Eric left the pond and made a detour to the fountain. He had to cross the cricket pitches and climb a hill. By this time there was hardly anyone about. He approached the fountain, lowered his head and – a little self-consciously – began to lap the water. It tasted good; it tasted different. Eric thought about this. The chocolate button had tasted different too, he recalled, though it was hard to say what the difference was. He paused and rested a while: lapping was hard work. A man in a track-suit went running by and made him jump. Eric drank a little more. He shook the drops of water from his furry chin. He sat back on his haunches.
The park was now deserted. Overhead, the sky was turning an ever darker shade of blue, with red and brown and duck-egg green where the sun had set. A few stars were shining. Eric stared up at the sky. ‘I’m a dog,’ he thought. ‘Why is that? What’s going on?’ He tried to remember the dog project he’d done in the second year. Perhaps there was a clue there. He thought of stories he’d had in the infants, where a witch would turn a prince she didn’t like into a tree or a frog. He thought of rays from outer space; that was more likely. Perhaps the Martians were doing it.
At that moment the park bell began to ring. Eric remembered the message he was going to write, and hurried off. He left the park through the top gates and went down Church Street. On the way, it occurred to him that there was an even shorter cut he could have taken. Dogs didn’t need to follow paths or roads. He could’ve cut across the allotments and been home now.
Then, turning once more into Apollo Road, Eric caught a sudden whiff of a most marvellous smell. It was a smell of fish and chips, chicken and mushy peas, vinegar, tomato ketchup and pineapple fritters. It was Purnell’s fish shop: they had everything there. Eric hesitated, then crossed the road and went up Union Street. It was hardly out of his way. He would just take a look.
The light from Purnell’s fish shop glowed into the street. Eric stood outside. A couple of older boys were sitting on a wall eating bags of chips. He recognized one of them; his name was Hopper. He was a fourth year in Mr Hodge’s class. Since Raymond Fletcher had left, he was the boss of the school. The other boy was the boy on the bike who had passed Eric in the park. He was dropping chips into his mouth as though they were grapes. Eric watched in fascination. He felt his mouth watering, and had the urge to sit up and beg.
The boy caught Eric staring at him. ‘You’re a nosy dog,’ he said. ‘Hey, Hopper, look at this nosy dog!’
‘Give him a chip,’ said Hopper.
‘You give him one!’
‘No – you!’
‘You!’
This went on for a while. Eric looked at one boy, then the other. It was like watching tennis. Finally, Hopper leant forward on the wall and held out a chip. Eric didn’t hesitate. He loved chips. Besides, the chance to eat one of Hopper’s was too good to miss. Hopper was the kind of boy who’d eat your chips whether you offered him any or not. Eric sat up, took the chip from Hopper’s not entirely clean hand, and ate it. It was delicious. Again it had that ‘different’ flavour he couldn’t quite find words for.
Then a man came out of the shop. He had a bottle of beer in his coat pocket and was carrying an open bag of fish and chips. ‘That’s a smart dog. Does he like fish?’ The man broke off a piece of fish and held it out. Once more Eric did his trick: sat up, neatly took the fish, and ate it. Lovely!
‘How about pineapple fritter?’ said the man. He removed a separate bag (wrapped in newspaper) from his other pocket.
‘I’d sit up for that!’ said Hopper.
Eric ate the piece of fritter he was offered. He felt pleased with himself. For a second time it occurred to him that being a dog might not be all bad. He could make a living like this, if he had to.
But now Eric could hear and feel a curious thumping going on behind him. He spun round but there was nothing there. He heard it again. Again he turned, and this time found the answer. Of course, he should have guessed, it was his own tail wagging.
At this point an old woman in carpet slippers joined the group. She was wearing an apron and carrying a bottle of lemonade.
Hopper’s friend said, ‘Let’s see if he can catch!’ He tossed a chip into the air. Eric leapt, opened his mouth, and to his own surprise caught it. Usually, he wasn’t all that good at catching. Then Hopper threw one; but his throw was wild and Eric missed. He sniffed the chip where it lay on the pavement. It was covered with dirt; quite uneatable. He turned away and looked expectantly at Hopper.
‘Got nice manners, for a dog,’ said the old woman. ‘Won’t eat ’em off the floor, will he?’
Just then the man and the bull-mastiff that Eric had met earlier came walking up the street. Eric was reluctant to leave. He was enjoying himself. A game where you caught things and ate them, that was better than rounders, any day. But the mastiff was barking again, and growling too. Eric didn’t hang about. He barked once himself, and hurried off the way he had come.
From Apollo Road Eric made his way up Clay Street. Shortly after he found himself outside his own house. Now he began to regret the time he had wasted. Writing a message in Emily’s sand-pit was still a good idea; but the sand-pit was at the back of the house, and the side gate was locked. Also, it had become quite dark. If he were able to write, could his parents see to read? Also, all that running – climbing hills – jumping for chips, had worn him out. His little legs felt like lead.
Eric sat on his haunches and peered through a gap in the fence. As he did so, he noticed two things: one, his mum was in the garden, watering the roses; two, the front door was open! That was enough for Eric. In no time at all he had changed his plan. He would sneak into the house instead, if he could, and hide in his room. He could write the message in the morning. His chances would be better then. He could reach the back of the house. It would be light. Besides, there was the prospect of curling up on his own bed, and no bull-mastiff to bother him. With this in mind, Eric was encouraged to try his luck.
The first stage proved easy. He wriggled under the bottom rail of the fence and crept along behind the cover of the rose bushes. His mum was humming a tune and had her back to him. He reached the safety of the hall.
Then there was his dad to watch out for. But that proved easy, too. He was in the bathroom, shaving. Postmen have to get up early, and Eric’s dad often shaved at night to save time in the morning. Eric crept upstairs to the landing. His bedroom door had swung to, so that it looked more or less shut. He nudged it open and went inside. The light from a street lamp shone faintly through the curtains. His pyjamas – that Eric supposed he would never wear again – still lay in a heap on the floor. He was surprised once more by how big everything looked: the huge chair with his huge clothes on it; the giant bed looming above him.
Eric gathered himself and leapt onto the bed. He turned round a few times to find a comfortable position. He put his head on his paws. The air was heavy with the smell of blanket and sheet, and Airfix glue. There was a half-finished model of a moon buggy on the dresser. He yawned. ‘This is better, though if Dad looks in there’ll be trouble.’ He yawned again. ‘I’m a dog… a dog! What’ll Mum say when she knows… What’ll Roy say? “Brilliant,”– Roy’ll say.’
Eric heard a faint sound downstairs. It was the front door closing. He felt his eyelids growing heavy. ‘Will I dream human dreams or dog dreams?’ He thought about his auntie’s cat, the way its whiskers twitched when it was dreaming. He closed his eyes.
At that moment, Eric began to feel a curious tingling in his paws. This – although he didn’t know it yet – was his paws turning into hands and feet. He felt an itch around his neck. This was the fur beginning to get shorter. He felt his nose becoming warm and dry, his ears becoming flat against his head. Eric opened his eyes. He didn’t move at first. The thought in his mind was: ‘I’m turning back into a boy!’
But as soon as the itching and tingling stopped, he shot out of bed and pulled back the curtains. Light from the street lamp poured in. Eric felt a tremendous urge
to laugh and shout. No more being thrown out of the house – his troubles were over. He was himself again. He was back!
Then, suddenly, he had another thought: he was standing there with no clothes on. What was worse, he’d been running round the streets with no clothes on. Girls had seen him! Eric’s face grew hot. Hurriedly, he drew the curtains across, grabbed his pyjamas and put them on. He got back into bed.
Gradually, after that, his embarrassment faded. It wasn’t so bad when he thought about it. He’d been covered with fur, after all; and if he’d had a T-shirt and shorts on, he’d have looked sillier. Besides, nobody knew it was him. Eric yawned, and yawned again. There was a jumble of thoughts crowding in his head; but he was immensely weary. He turned over on his side. ‘Wait till morning,’ he thought. ‘Wait till Roy hears…’ He closed his eyes; ‘Brilliant! …’ and fell asleep.
4
Roy Ackerman
The next morning when Eric woke up, he was confused. His first thought was: ‘Am I a boy or a dog?’ and his second: ‘What made me think that?’ Then he looked at his hands. They were as dirty as he had ever seen them, but they were hands.
His mum entered the room and drew the curtains. ‘Come on, Eric – sun’s shining!’
‘Mum, I want to tell you something.’
‘Yes,’ said his mum. She left the room. Eric heard her on the landing, talking to Emily. He raised his voice, ‘Did you see a dog in the house last night?’
‘Yes – did it wake you?’ Mrs Banks came in again, carrying his clean shirt and socks, and followed by Emily. Emily had her dressing-gown on and her thumb in her mouth.
‘Mum,’ said Eric, ‘I want to tell you something.’
‘I saw a dog,’ said Emily. ‘I want one.’
Mrs Banks put Eric’s clean clothes on the chair and picked up the dirty ones.
Eric got out of bed. ‘You know that dog, well …’
‘I want one,’ said Emily.
Mrs Banks gazed round the room as though she had forgotten something. Then she looked at Eric. Then she stared at him.
‘Mum, y’see, that dog–’
‘Eric, look at your face! Didn’t you wash last night?’
‘Well …’
‘Let me see your hands!’
Reluctantly, Eric held them out. ‘About this dog …’
‘I want one,’ said Emily.
When Mrs Banks saw Eric’s hands, she was horrified. It wasn’t like him to go to bed in that condition. Eric wanted to say that the reason his hands were dirty was that last night they’d been paws and he’d been running round the streets on them. But somehow he couldn’t get the words out. He thought of revealing his feet. They’d be as bad, and ought to prove something. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that either. Instead he accepted the telling-off. When his mum sent him to the bathroom, he managed to keep his feet out of sight. After that, he got dressed, had his first breakfast and went off on his cousin Marion’s paper-round. Maybe he could tell his mum when he returned. In any case, one thing was sure: he could tell Roy.
Eric collected his papers at the newsagent’s. He had been doing the round for nearly three weeks now, ever since Marion had broken her arm. He hoped to be doing it for a while yet. Marion was ready to return, but her mum said it was too soon. He set off up the road. As usual, Roy was waiting for him at the corner of Freeth Street. Roy never went to the shop. Mr Sturgess – he was the newsagent – didn’t like paper-rounds to be shared.
Roy Ackerman was taller than Eric; frecklier, too. His hair was gingerish and wiry. It wouldn’t lie flat, not even after swimming. On most occasions he wore a sort of jockey cap. Roy was an excitable boy. The kind of boy who rarely stopped talking in class, unless the teacher asked him a question. Mrs Jessop said he was a bad influence on Eric. Roy’s mother blamed the school. She said Eric was a bad influence on him.
Eric and Roy had known each other since playschool. They had been friends since the infants. In Mrs Jessop’s class, they sat at a table near the front. Eric sat there so that he could see the marker-board. (He was a bit short-sighted.) Roy sat there so that Mrs Jessop could see him.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Roy,’ said Eric. ‘You won’t believe it, though.’
‘I’ll believe it,’ said Roy.
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘You won’t, Roy.’
‘I will – I’ll believe anything!’
‘Right,’ said Eric. ‘Last night I turned into a dog.’
Roy paused. He was pushing a Radio Times through a letter-box. ‘Well, nearly anything,’ he said. And then, ‘What sort of dog?’
‘A Norfolk terrier,’ said Eric. ‘Then I went downstairs and Dad thought I was a real dog and put me out. It was half-past ten before I got back in. Then I changed into a boy again.’
For a moment Roy and Eric separated to deliver papers on opposite sides of the road. Then Eric continued: ‘When I woke up, my hands and feet were black from running round the streets. You can ask my mum, she saw them – and Emily. I chased a cat!’
Roy listened closely to what Eric was saying, and watched his face whenever he got the chance. Eric had never pulled his leg before; he wasn’t that kind of boy. Roy had always admired Eric, ever since the infants. He was the one who worked things out. The one who usually made them up was him – Roy. All the same: ‘turning into a dog’, that took some believing. Roy began to make an effort to believe it. ‘Did you catch the cat?’ he said.
Other questions that Roy asked during the paper-round were: ‘What did it feel like?’, plus three or four versions of, ‘Were you scared?’. When they delivered the papers in Stone Street, they encountered the bull-mastiff again. It was chained up at the back of number 16. It barked and leapt against the side gate. Its chain rattled. Eric described his meetings with the dog the night before.
‘What did you do?’ said Roy.
And Eric said, ‘Barked at it!’
In Vicarage Road they met Eric’s dad. He was out on his round. As usual, the two boys stopped to say hello. Mr Banks had a quick look at the sports page in one of the papers, and gave them each a mint imperial. Afterwards Roy said, ‘How about your dad, does he know?’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Eric. ‘Just me and you.’
‘Didn’t you tell your mum?’
Eric shook his head. ‘I was going to, but I couldn’t.’
‘I wouldn’t tell mine,’ said Roy. ‘She’d say I was making it up.’ He pulled his jockey cap over his eyes. ‘So it’s a secret – just you and me!’
‘Well … yes,’ said Eric.
And Roy, who was perhaps now beginning to believe it – or half–believe it–said, ‘Brilliant!’
From then on there was little time for talking.
They were behind with the round: it was late. As soon as they’d finished, Eric raced home for his second breakfast. Roy also went home. He said he’d call for Eric in about ten minutes.
When Eric came into the kitchen, he found his mum drinking a cup of tea. His sister was chalking a picture on her blackboard and sneaking a cornflake once in a while from Eric’s bowl, where they were poured out ready. Eric sat down, added milk and sugar, and began to eat. His mum drank her tea and watched him. ‘You’re a bit late.’
‘Yes,’ said Eric.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘What?’ said Eric. He’d heard well enough, but was playing for time. Suddenly, he knew he wasn’t going to tell his mum, not yet anyway.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ said his mum.
‘Er … can’t remember.’ Eric bent over his bowl. He could feel his mum’s gaze on the back of his neck. She had a way of finding things out that was a permanent mystery to him.
Mrs Banks carried her cup to the sink and glanced out of the window. ‘Are you all right, Eric?’
‘Yes,’ said Eric. He turned his attention to Emily. She was crouching at her blackboard with her back to him. ‘What are
you drawing?’
‘Dog,’ said Emily, without looking round.
And his mum said, ‘She wants one.’
Eric finished his breakfast and found the things he needed for school: his plimsolls, a bag of cabbage stalks for the student’s rabbit, and his school camp money. This was in an envelope on the table. After that, Roy arrived. He drew a hat on Emily’s dog, which she thought was very funny. Eric gave him a look and a nudge. The look said: ‘I haven’t told my mum, and she thinks we’re up to something.’ Eric could see his mum was watching Roy. The nudge said: ‘Let’s go!’
On the way to school, Roy asked more questions. He’d had time to think. Although he never said it in so many words, what he was looking for now was proof. Eric realized this and did what he could. In an odd way, he was looking for proof, too.
‘I told you about writing in the dirt, didn’t I?’ They were approaching the front playground.
‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘So we could ask that woman, y’mean.’
‘You could ask her,’ Eric said. They entered the playground. ‘And I told you about begging for chips.’
Roy laughed. ‘Begging for chips!’ He loved that, whether it was true or not.
Ahead of them, a pile of boys were struggling on the ground. Perched on top was a familiar figure, looking pleased with himself. It was Hopper.
Eric and Roy stared at each other.
Roy said, ‘Didn’t you say–’
‘Yes,’ Eric said. ‘It was Hopper! It was Hopper I got the chips off. That’s the proof–ask him!’
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