by Megan Rix
‘He always was a smart little dog,’ Michael said. More than anything, he was delighted that Buster was still alive.
Michael asked about Rose and Tiger, but Sam knew nothing about them.
‘Even Patch – sorry, Buster – didn’t come from round here. He was brought up from Somerset.’
Sam took Buster from Michael’s arms.
‘He’s going to be fantastically helpful once the war really takes off over here,’ Sam said.
‘So you still believe it will?’ Michael asked. Lots of people had stopped believing the war was ever going to come to Great Britain. Hitler was too busy overseas. Many of the children who had been evacuated in September were now home and looking forward to spending Christmas with their families.
‘It will be here soon enough, believe me,’ Sam said, ‘and then we’ll know all about it.’
‘Dad, you won’t believe what happened,’ Michael told his father when he got home. His eyes were shining with excitement. He told him about spotting Buster. ‘And he’s a search-and-rescue dog. He didn’t get killed, Dad.’
And if Buster hadn’t been killed then there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that Rose and Tiger hadn’t been killed either.
Mr Ward was pleased to see Michael more like himself again. There’d been an uncomfortable awkwardness between them over the past few weeks and Michael had barely spoken to him.
He’d tried to explain to Michael that they just couldn’t save all the pets. ‘It’d be impossible.’
But Michael flatly refused to accept that it was true. ‘There’s no reason any of them have to die.’
Nothing Mr Ward said would sway his son and he’d started to worry that choosing to keep Michael in London hadn’t been such a wise idea. Having to report the pets Michael had been trying to save – that had been a terrible day for them both. He still hadn’t told his son that it was he who had done it. But he thought Michael might suspect that it was.
Mr Ward had seen more than a few of the evacuated children back in London. He didn’t blame the parents for bringing their children home for Christmas, even though he’d been criticized for keeping Michael in London. Not a single bomb had landed in Britain so far and there’d been no gas attacks.
‘Does Buster get leave?’ Michael’s father asked.
‘I don’t see why not,’ Michael said. Everyone else who’d been conscripted did.
‘Maybe you’d like to take him down to Devon for a few days, see your friends. Get to tell them Buster’s story in person. I’m sure it could be arranged.’
Michael hadn’t been in touch with Robert since the day the pets he’d been trying to save had been taken away. He’d felt too ashamed to tell anyone what had happened and blamed himself for putting the animals in danger. For weeks afterwards he’d looked for them and tried to find some clue as to where they’d been taken. He’d gone to every animal shelter he knew of, but finally he had had to accept that he wasn’t going to find them.
It’d be a lot easier to tell Robert and Lucy that he didn’t know what had happened to Rose and Tiger either if he had Buster with him.
Chapter 20
Tiger, for all that he’d been a town cat his whole life, was now in his element as he and Rose hunted on the moors together.
His sleek frame leapt on unsuspecting frogs, raced across the heather after rabbits and basked in any faint glimmer of winter sunshine that he could find.
Rose had been taught to avoid the adder and grass snakes that lived on the moors from the time she was a young puppy. But Tiger had never even seen a snake before and when he saw the black and grey zigzag-patterned snake basking in the winter sunshine on top of the moorland heather, he was intrigued rather than wary of it. Slowly, so slowly, he edged towards it – ready to pounce at the perfect moment.
He was just about to leap when Rose raced towards him, knocking him over and sending him flying. Tiger yeowled and hissed at the dog. Then he turned back to his prey, but it was too late – the adder had gone.
As the days passed, the last of the winter sunshine faded. All too soon the winds on the moor turned bitterly cold, and freezing rain drenched them almost daily.
At the end of one particularly bad day they found a disused barn and slunk inside. Rose flopped on the ground, exhausted from the day’s hunting with its meagre catch. Tiger lay down beside her, his furry side pressed against her flank for warmth.
Outside it started to snow, lightly at first, the white flakes floating softly down. But as Rose and Tiger slept on, it grew heavier until it had turned into a blizzard and other animals came into the barn to get away from the snow.
Tiger kept very very still when he felt warm breath on him, only opening his eyes when he felt it lessen. Hay had been left in a horse trough on the wall for the moor ponies, should they need it during the winter. Above Tiger a nut-brown pony lifted his head and tugged hungrily at it.
‘Driven through worse than this,’ the fish-truck driver told Michael, as he skidded round the treacherous corner of a narrow Devonshire lane and past a disused barn.
Michael held firmly on to Buster, who was sitting on his lap.
‘Good dog.’
Buster panted. The smell of the fish was so tantalizing to his sensitive nose that he was almost drooling. They’d been travelling for hours and he still hadn’t been given any.
The driver pressed on down the winding country lanes. Michael’s father had asked him to take the boy and his dog down to Devon, paid him a bit too – and he always made his deliveries, whatever the weather.
Buster looked out of the window at the unrelenting snow. After hours of driving through treacherous conditions, they finally reached Robert and Lucy’s grandmother’s house.
‘Come in, have a cup of tea at least, to warm you up,’ Helen told the fish-truck driver. He thanked her, but said he’d rather be on his way, as fish waited for no one.
Robert and Lucy were overjoyed to see Buster and he went crazy when he saw them, circling round and round and jumping up at them.
‘But where are Rose and Tiger?’ Lucy asked. ‘Didn’t you bring them?’
Michael shook his head.
‘Aren’t they with the Harrises still?’ Helen said.
‘No.’
Over a sandwich and a cup of tea for him and some scrambled freshly laid eggs for Buster, Michael told them all that he knew.
‘So what can have happened to them?’
‘Do you think they’re still alive?’
‘They can’t be,’ Lucy said, and a tear slipped down her face. All this time, while they’d been down in Devon, thinking their pets were safe, they hadn’t been safe at all. ‘But how did Buster end up in Somerset?’
Michael didn’t know.
‘Poor Rose and Tiger.’
‘There’s still a chance,’ Michael said.
Lucy and Robert nodded, but neither of them really believed that Rose and Tiger could be alive any more.
They sat in uneasy silence.
Buster had finished his scrambled eggs and was now looking hopefully at Michael’s half-eaten sandwich.
Michael broke a bit off it and Buster gobbled it up, and then eyed the rest of the sandwich. When Michael didn’t give him any, he put out a paw and touched Michael’s leg, then looked pointedly at the sandwich and gave a whine. He couldn’t have been clearer about what he wanted.
Robert and Lucy laughed in spite of themselves.
Michael gave Buster the rest of his sandwich.
‘It’s impossible to resist him!’ Robert said.
‘Buster’s got to be back in London for New Year,’ Michael told them. ‘They call him Patch, and they need him to encourage more people to allow their dogs to become search-and-rescue dogs.’
‘He’s Buster, not Patch,’ Lucy said firmly. ‘As soon as the war’s over, we want him back as our pet.’
‘Might even come back wit
h a medal, mightn’t you, Buster?’ Robert said.
Buster hopped up into Robert’s lap.
‘What’s that dog doing in this house?’ Beatrice said from the doorway. She didn’t sound pleased to see him.
‘This is Buster, Mother,’ Helen said. ‘One of our pets from London.’
‘I don’t care if he’s the King’s Corgi, Dookie. No dog is welcome in this house.’
‘But, Gran,’ Robert said. His grandmother could be so infuriating sometimes.
‘Fleas and diseases, not in this house.’
‘Michael’s travelled all the way down from London with him.’
‘He can sleep in the barn like Rose used to.’
‘Buster’s helping with the war effort,’ Lucy said.
‘Good for him. A dog’s place is outside.’
Nothing they said could persuade Beatrice otherwise. But they didn’t want Buster to have to spend the night outside.
Robert and Michael pulled on their coats.
‘Watch out for holes,’ Robert said, as they went through the yard. ‘Gran’s been digging them all over the place.’ He pointed to a particularly large one.
Robert and Michael trudged through the snow with Buster to the Fosters’ house. Before they’d even reached the front door Molly came racing over to greet them. Buster’s tail was wagging nineteen to the dozen as he said hello to this promising-looking new friend.
Mr Foster opened the front door and Buster ran inside, with Molly slipping in behind him before Mr Foster could stop her.
‘Well, look at that,’ Mrs Foster laughed, as the two dogs made themselves comfortable in front of the roaring fire. ‘Molly’s never even tried to come in the house before and now she acts as though she’s in here all the time.’
Mr Foster shook Michael’s hand and while Robert told him about his gran’s refusal to let Buster into the house, Mr Foster took Michael’s coat and suitcase and said Michael and Buster were more than welcome to stay with them.
Robert was mortified by his gran’s behaviour.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to Michael.
But Michael brushed the apology aside. ‘Buster doesn’t mind.’
And Buster certainly didn’t seem to mind. It was as though he and Molly had been friends forever rather than friends who’d just met.
After giving Michael and Buster some supper, Mrs Foster took Michael up to Robert and Charlie’s old room, while Robert trudged back to his gran’s. At least the snow had stopped falling, although it was still thick on the ground.
Back at the Fosters’, Buster and Molly slept together all night by the fire and woke next morning to a white-covered farmyard, signalling a whole new day of fun in the snow.
Chapter 21
Christmas Day began for Robert and Lucy with stockings filled with an orange, a small bar of chocolate, some pencils and hankies, which their mother had left at the ends of their beds. They were grateful that rationing hadn’t started yet as they each gobbled a piece of chocolate before breakfast – the only day such a treat was allowed.
‘I could eat chocolate for breakfast every day,’ Robert announced as everyone wished each other Merry Christmas.
‘I’m sure you could,’ said his mother, smiling.
‘What do you think Dad is having for breakfast?’ asked Robert.
His mother tried not to look sad – everyone wished he was with them on today of all days. ‘Oh, a delicious breakfast with bacon and eggs just how he likes them … and chocolate, of course!’
Robert and Lucy felt better after that. They knew their father probably wasn’t having chocolate, or bacon and eggs for that matter, but if they could imagine it then so it was, for now.
After she got dressed, Lucy headed out into the snowy winter morning. She didn’t like using the outside toilet at her gran’s. Big black spiders lurked on the walls and after all the snow she had to break the ice off the door latch to get in.
Worse, Gran’s yard was now more of a hazard than ever because the snow had covered up most of the holes Gran had been digging. If you weren’t careful you could easily get your foot stuck down one.
Beatrice insisted they all go to the early morning carol service, and after that they headed over to the Fosters’ farm.
Buster was very excited to see them, and immediately wanted Robert to throw a ball for him and his new friend, Molly.
‘I’ve been throwing it all morning,’ Michael told Robert and Lucy. ‘They never seem to have enough of playing with it.’
Buster dropped the ball at Robert’s feet, then sat down and looked up at him hopefully, his head cocked to one side. Molly stood behind Buster and wagged her tail.
Robert really had no choice. He threw the ball, and the two dogs chased after it and brought it back to him to be thrown again.
Mrs Foster made Christmas dinner for everyone at her house and gave Lucy and Robert the jumpers she’d knitted for them.
Lucy gave Mr and Mrs Foster the hats she’d been making.
Pride of place on the Fosters’ mantelpiece was given to a hand-drawn, slightly grubby Christmas card of what might have been a Devon Ruby cow wearing a red Santa Claus hat – though it was hard to tell.
His mum had put a note inside it to say that Charlie had explained what had happened, and how grateful she was for all that Mr and Mrs Foster had done for her son.
‘Merry Christmas’ Charlie had carefully traced over the greeting, and then added: ‘Bin missing the pasties love your Charlie xxx’
In London a telegram messenger pulled up outside the floating hospital as it lay at its berth. Spotting him from the window, the matron drew herself up, steeling herself to put a brave face forward, however bad the news might be. She thought that the men who brought the telegrams to people to tell them their loved ones were dead or missing in action probably had one of the worst jobs of the war. No one wanted to see them. People would run into their homes at the sound of their motorbike engines, hoping that the message wouldn’t be for them. She hurried to the entrance of the boat, praying that her husband was safe.
‘May I help you?’ she started to say as the messenger approached.
But then she saw who the messenger was. Their first and only river rescue – Private Matthews!
Sylvia felt all the tension within her release. She laughed as she hugged the surprised man to her. Not bad news after all. Just a friend come to see them and let them all know how he was getting on.
‘Merry Christmas, and how are you?’ she asked him.
‘Fine, fine …’ Something in his voice was wrong. ‘Only I hate to be the one to bring it, after she was so good to me, and on today of all days.’
Sylvia saw the telegram he was holding, which he’d shielded from being squashed by the impromptu hug. She let go of him like he had the plague.
The telegram was addressed to Mrs Helen Edwards.
‘Better to know than not to know, isn’t it?’ Private Matthews said, his eyes asking Sylvia to tell him that he’d done the right thing.
But Sylvia wasn’t always sure that it was better to know, if it was bad news. Sometimes ignorance, as the saying went, could be bliss.
After Private Matthews had gone, Sylvia stared at the telegram for a long time. It was Christmas Day. Helen would be busy looking after her mother and the children. Would it really matter if she didn’t receive her bad news telegram immediately? Sylvia didn’t think it would. Decision made, she opened the top drawer of her desk and put the telegram inside it.
At 3 p.m. everyone crowded round the Fosters’ wireless to listen to King George VI give his Christmas broadcast on the wireless.
‘A new year is at hand. We cannot tell what it will bring. If it brings peace, how thankful we shall all be.’
Tears slipped down Beatrice’s face as Lucy held her gran’s hand.
‘If it brings us continued struggle, we shall remain und
aunted …’
After the broadcast they played Christmas party games and Lucy won musical chairs three times in a row – in spite of Buster and Molly trying to join in by running around and barking.
They could have stayed longer, but by early evening Helen could see Beatrice was exhausted.
‘Time to go home, Mother.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here for the night,’ Mrs Foster said. ‘Rather than going back into the snow.’
‘I’ve slept in my own bed for fifty years,’ Beatrice said. ‘I couldn’t fall asleep anywhere else.’
‘Get your coats, Robert and Lucy,’ Helen said.
‘But what about Buster?’ Lucy said.
‘He’s staying here. You’ll see him in the morning.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll take good care of him,’ Michael said.
Buster and Molly were curled up together on the rug, the best of friends.
‘Dogs shouldn’t be allowed in the house,’ Beatrice said disapprovingly. ‘Rose knew her place – in the barn with the other farm animals.’
‘But it’s so cold out there,’ Lucy said, feeling sorry for Rose. At least she’d been able to sleep indoors at their house in London.
Beatrice yawned widely.
‘Let’s get you to bed, Mother,’ Helen said.
Mrs Foster came out of the kitchen carrying a cake tin.
‘Bit of Christmas cake to take back with you,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘That was fine cake,’ Beatrice said.
Robert and Lucy, Helen and Beatrice trudged back down the hill through the snow, with Beatrice insisting on carrying the cake tin.
The heavy snow had made travelling impossible for the last few days. So Rose and Tiger had shared the barn with the ponies and at night lay down together to sleep.
The hay that had been left for the ponies had also brought rats and mice to the barn, so they hadn’t gone hungry.
Now it was time to move on and the two animals picked their way across the snow-laden moor. The hardy moor sheep stared at Tiger as they chewed on the remnants of grass, and turned their heads to watch him some more as he went past, chewing all the while.