Doom and Bloom

by H. Y. Hanna

  “What bad associations?”

  Poppy turned to see Ursula approaching the table.

  “It’s nothing—just Sonia overreacting again,” said Mrs Peabody with an irritable sigh.

  Ursula, however, gave Sonia a patient smile. “What are you talking about?”

  Mrs Peabody cut in before Sonia could answer: “It’s just a pruning knife that was amongst the items donated by Norman, from his antique shop. But really, Sonia is just being very silly and—”

  “I’m not being silly!” cried Sonia indignantly.

  Ursula cleared her throat and held her hand out. “May I see this knife?”

  Mrs Peabody handed it to her but somehow Ursula’s fingers slipped and the knife fell to the ground. The blade flipped out as it fell and stabbed into the hard earth as it landed, making the knife stick up straight with its handle to the sky.

  Sonia gave a shriek. “NO! No, that’s a terrible omen! Dropping a knife is bad luck and it’s even worse when it lands sticking into the ground!” She looked around, her eyes wild. “It’s a death omen—it means that someone you know will die soon!” she wailed.

  “HUSH!” snapped Mrs Peabody, scowling at the hysterical woman. She looked worriedly around at the crowds, where several people were starting to look at them curiously. “That’s enough, Sonia! You’re going to cause a mass panic if you keep going on like this!”

  Ursula reached out, patted Sonia’s arm, and said in a soothing tone, like someone speaking to a frightened child, “It’s all right, Sonia. Calm down—nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “But it fell to the ground—”

  “I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Ursula said reassuringly. “You know, superstitions only have power if you believe in them. Now, I’ll tell you what: there are so many other wonderful items in Norman’s collection already. I’m sure nobody will mind if the knife isn’t in there.” She took the pruning knife. “I’ll return it to Norman when I see him.”

  Sonia gave a dramatic sigh of relief, which had Mrs Peabody compressing her lips in annoyance.

  “Why don’t you go and arrange the rest of Norman’s things in a hamper?” suggested Ursula with a smile.

  Sonia’s face brightened and she went off happily to the other end of the trestle table with the cardboard box and an empty hamper. As soon as she’d moved away, Mrs Peabody leaned forwards and hissed in an undertone:

  “You shouldn’t pander to her, Ursula—you’ll just make her worse and worse! Sonia needs someone to give her a good shake and tell her to stop being such a ninny, not soothe her like a baby.”

  Ursula sighed. “I just feel sorry for her—”

  “That’s your trouble,” said Mrs Peabody, shaking her head. “You always feel sorry for everybody. My mother used to say: ‘One good turn never goes unpunished.’ It’s all very well being charitable, dear, but one of these days, you’ll regret being so nice to everyone.”

  “Yes, but—” Ursula broke off as they were suddenly joined by an elderly lady carrying a toy poodle under one arm. “Ah! Aunt Muriel…” Ursula turned to Poppy and smiled, gesturing to the elderly lady beside her: “Poppy, I’d like you to meet my aunt, Muriel Farnsworth.”

  There was no family resemblance between the two women but, even if there had been, they couldn’t have been more unalike. Ursula was quiet and unassuming in her pastel floral-print dress, with her brown hair pulled back in a loose bun and her round face enhanced only by minimal make-up. Her aunt, by contrast, was lavishly dressed in an expensive silk blouse with pearls at her neck, and despite her age—which was probably somewhere in the seventies—was wearing several layers of heavy make-up, including bright pink lipstick which looked very odd on her thin, puckered lips. As she moved her hands, Poppy caught sight of jewelled rings sparkling on her gnarled fingers—and they were matched by similar gems sparkling on the collar of the toy poodle she was carrying.

  “You’ll remember I said I was looking for you,” Ursula continued. “Well, it was really for Aunt Muriel. My aunt is looking for someone to help her with a gardening project.”

  Poppy’s ears perked up. Another gardening job would certainly help to assuage her worries about income, giving her a bit of breathing space until she got the plant stock ready for the cottage garden nursery.

  She smiled brightly and held her hand out. “It’s lovely to meet you, Muriel—”

  “Say hello to Flopsy,” Muriel commanded.

  “Oh! Er…” Poppy paused, then turned to the white poodle who was eyeing her with suspicion. “Um… hello, Flopsy…” She put out a cautious hand.

  The little dog snarled suddenly, her fangs bared, then she lunged forwards to sink her teeth into Poppy’s fingers.

  “Yikes!” Poppy cried, jerking her hand back just in time.

  “What did you do to her?” Muriel snapped.

  “N-nothing,” said Poppy. “She tried to bite me.”

  “Rubbish! Flopsy would never bite anybody… would you, Flopsy-pooh?” Muriel turned to the poodle and said in a baby-voice: “Did that silly girl upset you?”

  The poodle squirmed in her arms and Muriel set her down on the ground. Flopsy shook herself, then looked around, her pink tongue poking out as she panted lightly.

  Muriel gasped. “Oh! The poor darling is hot! She needs water.” She looked around. “Kirby? KIRBY? Where is that man?”

  A man in his mid-thirties came rushing up to them and whipped out a bottle of mineral water, which he proceeded to pour into a dainty ceramic bowl and place in front of the dog. Flopsy approached the bowl and sniffed it disinterestedly, then wandered away.

  “That’s Evian!” said Muriel, glaring at the man. “You know Flopsy only drinks Perrier.”

  “Well, I thought she wouldn’t notice the difference—”

  “Of course she would know the difference!” snapped Muriel. “She has an incredibly refined palate and will not settle for anything less. I expect any pet nanny of mine to know that.”

  “Yes, of course, so sorry, ma’am,” said Kirby, hunching over in an obsequious way. “I’ll go back to the house and get some Perrier right away.”

  Poppy tried not to stare. She knew some people really loved their dogs, but this seemed ridiculous! Then she froze as Flopsy trotted over to her. The toy poodle looked so harmless—in fact, she looked almost like a cuddly toy with her woolly fur clipped into pom-poms at her tail and paws, and the pretty pink ribbon atop her head—that Poppy almost wondered if she had imagined the earlier attack. Still, she wasn’t taking any chances and she held her breath as the little dog sniffed her legs suspiciously.

  “I’m glad you’re wearing cool tones,” said Muriel, looking Poppy up and down approvingly. “Flopsy doesn’t like warm colours. They hurt her eyes. And she doesn’t like synthetic fabrics either. Her canine therapist says it’s because she has such a sensitive soul and she can sense the chemical pollutants in the fibres. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Er… yes, amazing…” said Poppy. Canine therapist? She stole a glance at the old lady, wondering if the whole thing was an elaborate joke. But Muriel seemed completely serious.

  “Of course, what her therapist says she really needs is to reconnect with Mother Nature—to absorb the healing energies of the Earth and rediscover her inner pup,” the other woman continued. “That’s why I want to build her a Doggie Scent Garden.”

  Poppy looked blankly at her.

  Muriel frowned. “You have heard of scent gardens?”

  “Um… well, I…”

  Ursula came to her rescue and said, “Research shows that scents from plants and herbs and flowers can fight depression and anxiety or even have physical effects, like cure headaches or lower your blood pressure, and sensory gardens have been used to help people with mental health issues or children with autism—”

  “Yes, yes, but I’m talking about a sensory garden for dogs,” Muriel cut in impatiently. “I want to create a personal scent garden for Flopsy, so that she can have a wonderful buffe
t of smells to enjoy. I want plants that will soothe her nerves and stimulate her creative energies…” She fixed Poppy with an assessing look. “I spoke to Amber Smitheringale the other day and she says you did very good work for her—helped her create a cottage garden in her new place. Well, I want a personalised service like that. I want someone to join Flopsy’s canine staff as her personal gardener and nurture her outdoor needs… can you do that?”

  Poppy glanced down at the poodle, who was now standing by her sandals and examining her exposed toes with great relish. She had a bad feeling that she would be nurturing Flopsy’s appetite for body parts more than anything else, but she reminded herself that she needed the money. She pinned a bright smile on her face as she shuffled backwards out of Flopsy’s reach, and said:

  “Um… yes, of course. I’d be delighted to be Flopsy’s… er… personal canine gardener.”

  “Good. You can start tomorrow morning. Come at ten.” Muriel turned and pointed towards the manor house. “I want it in that area around the side of the house. There’s currently an old rock garden there, but you can—” She was interrupted by the sound of a voice on a megaphone:

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen… boys and girls… it’s time for one of the highlights of the day. It’s FAST! It’s FURIOUS! It’s the Totally Thrilling Terrier Racing! So come down to the main lawn with your hairy hounds, your manic mutts, and your pocket pooches—and let’s see who’s got what it takes to win the race!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shouts and cheers filled the air, and crowds of people began streaming towards the large open lawn alongside the stalls. Poppy realised for the first time that there had been faint sounds of excited barking and yipping in the background—which were now growing louder and louder.

  “Ah—the Terrier Racing!” Mrs Peabody said, taking charge once more. “Muriel, remember, you are presenting the trophy to the winner. You had better go over to the finish line. There is a trophy table there where you can sit.”

  “Come with Mummy, Flopsy,” said Muriel, scooping the toy poodle up and bustling off.

  Ursula started to follow, then paused as her mobile rang. She answered it, struggling to hear above the din of the dogs’ barking.

  “Hello? Hello…? I’m sorry… I can barely hear you…” She placed a hand over her other ear, trying to shut out the noises around them. “HELLO? Yes, that’s right—I’m Ursula Phillips… I’m sorry? Pardon?” She frowned, then said, “Can you hold on a second? I just need to find somewhere quieter…” She glanced up and gave them an apologetic look, saying: “I need to take this call first. You go on without me.”—before turning and hurrying towards the marquee.

  “Ah well, I’m sure she’ll catch us up,” said Mrs Peabody, hustling Sonia and Poppy with her as she started towards the race course.

  Poppy felt the atmosphere of tension and excitement as she neared the crowds that lined the edge of the long, wide lawn. At the far end was the trophy table, where she could see Muriel sitting, with Flopsy next to her. Beside them, a wall of straw bales had been set up to cushion the dogs’ arrival at the end of the course. Just behind the bales was a strange contraption—something that looked like an upturned bicycle—and someone was sitting on it, pedalling it experimentally, winding and unwinding a long cord around the wheel. The cord seemed to be part of a pulley system and it extended, through the straw bales, all the way down to her end of the lawn.

  At this end of the lawn, a small group of people were congregating next to her, each with a dog straining on a leash, tongue hanging out and eyes bulging, barking at the top of its voice. There were bouncing Jack Russell Terriers and feisty Westies, self-important Schnauzers and yapping Yorkies—and a variety of other mixed-breed terriers. They all seemed to be fixated on something small and furry that was moving in the grass in front of them and Poppy realised that it was the lure attached to the end of the cord. As the cord was pulled back and forth by the bicycle contraption, the lure jerked forwards and backwards, and the dogs worked themselves into a frenzy as they eyed the tantalising scrap of fur a few feet in front of them.

  Their pure, unadulterated doggie excitement brought a smile to Poppy’s face. Then her smile spread even wider as she saw a familiar-looking, scruffy black terrier in the melee. It was Einstein, the feisty little dog that belonged to her eccentric neighbour Dr Bertram Noble—known to his friends as Bertie. In fact, she could see Bertie now, hanging on to the leash with difficulty as Einstein barked and flung himself at the lure.

  “Bertie!” cried Poppy, rushing over. “I didn’t realise that you were coming to the fête?”

  A brilliant scientist and madcap inventor, Bertie was nevertheless also very reclusive, and Poppy had rarely seen him out and about in the village. Which is probably just as well, she reflected, eyeing him askance. The villagers already treated him with incredulity and suspicion, and looking at Bertie now, you could hardly blame them. He was dressed in his usual haphazard fashion, in a bizarre pair of baggy trousers that looked like fisherman’s waders, held up by elasticated braces, and a red flannel shirt. On his head, he wore a helmet with a large weathervane attached to the top, and in one hand he carried a polka dot umbrella. And to top it all off, he had a pair of spectacles perched on his nose that looked more like swimming goggles than glasses, and which magnified his eyes to an enormous size.

  “Ah, Poppy, my dear… how nice to see you.” Bertie beamed. “I hadn’t planned to come, but then I heard about the Terrier Racing—and I just had to bring Einstein! He does so love running around and chasing things, you see, and I fear that I have been badly neglecting him these past few weeks, as I have been so immersed in my experiments… so I decided it was time I took him for a nice day out.”

  “Has Einstein done Terrier Racing before?” asked Poppy.

  “Oh no—but he is such a clever dog, I am sure he will pick it up very quickly,” said Bertie. He leaned over and pointed to his head, adding: “Besides, my Weathercock Helmet should help to establish wind speed and direction, so I can send Einstein off at the best angle.”

  The voice came over the megaphone again, urging all competitors to take their places on the starting line. Bidding a hasty farewell, Bertie dragged Einstein over to take his place next to the other terriers. Poppy retreated to the edge of the crowd, trying to find a space to watch the race.

  “Poppy—over here…” someone called.

  She turned to see Nick Forrest nearby, his tall frame standing out amongst the other spectators She went over to join him, squeezing into a gap beside him.

  “Hit anyone else with a ball lately?” he asked with a grin.

  Poppy gave him a withering look. “That was an accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  He laughed and began to say something else, then his eyes slid beyond her towards the starting line and the smile faded from his face.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he growled under his breath.

  Poppy followed his gaze to where Bertie was crouched with Einstein next to the other owners. She stole a glance at the man next to her. Nick was taller and more muscular, and his eyes were dark compared to Bertie’s soft brown, but now that she was looking for it, she could see the family resemblance: the same strong eyebrows and determined jaw, the thick unruly hair (grey in Bertie’s case), the same sensitive, mobile mouth that could quirk into a smile of childlike delight (Bertie) or settle into a scowl of moody impatience (Nick).

  When she had received the bombshell a couple of weeks ago that Bertie and Nick were father and son, Poppy had been completely gobsmacked. They lived so close—their houses on either side of Hollyhock Cottage—and yet never had anything to do with each other. They didn’t even talk to one another! Poppy was desperate to find out why they were so estranged, but as a new neighbour who had barely been there a month, she didn’t feel that she could pry into something so personal.

  Now, she wondered if this was the perfect opportunity to bring up the subject. But before she could reply to
Nick, she felt someone grab her elbow. She turned around to see Mrs Peabody next to her.

  “Have you seen Ursula?”

  Poppy shook her head.

  Mrs Peabody made a tutting noise. “She should have come by now. I’ve sent Sonia back to the marquee to find her—I don’t want her to miss the race. It was Ursula’s idea, you know, to include Terrier Racing in the programme for the day and she’ll be delighted to see the attendance. My goodness, we hadn’t expected to attract so many people!” She smiled with satisfaction as she took in the cheering crowds around them.

  Poppy turned to look back towards the starting line again. The barking was deafening, and the excitement was reaching fever pitch, with every terrier lunging, choking on their collars, their eyes fixated on the lure that was being jerked teasingly in front of them. She felt her heartbeat quicken as the voice came over the megaphone again:

  “Well… it looks like our canine competitors are raring to go! Look at them… look at that excitement! Do you think we should start the race?”

  The crowd roared and yelled and hooted.

  “Righto then… Are we ready?”

  Every dog strained forwards. Poppy held her breath, her eyes on the scruffy black terrier in the centre of the line. Come on, Einstein! she cheered silently

  “Get ready to release your dogs… On your marks… Get set… GO!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The dogs exploded from the starting line, legs pumping, ears flying, as they tore after the lure which was being reeled in as fast as the person on the bicycle could pedal. Poppy squealed with delight as she saw that Einstein was amongst the dogs in the lead—in fact, the scruffy black terrier was second in line and he was rapidly gaining on the Jack Russell in front of him. For a moment, the two dogs were neck and neck, tongues hanging out and legs churning. Then Poppy’s heart skipped a beat as she saw Einstein begin to pull ahead.