by Megan Rix
The problem was that Charlie really, really needed to go to the toilet. He’d tried to ask Miss Hubbard, but he was small and not very brave and she was too busy to notice him.
‘Quickly – line up. Smallest at the front. Boys and girls separate. You,’ she pointed at Charlie.
Charlie pointed to himself. ‘Me?’ he mouthed silently, and let go of Lucy’s hand. Maybe Miss Hubbard had realized he needed to go to the toilet. Maybe he had a look about him that said I can’t last one minute longer. He wished for at least the millionth time that day that he’d been able to go when his mother had told him to at home. He wished he hadn’t lied to her and said that he’d been when he hadn’t.
Miss Hubbard grabbed Charlie by the arm – hard enough to hurt – and pulled him away from Lucy to stand in the front row.
‘No one will be able to see you hidden back there, will they, you silly boy?’
The girl who’d been standing on the other side of Charlie sidled over to Lucy. It was the girl with the dirty fingernails, who’d pinched her and then claimed she hadn’t, on the train.
‘Not got your big brother to protect you now, have you?’ she said.
Lucy edged away from her, but there was really nowhere for her to go. The chapel was barely big enough to hold them all. She was in the second row of children, as she was neither tall nor small but in the middle, and from where she was standing she could see Charlie clearly. She wondered why on earth he was standing in such a peculiar way with his legs so tightly crossed. She frowned. It was almost as if … as if …
Charlie couldn’t hold on any longer. He had to go. Tears streamed down his face as the urine soaked through his short trousers and down his bare leg.
Lucy bit her lip. What she’d dreaded happening had happened.
All the villagers saw. She could see the distaste on their faces.
‘Well, what else would you expect from a child like that?’
‘No manners.’
‘No self-control.’
She felt angry on Charlie’s behalf. She wanted to go to him and tell him it’d be all right, but Miss Hubbard had already grabbed him and pulled him away.
‘You naughty boy,’ Miss Hubbard said, shaking him roughly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you needed to use the toilet?’
Charlie opened and closed his mouth, but couldn’t seem to be able to say any words. Snot trickled down his face.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, wipe your nose and then go and change your clothes.’ She pointed to where the toilet was.
Charlie didn’t have a handkerchief so he did the only thing he could think of and wiped it on his sleeve.
Chapter 6
The Wood Green Animal Shelter had been set up to rescue animals after the Great War. The short journey from the Harrises’ North London house to the shelter had not been easy, due to Mr Harris reckoning he could sell Tiger’s cat basket and so deciding to carry Tiger instead.
Tiger turned out to be a wriggler and the two dogs hadn’t made it any easier. Rose went too slowly and kept stopping while Buster spent his time trying to choke himself on his lead by racing ahead.
Worse, when he got there, Mr Harris found he wasn’t the only one. There must have been more than a hundred people with pets in the queue in front of him. Maybe even two hundred.
‘It’ll break my little girl’s heart when she finds out what I’ve done,’ said a woman with a yellow Labrador puppy that kept trying to play with Buster. ‘Stop it, Toby – leave him alone.’
The puppy whined.
‘Needs must. There’s a war coming. No time for sentimentality,’ said someone else with two spaniels that Rose and Buster were sniffing at, all four of their tails wagging happily in greeting.
‘A dog would eat you as soon as kill you when they’re hungry,’ said a fat man with a miniature poodle.
‘We’ve got to think of the baby. Can’t trust the dog with it,’ a lank-haired woman said, while her whippet looked up at her adoringly.
‘And they spread diseases,’ said a fox-fur-coated woman with a Siamese cat. The cat hissed at Tiger and Tiger arched his back and hissed in reply, almost escaping from Mr Harris’s arms as he did so.
‘No you don’t!’ Mr Harris clamped the pesky cat to his chest. Tiger gave him a look of utter disgust, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He was effectively trapped. Mr Harris had his right arm firmly round Tiger and was holding both of the dogs’ leads with his left.
As he listened to the people around him, Mr Harris started to think that bringing the animals to the shelter to be put down was more effort than it was worth. He could be stuck in this queue for over an hour, maybe even two.
‘Rabid dogs could bring this country to its knees faster than Mr Hitler,’ said a man with a white cat and a boxer dog.
‘I heard he’s got a whole squadron of spies intent on infecting our animals,’ said an old woman with a Yorkshire terrier.
The queue of people moved steadily forward, while Mr Harris wrestled Tiger, dragged Rose and pulled back Buster. It was turning out to be a less than pleasant experience. But, now that they were here, he was determined to see it through.
The animals in the queue took the experience as an opportunity to sniff at each other and wag their tails, unaware of the terrible fate that awaited them.
Far ahead of him Mr Harris could see people going into the animal centre with their pets, but coming out alone.
‘I heard it was two bob to pay,’ someone behind him said.
Mr Harris’s ears pricked up.
He looked round as a ginger-bearded man with a Dalmatian said: ‘As much as that?’
‘I thought it was free,’ said a woman with a black cat in a cat carrier. The cat hissed at the Dalmatian.
Mr Harris had thought it would be free too and was more than a little disappointed at the thought that it might not be.
‘If it wasn’t for NARPAC, I’d do it myself,’ said a man whose dog looked as though it had recently been in a fight and had a sore on its front leg.
NARPAC were a lot of busybodies, in Mr Harris’s opinion. They even had voluntary street Animal Guards – layabouts, in Mr Harris’s opinion – who should have been off fighting rather than sticking their beaky noses into other people’s business.
Everyone was supposed to pay a fee to register their pets with NARPAC and you were given a numbered disc: another waste of money that could have been used more productively elsewhere, in Mr Harris’s considered opinion.
‘It’s so the owners of lost or injured animals can be traced,’ his wife had said when he’d moaned about it.
‘Even if they don’t want to be,’ Mr Harris had retorted.
‘The official NARPAC literature says if an animal doesn’t have a disc it’ll have to be put down.’
Yes, and there’d be no need to pay for it then, thought Mr Harris to himself. The money saved could go towards a beer or two. Looking after animals was thirsty work and he was entitled to a pint.
‘I’d do it for a shilling if anyone wants to pay me,’ said the man with the injured dog.
Mr Harris had not expected to have to pay out any money when he’d set off that morning. And he didn’t want to put his hand in his pocket now. Three of them he’d need to have put down – at three times the cost. It wasn’t even as if they were his animals. It wasn’t right.
The queue kept moving forward and more people emerged from the animal shelter, petless.
They were getting close to the entrance when Rose started to shake uncontrollably.
‘What’s got into your dog?’ asked the woman with the black cat.
‘It’s almost as if it knows,’ said the man with the injured dog.
‘Stop it, you dumb animal,’ Mr Harris said. He joggled Rose’s lead, but she didn’t stop shaking. Rose looked at him with terrified eyes. Now they were closer to the shelter the smell was overpowering. A town pet mig
ht not have recognized the smell, but Rose had encountered it countless times on the farm and it filled her with fear. It was the unmistakable smell of death.
The queue advanced, but Rose braced her four legs and refused to move. Mr Harris had to forcibly drag her until he finally got his leg behind her and gave her a sharp nudge. At least the other two were being reasonably well behaved, he consoled himself. But no sooner had he thought this than Buster started whining and then the whine turned into a bark and Rose started barking too – it was almost as if they were warning the other animals not to go inside.
‘Be quiet!’ Mr Harris shouted at Buster and Rose, and yanked at their leads while struggling to keep a hold on Tiger.
Rose didn’t stop barking, but Buster stopped whining, only to throw back his head and howl. Tiger took this opportunity to scratch Mr Harris and with a yowl the cat jumped out of his arms.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Mr Harris tried to grab Tiger, but as he did so Buster and Rose broke free from their leads.
And now the three pets were running, running as though their lives depended upon it.
Mr Harris stumbled after them, pushing past people and pets. ‘Stop, come back!’
The animals didn’t hesitate for a second at the sound of his voice.
They raced past the Labrador puppy, who wagged his tail and tried to join them.
‘No, Toby!’
Past the miniature poodle, whose owner was now eating a sandwich, past the Siamese cat and the boxer and the whippet and the hundreds of other pets waiting with their owners in the long, long queue.
Buster was in a state of panic as he ran past a Dalmatian that tried to follow him, but was yanked sharply back on his lead. Buster didn’t know why they were running; all he knew was that something was very wrong and they had to escape.
‘I’ll take that little one …’ said one of the villagers.
‘And I’ll have that one,’ said another.
The youngest of the children were the first to be chosen. Robert frowned. It wasn’t right. Little children being given to strangers.
No one wanted Charlie. Finally he was the only one left in the front row and the villagers started picking children from the row behind him.
Charlie wished he’d brought his teddy instead of the wooden truck he’d chosen to take as the one toy he was allowed to bring.
‘I’ll have her,’ a woman with a scarf over her rollers said, pointing to the girl next to Lucy.
Lucy was more than pleased to see her go.
Miss Hubbard was standing with a middle-aged couple.
‘Robert and Lucy Edwards? Are Robert and Lucy Edwards here?’ Miss Hubbard asked.
Lucy moved out of the middle line. The pincher girl turned and poked her tongue out at her as she left the chapel.
‘We’re here,’ said Robert, stepping forward.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Foster, your grandmother’s friends. You’ll be going with them,’ Miss Hubbard said.
‘But where’s our grandmother?’ Lucy said. ‘We thought we were going to be staying with her. Why isn’t she here?’
‘Is she OK?’ Robert asked them.
‘Beatrice is …’ Mrs Foster started to say.
Lucy gave Robert a worried look.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Mr Foster finished. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Lucy looked back at Charlie, standing all alone and pitiful on the stage.
‘Please …’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Foster smiled.
‘Could we take him with us? He won’t be any trouble and he can have half my food so he won’t cost much. It’s just …’
‘She took a liking to him on the train,’ Robert finished for her.
The Fosters looked over at Charlie.
Charlie looked back at them, stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked it.
Mr and Mrs Foster looked at each other. Lucy waited.
‘All right.’
Lucy beckoned to Charlie and he ran off the stage and raced over to them, a smile of delight on his face.
Mr Foster loaded their suitcases in the back of his farm truck and then helped the children up there as well, where there was some sacking for them to sit on.
‘We went to pick Beatrice up this morning, to take her to collect you …’ Mrs Foster said, making herself as comfortable as possible in the front seat. ‘She’s not been quite herself recently …’ She gave her husband a knowing look as he climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘And she didn’t feel she was able to come with us.’
‘Is Gran ill?’ Lucy asked.
‘Not exactly …’ Mr Foster said, looking to his wife questioningly.
She gave him a tiny nod. ‘They need to know.’
Mr Foster continued: ‘The announcement that we were at war, well, it was too much for her to comprehend …’
‘You know she lost her only son – your uncle – in the Great War,’ Mrs Foster added. ‘It was a terrible thing.’
‘But that was years ago,’ Lucy added. ‘Before I was even born.’
‘Shh,’ Robert told her. ‘It takes a long time to recover from something like that.’
‘You’re right, Robert,’ Mrs Foster said kindly. ‘So, well … we just think it will be too much for her to look after you at the moment.’
‘But can we go and see her?’ Robert asked.
‘Of course – we’ll stop by as we’re driving back,’ Mr Foster said. He started the engine. The truck was noisy and a bit smelly. It wasn’t generally used for transporting people.
‘Bumpy,’ Charlie commented as they left Witherton on the Moor and rattled along country lanes that had grass growing up the middle of them.
Ten minutes later they stopped outside a small thatched cottage. Robert jumped out of the back of the truck and then helped Lucy down. They hurried towards their gran’s front door.
‘What about me?’ Charlie wailed; he didn’t want to be left behind.
Mr Foster helped him out.
Robert knocked loudly, then pressed down on the latch and opened the door. No one ever locked their doors in small villages like this. Lucy followed him inside.
‘Gran? Gran?’ Robert called. There was no reply. Where could she be? He went up the wooden stairs. ‘Gran?’
Although her bed had clearly been slept in, their grandmother was nowhere in the house.
‘Maybe she went for a walk,’ Mr Foster said, arriving at the doorway with Charlie holding his hand tightly. Beatrice had recently been spotted doing an awful lot of walking for a lady of advancing years.
‘She could be injured,’ Lucy said, worried.
Mr Foster shook his head. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. She’s lived here all her life. It’s time we got you home. We’ll come back to check on her tomorrow.’ He headed back down the stairs with Charlie following obediently.
Robert would really have preferred to see his grandmother now, but he saw the sense in what Mr Foster said. Even when they’d last come to stay at Gran and Grandad’s on holiday, his gran had gone off for long walks by herself – sometimes without telling anyone – and then she’d turn up later. It was just one of her little quirks.
Robert nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said, leading Lucy out of the house and closing the door firmly behind them.
Chapter 7
Tiger’s night-time prowls had often extended to the Wood Green Animal Shelter and beyond, so the back walls and alleyways were familiar to him as he led Rose and Buster back to the Edwardses’ home. He was unable to take his usual more direct and quicker route, due to the dogs being too big and not agile enough to run along the garden fences or leap on to shed roofs or even slip unseen through back gardens.
Buster was wildly excited as soon as he realized they were almost home, and raced ahead and up the front garden path, wagging his tail and barking to let the Edwardses know that he was back and needed to be let in.
When no one came, he barked again.
Then Tiger miaowed and scratched at the door. Usually this resulted in someone letting him in. But not today. He miaowed again, louder. No one came. Tiger leapt up on to the window ledge, the tip of his tail twitching as he peered through the window. Buster barked over and over, his barks becoming desperate. But still no one came.
Rose stood behind them, her head down. She’d had more experience of no one coming, however long she waited.
But Tiger and Buster were not deterred. An alleyway that Tiger knew from his nightly prowls ran along the back of the terraced houses. Tiger led Buster and Rose down it until they came to the Edwardses’ back garden. The fence was low and easy for the animals to jump over. Buster ran to the back door, barking to be let into his home. But inside everything was dark and silent.
Michael had promised Robert he would check on his and Lucy’s pets while they were away, and Michael was a boy of his word.
The first time he knocked on the Harrises’ door there was no reply. Mrs Harris was at work and Mr Harris was at that point struggling to get Buster, Rose and Tiger to the Wood Green Animal Shelter.
The second time Michael knocked, later in the day, Buster and Rose were being led home by Tiger, Mr Harris was drinking his first pint at the Horse and Groom, and Mrs Harris had just arrived home from work. She opened the door to Michael.
‘May I help you, dear?’ she asked him.
‘I’m a friend of Robert Edwards,’ Michael explained. ‘And I was just wondering how Buster, Rose and Tiger were getting on?’
‘Checking up on us?’ Mrs Harris asked. She sounded a bit offended.
‘No, no,’ Michael said quickly; he hadn’t meant to appear rude. ‘I just wanted to see how they were – I promised Robert I would.’
‘Well, I’m afraid they’re not here,’ Mrs Harris said. ‘My husband must have taken them out for a walk.’ She had been wondering where they were herself.
‘Even Tiger?’ Michael said.
‘Yes, well, it does seem a little bit unusual,’ Mrs Harris said. And, knowing her husband, she silently added to herself that it was in fact extremely unusual for her lazy husband to go for a walk at all. Let alone walk someone else’s pets. But the fact was that neither her Harry nor the Edwardses’ pets were there, and it seemed to be the only reasonable explanation for their disappearance.