. ‘Tell me something, Patrick,’ she said, and she was talking to him very gently, very quietly, not in her usual voice at all. ‘You didn’t save those puppies just so you could have one, did you?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘No, of course you didn’t,’ she went on. ‘You’re not like that. You saved them because they were crying out for help. You gave them their lives back, and that was a truly wonderful thing to do. But now you have to let them go. They’ll be well looked after, I promise you.’
Patrick ran out then, unable to stop himself sobbing. He went to the toilet, where he always went when he needed to cry in private. When he got back, the box and the puppies had gone, and so had the man in the peaked cap from the RSPCA.
Mrs Brightwell told Patrick he could have the rest of the day off school, so that was something. His mum and dad took him home in the car. No one spoke a word all the way. He tried to hate them, but he couldn’t. He didn’t feel angry, he didn’t even feel sad. It was as if all his feelings had drained out of him. He didn’t cry again. He lay there all day long on his bed, face to the wall. He didn’t eat because he wasn’t hungry. His mum came in and tried to cheer him up. ‘One day,’ she told him, ‘one day, we’ll live in a house with a proper garden. Then we can have a dog. Promise.’
Paws and Whiskers Page 17