by Megan Rix
As the light faded at the end of the day, Rose and Tiger would normally have found somewhere safe and out of the weather for the night. But tonight Rose pressed on and whined when Tiger would have stopped.
She padded through a gap in a drystone wall and made a strange sound in her throat. It was a sound that Tiger had never heard before. It was almost a hum.
The air here felt different to Rose, the air here smelt different. It was the smell of almost-home.
Rose’s tail wagged as she broke into a trot and Tiger ran after his friend.
They were still quite a long way from the farm when Rose’s sensitive nose picked up the acrid tang of smoke. This was a very different smell: the smell of danger and death. Animals instinctively know to head away from fire rather than towards it.
Rose ran onwards in the direction of the fire, however, and Tiger, after hesitating for a moment, ran after her.
Michael was fast asleep when Buster woke him by barking and then jumping on the bed and pulling at the covers.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Michael said.
Buster jumped off the bed, but kept on barking.
The noise woke Mr Foster and he came to Michael’s room. ‘What’s got into him?’ he said, as he opened the door.
As soon as the door was opened, Buster shot out of it.
Michael headed after him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said to Mr Foster. ‘But he’s a trained search-and-rescue dog – he wouldn’t be barking for no reason.’
Buster was now barking by the front door. Molly stood next to him, not sure what was happening.
Mr Foster pulled the front door open and Buster raced outside, barking and barking.
Now they didn’t need Buster to tell them something was wrong. They could see it for themselves, and smell it too.
‘Fire!’ Mr Foster cried.
In the valley below them, where Beatrice’s house was, they could see the flicker of orange flames.
Mr Foster ran to his truck, with Michael and Buster right behind him.
Robert’s first thought was that a bomb had hit the house. He threw off the bedclothes, ran into Lucy’s room and dragged her out of bed.
‘Wh-what is it?’
‘Come on!’
Helen ran out of her room at the same time, wearing her dressing-gown and her husband’s slippers. She ran to Beatrice’s room. The door was open and the room empty. Her mother must have already got out.
She hurried Robert and Lucy down the stairs and out into the yard.
They were only just in time; the fire had taken hold in some of the rooms downstairs and it was burning wildly.
‘Where’s Gran?’ Lucy said.
Helen looked around. Beatrice’s room had been empty. She had to be outside.
‘Wait here,’ she told Robert and Lucy. ‘Mum … Mother!’ she called out, as she went to look for her.
A black shadow ran past Robert and Lucy and into the house.
‘That looked like … Rose!’ Lucy said.
‘It couldn’t be, could it?’ said Robert.
Inside the burning building, Rose found Beatrice in the kitchen where the fire was raging. The elderly lady had been overcome by smoke and had collapsed on the floor.
‘Shouldn’t be in here …’ Beatrice muttered, as Rose started to drag her out by her dressing-gown. The old lady was thin, but she was still very heavy for a collie to pull across the floor, even one as determined as Rose.
Doggedly, Rose clamped her teeth more firmly round the dressing-gown material. She wouldn’t give up.
‘No!’ Helen screamed when she saw Robert running towards the house.
Robert grabbed an old rag that was hanging on a nail by the door, wet with frost, and covered his nose and mouth with it. But as soon as he went back into the house he knew he couldn’t stay for long. Smoke was everywhere. Crawling on his hands and knees, he shouted out, ‘Rose!’ From the kitchen he thought he heard a bark. He crawled over and pushed the door open with his foot. Through the haze he could see the figure of a dog and a body slumped on the ground, but the smoke was getting thicker by the second.
‘Gran!’
When she saw Robert, Rose wagged her tail, but she didn’t stop trying to drag Beatrice out of the kitchen.
‘Good girl, Rose,’ Robert said.
He quickly pulled Beatrice to her feet, put her right arm round his shoulder and his left arm round her waist.
‘Bertie – Bertie, you came back,’ Beatrice said. Robert half lifted and half dragged his grandmother outside as the flames finally engulfed the kitchen.
Mrs Edwards took her confused mother from Robert as Mr Foster’s truck squealed to a halt.
‘Where’s my warm milk?’ Beatrice demanded to know. ‘It’s heating up on the stove. I want my warm milk with a slice of Christmas cake.’
‘Where’s Rose?’ Robert said. She’d been right behind him.
‘I knew it was her!’ said Lucy. She burst into tears as she stared at the burning cottage.
‘No dogs in the house,’ Gran insisted, as flames consumed the door she and Robert had just come out of.
Robert pulled his dressing-gown over his head, ready to go back in.
‘No!’ Helen cried, grabbing his arm tight. ‘You’ll get yourself killed. Whatever dog that was, it wasn’t Rose, and it won’t stand a chance now. Look at it.’
The house was an inferno. Lucy sobbed, as Helen hugged her to her.
Buster jumped from the Fosters’ truck, and raced across the yard towards a shape on the ground, barking and barking.
Michael ran after him and found a collie lying on her side in the snow. It looked as though she’d managed to get out through the small side window. But she wasn’t moving. He carefully picked her up and carried her away from the house, which he was worried might collapse at any moment.
‘It is Rose!’ Lucy exclaimed, running up to him. Rose was very still. ‘Is she – is she …?’ But she couldn’t say the word ‘dead’.
Michael put Rose down on the ground and listened to her heart, then put his mouth over Rose’s nose and exhaled into her, forcing air through her nose and into her lungs as he’d been taught at NARPAC.
Come on, he silently begged.
Everyone else, besides Buster, who was digging across the yard, gathered round and watched and waited.
Michael listened to Rose’s heart and then repeated the breathing.
‘She moved!’ Lucy cried. ‘She moved!’
She was right – Rose was breathing again. At the sound of Lucy’s voice she lifted and dropped her tail, and Lucy crouched down beside her in the snow and sobbed.
‘We have to get her into the warmth as soon as possible,’ Michael said, looking serious. ‘She won’t survive if she stays out here.’
‘Let’s take her back to our house,’ Mr Foster said, and he wrapped Rose up in some sacking and lifted her into the back of the truck where Michael and Lucy cradled her.
‘Buster – come on!’ Robert yelled.
Buster was digging at a large snow-clogged hole close to the burning house as though his life depended upon it.
Robert raced over to him and dragged him away by his collar, but as soon as he let go Buster ran back and started digging again.
‘Buster, come here!’ Robert went back and peered into the hole, trying to work out what was so important.
Staring up at him, looking pitiful but unharmed, was a familiar face. ‘Tiger? What are you doing here?’ Robert lifted the bedraggled ginger furball out and hugged him to him. The cat smelt terrible, but Tiger was definitely alive.
‘You OK?’ Michael asked him, as Robert ran back to the truck with Buster and Tiger and climbed in.
‘Look who I found,’ Robert said.
‘Tiger!’ squealed Lucy in disbelief.
‘How on earth did they get here?’ asked Helen, too confused to ev
en think about it.
‘Maybe they missed us as much as we missed them,’ Lucy said, as she stroked the cat. Tiger rubbed his head against her.
Jumping up on his hind legs from the foot space, Buster licked Tiger’s face, then pawed over to where Rose lay on Michael’s lap beside Lucy. The Jack Russell squeezed down between Rose and Tiger, whining softly as the collie’s wheezing breaths filled the space around them.
Chapter 22
Over the next few days everyone kept a careful watch on Rose as she steadily got better. Tiger and Buster barely left her side unless they were forced to. Buster bolted down his food and then raced back to her. Tiger lay curled up close to her during the day, but curled up with Lucy in her bed at night.
Poor Molly was confused. She tried to play with Buster, but he wouldn’t play, so she tried to play with Tiger, but Tiger gave a miaow that let her know in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t the time for playing.
Robert and Lucy and Michael spent all of their time with Rose too. None of the children could believe that the pets were all safe and well. They tried to work out how they could have got to them, but it seemed impossible.
‘Only Rose has ever lived down here before.’
‘Rose is pretty determined,’ Mrs Foster said. ‘Even as a puppy you could see she was a dog with a strong character.’
While Michael stayed with the pets, Robert and Lucy went with their mother and Gran to see what could be salvaged of Beatrice’s property and bring back the chickens, none of which seemed to be any the worse for their smoky ordeal.
Beatrice almost stumbled into one of the holes that were all over the yard.
‘Someone should fill these in,’ she said crossly. ‘They’re a health hazard.’
Robert and Lucy smiled.
When Rose was fit again, Mr Foster and Robert took her out to the sheep, while Michael and Lucy took Buster and Molly for a walk.
‘Do you think she’ll remember what she’s supposed to do?’ Robert asked Mr Foster.
Mr Foster blew the whistle twice – one shorter and one longer blast – the command for ‘come-bye’.
Rose looked first at Mr Foster and then at Robert. She wagged her tail.
‘Go on then, Rose,’ Robert said, and Rose ran off to do what she was born to do, moving round the sheep in a clockwise direction.
She’d forgotten none of her training and was in her element as she and Mr Foster worked the sheep, bringing them safely into their pen.
As Robert watched Rose obeying the commands that Mr Foster shouted, he could see she was at home here. A sheepdog through and through, she was back where she belonged.
At the end of an hour Mr Foster blew the whistle three times and Rose ran to him as she was supposed to do.
Mr Foster couldn’t praise her enough. ‘You’re one fine dog,’ he said. ‘One very fine dog.’
Robert had never seen Rose’s tail wag as hard as it did that day.
Back at the farmhouse Molly dropped her ball at Robert’s feet while Rose followed Mr Foster.
‘It’s like …’ Lucy started to say and stopped.
‘Like what?’
‘Like Rose is finally truly happy. It’s like she’s where she belongs.’
‘What will you do with Molly now?’ Robert asked Mr Foster. One thing that was clear to see and only highlighted more now that Rose was here, was that Molly was anything but a natural born sheepdog.
Mr Foster smiled. ‘Well, if the war doesn’t get going over here …’
Although war had been declared and officially started, and was very much under way in Europe, Britain had so far not been attacked.
‘… Then maybe you’d like to do a swap – my Molly for your Rose?’
‘I don’t want Rose to have to sleep outside,’ Lucy said.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that – she’ll have a choice place by the fire,’ Mrs Foster told her, and Lucy smiled.
It was almost midnight on New Year’s Eve and everyone – aside from Beatrice, who’d gone to bed at nine – was still up. Lucy was almost asleep on the sofa, with Tiger curled up beside her. Molly and Rose were lying back to back by the roaring fire. Robert and Michael played marbles on the rug, with Buster lying slightly in their way, and the adults were talking softly about the war.
Suddenly Buster sat up, his head cocked to one side. He whined.
‘What is it, boy?’ Robert said.
Buster ran out of the room.
Robert stood up and followed him. He was just in time to see Buster racing up the stairs.
‘Buster?’
A moment later the little dog came running back down with a brown, only slightly damaged, leather slipper in his mouth.
Robert went to take it from him when there was a knock at the front door behind them. Robert turned and opened it, only to have Buster rush past him, his tail wagging as hard as it could.
‘Hello, Buster. Nice to see nothing’s changed around here,’ William said, taking his slipper from the dog.
Robert could hardly believe his eyes.
‘It’s Dad!’ he shouted, and everyone came running.
As the clock struck midnight and the New Year began, William told them all that had happened and how he and his crew had been saved by a homing pigeon named Lily.
‘Joe sent her back to the airfield with grid coordinates and they were able to send out a rescue party and pick us up. Without Lily – well, let’s say I might not have been home yet.’ William smiled, as he squeezed Helen’s hand and hugged Lucy to him.
Britain’s battle in the sky was already in progress, and on land it was about to begin in earnest, but for tonight his family were together and safe.
Tiger twirled round his legs and William lifted him on to his lap and buried his face in his soft ginger-and-white fur. He was so glad to be back with his family.
Lucy stroked Rose sitting beside her as Buster picked up the ball he and Molly had been playing with earlier. He padded over to Michael and dropped the ball at his feet, looked at it and then looked up at Michael. Molly wagged her tail hopefully.
Robert laughed. Buster and Molly were being perfectly clear about what they wanted. ‘Come on then,’ he said, and they all went out into the star-filled moonlit night. It was time for the first game of the New Year.
Afterword
A little-known historical fact sets the scene for this book: in September 1939, after the announcement that Great Britain was at war, more than 400,000 cats and dogs were put down at their owners’ request in just four days. Between 1939 and 1940, another 350,000 pets were killed.
The total number of pets that were put down – 750,000 – is more than twelve-and-a-half times the number of civilian deaths throughout the country during the whole of the Second World War.
The Dickin Medal is awarded to animals for ‘acts of conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty in wartime’. The medal was instituted in 1943 and named after the PDSA founder, Mrs Maria Dickin CBE.
During the Second World War, a total of 54 Dickin Medals were awarded, of which 32 went to pigeons, 18 to dogs, three to horses and one to a cat.
In 2004 a memorial to commemorate all the animals and birds that were killed during wartime was erected in Hyde Park. Pigeons were given pride of place on the wall of the sculpture and carved in relief.
Around 250,000 homing pigeons were used during the Second World War.
Winston Churchill’s fondness for cats is well documented. For his 88th birthday he was given a ginger cat that he named Jock. After Churchill’s death his family asked that a marmalade cat always be resident at Chartwell. In November 2010 Jock number 5, a kitten who’d been rescued by Cats Protection, moved in. He has an unlikely love of water.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to the many, many people and places that helped in the researching of this book. The personal stories were moving and enlightening, an
d special thanks go to Terry and Shirley Bender and George and Angela Moore. Also to Barnstaple and Tiverton museums for their help with the Devon research, and no book on the war would be complete without a visit to the Imperial War Museum. The staff at the Twinwood Airfield Museum gave a fascinating insight into life in the RAF in the Second World War.
On the writing side I would like to thank my agent Clare Pearson, of Eddison Pearson, whose encouragement and support were invaluable, and my editor at Puffin, Shannon Park, whose brilliant idea this book was. Also Samantha Mackintosh and Marcus J. Fletcher – copy-editors extraordinaire – who I hope I’m lucky enough to work with on future books.
Thanks to Emily Cox at Puffin whose real Tiger inspired the fictional one, Andrea Norfolk for her invaluable information about collies and Lynda White whose own Jack Russells, Buster and Lily, are quite different from Buster in the story.
Finally, thanks to my own two dogs, Traffy and Bella, who had to put up with shorter walks during the writing of this book and are looking forward to some very long walks to make up for it. And as always, my husband, who loved the book idea from the beginning and spent hours helping with the research, and suggested a trip to Devon that included a journey on the Somerset steam railway (with our dogs) that inspired Buster, Rose and Tiger’s trip.
There are many heroes in war and some of them have four legs and some have wings.
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