by Megan Rix
‘Would it be all right if I came back later?’ Michael asked Mrs Harris.
‘Suit yourself,’ Mrs Harris said, although she had a growing feeling of unease. She closed the door. What had Harry done now?
‘Here we are, home sweet home,’ Mr Foster said, as he drew up outside the Devon longhouse, a whitewashed thatched cottage that had been built from cob and stone in the fifteenth century.
Robert jumped out of the back of the truck and helped Mr Foster to lift Lucy and Charlie down.
‘I’m so hungry my belly’s nearly touching my backbone,’ Charlie said.
Mrs Foster went in to make some food while Mr Foster showed the children around the farm. He told them how the longhouse once used to provide human and animal accommodation under the same roof.
‘You don’t mean the cows would live indoors too – with you?’ Charlie said.
Mr Foster nodded. That was exactly what he meant. ‘And it wasn’t so long ago, neither,’ he added, and then he grinned at the sight of Charlie’s stricken face. ‘The cows would be tethered with their heads facing the outside wall and there’d be a central drain down the middle.’
Charlie still didn’t look like he quite believed him. ‘But you didn’t have to sleep with the cows, did you?’ he asked. Charlie was so tired that he could have fallen asleep where he stood, but he still didn’t think he’d have been able to sleep with a cow snoring next to him.
‘Not me,’ Mr Foster said. ‘I’m not that old, but maybe a hundred years ago, especially in winter, you’d have appreciated the warmth.’
Charlie wasn’t sure that he would have. And what if the cow decided to take a bite out of him during the night?
‘These cows are known as Ruby Reds,’ Mr Foster told them, rubbing a hand along the side of an auburn-coloured cow with gentle eyes. ‘Or Red Ruby Devons, and they’re just about the finest breed of cow there is.’
Lucy went to stroke the cow. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘It’s huge,’ said Charlie, looking doubtful.
‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ Mr Foster said. ‘Ruby Reds are medium-sized cows.’
‘Do they bite?’ Charlie asked. They definitely looked to him like they might bite.
‘No,’ Lucy told him. ‘They don’t bite. They’re very gentle, friendly cows.’
Mr Foster had about twenty of them and they fed on the culm pasture grassland.
‘The Devon Rubies have lived here for thousands of years and will probably be grazing here long after we’ve all gone,’ he said.
He walked on and the three children followed him. Charlie turned back to look at the cow with the gentle eyes. He was glad they didn’t bite, but he wasn’t going to put his fingers anywhere near their mouths, just in case.
‘Chickens,’ Lucy smiled.
Charlie had never seen chickens before and was surprised when Lucy told him that they were where his breakfast eggs came from. He stared at them, wondering how they made eggs.
‘You can feed them if you want to,’ Mr Foster said. ‘Here, throw them a bit of this and watch them peck it up.’
Charlie threw some corn at the chickens and laughed as they ran over, making clucking sounds, and started pecking at it.
‘They sure like corn,’ he said.
Mr Foster ruffled his hair. ‘Which is good because a happy chicken lays good eggs,’ he said.
As well as the cows and chickens Mr Foster had lots of sheep that pastured on the adjacent moorland hills, a few pigs that lived in the small orchard and a sheepdog called Molly.
‘She looks just like Rose!’ Lucy cried with delight, but as soon as she said it she felt a pang of sadness. Was Rose missing her like she was missing Rose? She imagined the loyal collie going from room to room at the Harrises’ house looking for her and Robert. Rose always liked it best when they were all together. Now Lucy didn’t know when they would all be together again.
‘I think you’ll find Molly’s not nearly as bright as Rose,’ Mr Foster said wryly.
Molly was delighted to meet the children and rolled over on to her back. Charlie didn’t have a pet at home and was usually a little bit frightened of dogs, but Molly managed to charm him in no time at all.
‘What’s she doing?’ he laughed as Molly lay on her back with her legs in the air having her tummy rubbed by Robert. ‘Are you tickling her?’
Molly sneezed and sat up, which made Charlie laugh even more. She went over to him, tail still wagging, and pushed her head under his hand, telling him, as clearly as a dog could, that she’d like a stroke.
Charlie tentatively reached out his hand. ‘She feels so soft,’ he said in wonder.
‘She’s not much more than a puppy,’ Mr Foster said, and then he added, ‘and just about the worst sheepdog I’ve ever seen, aren’t you, Molly?’
Molly wagged her tail at the mention of her name.
‘I used to go out with my grandfather and Rose to watch them work the sheep,’ Robert said. Rose had always seemed to know exactly what his grandfather wanted her to do – almost before his grandfather had said a word.
Mr Harris returned home at around five o’clock, more than a little drunk, to find a very angry Mrs Harris waiting for him.
‘Where are they?’ Mrs Harris said.
‘Wha–? What you talking about, woman?’
‘The Edwardses’ pets – where are they?’
‘How should I know? Probably ran off.’
Now he looked angry, and Mrs Harris thought it best to not say any more. There was a knock at the door.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’ll be that boy again. His dad’s part of NARPAC.’
Mr Harris opened the door. ‘Yes,’ he slurred, looking Michael up and down.
‘I’m a friend of Robert Edwards …’
‘Never heard of him.’ Mr Harris started to close the door.
‘Wait!’ Michael put his foot in the door. Mr Harris looked down at the offending foot and then back up at Michael. ‘You were looking after three pets – a collie, a Jack Russell and a ginger tomcat.’
‘So what if I was? And I’m not saying I was, mind.’
Michael was sure that if Buster was in the Harrises’ house, and able to, he would’ve come running, barking, to the door.
‘Are they here?’ Michael removed his foot from the door.
Mr Harris took the opportunity to slam the door shut. ‘Mind your own business,’ he shouted through the letterbox.
As Michael trudged home, he passed the Edwardses’ house, unaware that Buster, Rose and Tiger were there, alone in the back garden.
They’d been there for more than an hour, but still no one had come home or let them in. Rose lay by the back door, her head between her paws. Tiger was beside the ornamental fishpond trying to hook out a goldfish. Buster’s playful nature had been severely tested by the trauma of the day, but now it returned. In the late afternoon sun he started digging close to where he’d been excavating on the day the Anderson Shelter arrived. A few minutes later he pulled out the second of Mr Edwards’s slippers, and held it triumphantly between his teeth, muddy and ruined.
Buster looked over at Rose and waggled the slipper tantalizingly, inviting her to chase him for it. Rose saw what he had, but she didn’t react. Buster came closer until he was right beside Rose and nudged it at her, urging her to take it. The slipper was too much for Rose to resist, but as soon as she moved and Buster saw that he’d sparked her interest he hopped back from her with it. If she wanted it, she’d have to stand up. In no time at all Rose was chasing Buster around the garden after the slipper. He dropped it and she grabbed it and now Buster was chasing Rose. On they played, turn by turn, until they were both exhausted and lay on the patio, panting.
Tiger, who’d just finished eating the goldfish he’d managed to catch, watched them with an air of disdain, and then got busy methodically washing himself
.
All the time the animals played and ate and rested, they listened for the sound of their family returning. But the sound never came.
When Michael got home, he was greeted by a boisterous array of happy pets. As neighbours and friends had had to leave London, many of them had asked if Michael’s family would take care of their pets, and now Michael’s house was full to overflowing.
As well as cats and dogs there were also a number of caged birds, including two cockatoos, a parrot and three budgies.
When his father came home, Michael told him what had happened at the Harrises’. ‘I’m sure he’s done something to those animals. He acted really shifty when I spoke to him,’ he said.
Mr Ward accepted a much-needed cup of tea from his wife and said, ‘He’ll almost certainly have taken them to the Wood Green Animal Shelter.’ His expression told Michael that he too feared the worst.
Michael was furious at the thought of the pets having been put down, and that he’d been unable to stop it from happening.
‘Isn’t there a record of all the animals that have been killed? Couldn’t we check somehow?’ he asked his father.
Mr Ward shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can look into it. There are supposed to be accurate records kept, but this is wartime,’ he said. ‘Sometimes things go by the by. Also, I doubt very much that this Mr Harris would register using his real name, don’t you?’
‘Well, can’t you write their names down in your registration book?’ Michael urged him. ‘There’s a chance that they might be still alive.’
His father shook his head. ‘They didn’t go missing in an air raid, son.’
But Michael didn’t think that should matter. The main thing was that they were missing and the more people who knew about it, the better.
‘There’s going to be thousands of strays in London soon. If they didn’t have identification tags, then how is anyone supposed to guess that they’re your friends’ pets? It’s impossible,’ Mr Ward said.
‘There must be something we can do.’
‘We’ll keep our eyes and ears open and maybe we’ll get lucky. But that’s all we can do,’ Mr Ward said grimly. He sighed. Being an animal lover could be tough, especially when people were so unthinkingly cruel to them.
Michael fed some carrot to the cockatoo.
‘There are so many strays already wandering the streets,’ his father said. ‘It might not have been the worst thing if he did have them put down. Better than them dying of starvation or getting knocked over by a passing vehicle and curling up somewhere to die in agony.’
But Michael wasn’t really listening to the last part of what his father said. He was thinking that if Mr Harris had let the pets go, then they might have returned to the Edwardses’ home.
‘I’m going round to the Edwardses’,’ he said, and headed for the door.
His mother stopped him. ‘Not now you’re not,’ she told him. ‘Now you’ll have your dinner and then you’ll help clean out the birds’ cages.’
‘But –’
‘And there’ll be no buts about it. Tomorrow will be soon enough to go back there.’
After they’d washed their hands, Robert, Lucy and Charlie sat down at a table that was filled with food.
‘Are we having a feast?’ Charlie said. He’d never seen this much food on a table before.
Mrs Foster smiled. ‘I wasn’t quite sure what you might like to eat so I thought I’d put out lots of different things.’
There were ham and cheese sandwiches, pasties, a cake, some scones with jam and a jug of cream.
Mrs Foster looked on as Charlie tucked in. He certainly did have a large and healthy appetite for a five-year-old.
After supper Robert went back to his gran’s house with Mr Foster. It was almost dark. They could see a flickering candle in the window so they knew Beatrice must have returned. But she’d wedged something behind the door so they couldn’t get in.
‘Go away!’ she called out when Mr Foster rapped on the door. ‘Go away or I’ll shoot you.’
‘Gran – it’s me, Robert.’
But Gran didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Go away!’ she screamed.
Robert looked at Mr Foster. ‘What should we do?’ he asked him.
Mr Foster thought for a moment. ‘I think it would be better if we came back in the morning,’ he said.
When no one had returned by nightfall, Rose, Buster and Tiger went into the dark and damp Anderson Shelter to sleep.
It was the first time Tiger and Buster had had to spend the night outside. Tiger’s night-time adventures were not usually that long and there was always a warm bed to return home to if the weather turned bad.
Now there was no one, and no dinner either. Buster whimpered with hunger; he’d never gone without a meal before and apart from the scraps Mrs Harris had given him he’d had nothing to eat. He cuddled up to Rose for warmth. Tiger scratched at the ground a little way away from them to make himself a rough earth-bed to sleep in. Once this was completed to his satisfaction he lay down in it. But the lonely earth-bed was cold and Tiger missed the warmth of Lucy. Sometime during the night he left his spot and curled up with the two dogs and the three of them slept huddled together.
At the Fosters’ house Lucy lay in the cold, unfamiliar room and wanted more than anything to be in her own room in her own bed with Tiger snuggled up beside her, his furry head nestled into her neck and a purr rumbling deep in his throat.
A tear rolled down Lucy’s face as she stared at the flock wallpaper and thumped the lumpy pillow to try to make it a little more comfortable. The bed was harder than she was used to and the room smelt dusty and musty, as if it was hardly ever used.
She missed her mum and she missed her dad, but most of all she missed Tiger, Buster and Rose. She missed them all so badly it was like an ache within her, and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to drop off to sleep.
In the room next door Charlie had no such problems. He’d crawled into bed in the room he was to share with Robert and had fallen instantly asleep on his tummy, exhausted from the long day and all that had happened.
Robert lay in his bed with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered where Dad was and imagined him flying the Blenheim over enemy territory, taking the photos that would help Britain to win the war.
Charlie started snoring and for such a small boy he made quite a racket. Robert didn’t expect to get much sleep, but the monotony of the snores was oddly soothing and soon he was out cold.
Chapter 8
Rose was stirring well before sunrise and it was five o’clock when the three pets left the Anderson Shelter.
Only Rose had ever lived in Devon. Buster and Tiger had both been born and lived their whole lives in North London. Now, though, they didn’t seem to have a home. The people that had made the house theirs were gone and they didn’t know where they’d gone to. They were unsettled and hungry.
Rose might have chosen to slip quietly out of the Anderson Shelter and start her long journey alone, but the others awoke as soon as she moved and were right behind her as she left the garden and set off down the road.
Rose, for all her purposeful tread, did not know the way from London to Devon. She just knew that that was where she was going. She would have to trust her gut and her instinct to show her the path. The other two needed someone to lead them, and so they followed Rose because she seemed to have somewhere to go.
Rose took them across Alexandra Park, where Buster found the smell of the horses that had raced there intriguing. He would have spent far longer sniffing the grass where the horses had been, but the other two moved onwards and he didn’t want to be left behind.
The oak and beech trees shaded them at Queen’s Wood and now it was the squirrels that distracted Buster and he almost lost the other two when he ran down an overgrown path after one. The squirrel ran up a tree and Buster barked at it, and then ra
n back the way he’d come – only now there were two paths. He sat down and howled and had almost given up when the undergrowth parted and Rose and Tiger were there.
They stopped for a rest and a long cool drink at the outdoor swimming ponds on Hampstead Heath.
Thirst quenched, Buster and Rose played while Tiger stretched and watched them chew at each other’s ears and forelegs before chasing one another over the grass.
The trio of pets trotted through the London streets, far less obvious at this early hour than they might have been later in the day. From Parliament Hill, Rose led them over Primrose Hill and in through the gates of Regent’s Park.
Buster had always been very interested in the ducks that quacked noisily on the lake at the local park that Robert and Lucy took him to sometimes. But that was as far as his knowledge of bodies of water went.
He’d never been allowed to plunge into the enticing water because Robert always put him on his lead when they got close to it.
Rose now stared intently at the water in the boating lake at Regent’s Park and Buster watched her, his head turning from the water to Rose and back again.
Rose barely moved at all, her eyes fixed on the shadows that weaved in and out just below the surface of the lake.
And then suddenly, to Buster’s utter astonishment, with a giant leap she was off the bank and had splashed into the water. A few seconds later she doggy-paddled to the side with a flapping fish in her mouth which she proceeded to eat, as Buster and Tiger looked on.
Buster might not have been in a lake or been fishing before, but he was a quick learner. He watched the moving shadows under the water and ran along the path round the lake, past the empty boats, barking at them – not quite brave enough to leap in the water yet, but wanting a fish to eat, definitely wanting a fish.
Tiger watched the water from the rowboat launching pad. He kept very still, as he always did when he was hunting and about to pounce. Running about and yapping as Buster was doing would do nothing but scare the prey away.