"Well, it's a job and it's got to be done."
"Do you feel like a bounty hunter after desperadoes in Arizona?"
"Not really, no. I feel sorry for the dogs. I like dogs."
"But not these dogs, eh? They're something that's just got to be dealt with at once, of course, before there are any more of these terrible tragedies. Well, that's very interesting, thank you, Major. Now Major Awdry's men are out on the fells and meadows of this beautiful Lakeland valley--rather wintry now, but in summer it's surely one of the great ice-cream carton resorts of England, ha ha--and as we move along the road you can see what a beautiful place it is--careful now, everybody, the dogs might be lurking just behind that shed there, let's have a look, no they're not and on we go. Well, here's the miniature railway station terminus at Dalegarth, just a little way below the charming, old-world village of Boot; and I don't know whether you're surprised, but I know I am, to see that one of the miniature trains is actually standing in the station and that apparently the engine's got steam up; because I thought this railway only ran during the summer, for the holiday visitors. Anyway, here's the driver coming along now, so I expect he'll tell us something about it. Good morning, sir, now let's see, you're called--er--Graham Withers, I believe, aren't you?"
"Well, just at present, yes."
"Ha ha. Justly celebrated local figure, eh? And you're going to drive that very smart little locomotive--I hope, viewers, you can all see the glossy paint and the brass shining, can you? It's obviously very well looked after indeed--and the whole train you're going to drive, down to--where, now?"
"Ravenglass."
"How far's that?"
" 'Bout seven or eight mile, as the line goes."
"Only I thought the train only ran in summer. Let's see, they call it Ratty, don't they?"
"Ratty, ay, that's right. Everyone oop here calls it Ratty."
"Why's it called that?"
"Well, Ah doan't just rightly know. But that's what everyone calls it, like."
"And how come you're up here at the far end of the line, with steam up, on a morning in late November?"
"Well, there's three locomotives, see--they're named River Esk, River Mite and River Irt--after the three rivers that flow into t'estuary at Ravenglass. We keep 'em in trim during t'winter--maintenance an' so on--and we'd just finished bit of an overhaul on this one, so I thought I'd just give it a run up to Dalegarth an' back, see how it were fixed. I came up Thursday, actually, but it were that wet and stormy yesterday I left takin' it back while today."
"Splendid. And of course you haven't seen anything of the Plague Dogs?"
"Nay."
"And what would you do if you did?"
"Happen give 'em a lift."
"Ha ha, very good. Well, there's an unexpected bonus for viewers--the Ratty's locomotive River Irt is just about to set out from Dalegarth for Ravenglass, with veteran driver Graham Withers in the cabin. Casey Jones got nothing on him, eh? Now we're going on down the Esk valley, as you can see, and here's the patrolling screen of paratroops--the Red Devils, as they're called--who are working their way up the valley to meet another lot of paratroops coming down. Up above, in the sky, you can see the Royal Naval helicopters who are patrolling the fells on each side, and I'm sure we all feel sure that this has really got to be the end of the Plague Dogs at last. If we're lucky you might even be able to see them shot. Now here's one of the paratroopers, and your name is--?"
"Private Lawes, sir."
"Well, how do you feel about this operation?"
"Well, I mean, like, yer on a job, I mean, aren't yer, and if yer on a job, I mean, well, yer sort of do the job, like, know what I mean? I mean, like, well, it's a job, ennit, know what I mean?"
"Yes, of course. And suppose you were to catch sight of the dogs under the bank of the river there? You'd shout tally-ho, would you?"
"Well, I mean, yer'd sort of see they was the dogs, like, wooden yer, and you report to the section commander like, know what I mean, and the dogs, well, mean to say--"
"You know what the dogs look like?"
"Oh, yeah, well, I mean, the dogs, see, they're sort of like, well, dogs, know what I mean--"
"Now here's a very splendid-looking limousine coming along the road, and I believe this may be--yes, I'm right, it is--the Secretary of State himself, the Right Hon. William Harbottle. We'll just see if we can have a word with him. Good morning, Mr. Harbottle. William Williamson, B.B.C. Television. I wonder whether you'd care to tell the viewers how you feel about this business?"
"Well, I'm very much concerned about it, naturally. I attach the greatest importance to finding and killing these dangerous dogs as soon as we possibly can. And that's what we're going to do. I believe my political--I mean, I believe public peace of mind positively requires--"
"Ah, there goes the train, puff puff puff, what a lovely sight! Everybody's childhood dream, eh? Thank you very much indeed, Secretary of State. Well, as you've seen, it would hardly be possible for a fly to get through this magnificent cordon of helicopters and paratroopers, so that probably by the time viewers see this programme the menace of the Plague Dogs will have been ended for good and all. At any rate we all hope so. And so, good hunting, the Red Devils! This is William Williamson returning you to the studio--"
Rattle and bump and clanking of wheels and puff puff puff from somewhere in front. Coal-smoke and steam blowing back through the sliding doors of the little wooden carriage. Chatter of water and hollow rumble rumble over a bridge and peat-brown stream below.
Rowf lying tense, head on paws, peering out from beneath the seat at the tree-trunks dashing past and then at the long line of old mining cottages standing close to the track. Snitter, beside him in the far corner, curled up in the dust and grit, sleeping as though in a basket. The continual movement and fugitive shapes a few feet from his muzzle raise in Rowf an almost unendurable excitement; it's all he can do not to leap up and chase after these runaway plants and branches as they flick at him and disappear. A long, brown frond of bracken draws a line of peat-scented moisture along the threshold of the carriage before vanishing with a sodden slap and a spattering of drops against the woodwork. Rowf jumps up with a bark and Snitter wakes.
"Snitter! Where are we? What's happening? Why's everything got loose--where's it going? The wind--rowf, rowf!"
"Lie down, old Rowf! Let it alone! Be quiet!"
"Someone throwing sticks, rowf, rowf!"
"We're down the gully; the mouse's gully in the floor, remember? It's the only place left to hide, but you must keep still. There are men walking about just over your head."
"I do keep still, but everything else is moving."
"The tobacco man's washing the floor. Remember? It's only rubbish. He's brushing it all away."
Through Beckfoot Halt beside the road, labouring a little uphill now and a robin's sharp twitter here and gone among the trees. Scents of bog myrtle and soaking moss, and a distant shouting--men answering each other, high voice and low voice, whistles blowing down in the fields below Spout House and beyond the Esk.
"It's something the whitecoats are doing, isn't it? D'you remember, they put Zigger on some steps that kept on moving? He said he had to run until he dropped."
"Lie down, Rowf. We're all right here. You can tell--it doesn't hurt. They're just breaking up all the rocks and trees and heather they made, that's all."
"All those brown men, look--a whole line of them, red hats, going across the fields down there--"
"They're only breaking up the fields. Don't let them see you."
Curving down into the little station at Eskdale Green, watched by three children with their chins propped on the parapet of the bridge. Polished brasswork gleaming in the early morning sunshine and Graham Withers tooting on the whistle and giving them a wave. Slowly through the station, platform almost level with the floors of the carriages and an old paper bag blowing in, patting Rowf a wet sog on the nose, grab it quick splodge munch no good at all. A white gate
and an old nanny goat grazing at the end of a long chain.
"The red hat men have gone now. What's coming when it's all gone?"
"The black milk will boil. Go to sleep, Rowf."
"You dragged me into this, Snitter, and now you say go to sleep."
Leaves and branches flying by; helicopter in the sky. Airborne soldiers on the lea, Plague Dogs riding to the sea. Redwings, fieldfares, cows and sheep; should we cheer, d'you think or weep? Plague Dogs all the way from A.R.S.E., riding down to Ravenglass. What's that car so black, sedate? That's the Secretary of State, him as sealed the Plague Dogs' fate. Wheel and piston, steam and tank, autumn oak-leaves in the bank, chuff chuff chuff and clank clank clank.
"You know, I was keen to be a good dog, Snitter. I really wanted to be a good dog. I'd have done anything for them; anything but the metal water."
"They weren't real masters, Rowf. They didn't particularly want you to be a good dog. They didn't care what sort of dog you were. I don't know what they did want. I don't believe they knew themselves."
And here's Irton Road station, and the little river Mite, all the way down from pretty Miterdale--least known and quietest of Lakeland valleys--formed from the becks of Tongue Moor, Illgill Head and the Wastdale Screes. Hail to thee, blithe Mite, and hurrah for Keyhow and the Bower House, and your wet green fields full of black-headed gulls! Whirling snipe, orange-legged sandpipers, gorse in bloom on a winter's morning. Meadow pipits flighting up and down, flying ahead of the train, flicker and shut, flicker and shut, tweet tweet.
"But surely, Snitter, dogs ought to be able to trust men, oughtn't they?"
"It doesn't matter any more, old Rowf."
"I know--I'm only saying these things to stop myself jumping up and barking at the things rushing past. I wasn't a good dog. Wish I had been."
"Whatever dogs were meant for, they weren't meant for the metal water. If you can't live by rotten rules you have to find some of your own."
"What other rules did we find?"
"The tod's."
"They weren't right for us. We couldn't live by them either."
"I know. The truth is I lost my home and you never had one. But it doesn't matter any more."
Now there rises on the left the hog's back of Muncaster Fell, its west face high above the line, throwing the little train into chilly shadow as it runs under the fellside and past Murthwaite, with only three miles to go.
"I remember a butterfly beating itself to bits against a window-pane. A whitecoat saw it and opened the window and put it out. He'd come to put me in the metal water. How d'you explain that?"
"The butterfly laid eggs that turned into the caterpillars you ate. Remember?"
Hooker Crag and Chapel Hill, and here's the Thornflatt water-mill. A pitch forward-shot wheel, I rather think, splashing and turning among its ferns and lichens and shining, green liverworts. Come on, wheel, sing up! "War es also gemeint, mein rauschender Freund, dein Singen, dein Klingen." Is that for poor Mr. Ephraim? Can you see our friend Rowf, peering out from under the seat and rattling by in bewilderment? "Ach unten, da unten die kuhle Ruh." Well, you can't expect him to appreciate that, can you? Be reasonable, wheel.
On the slope behind, look, there are some rabbits who--yes, have the use of their eyes, really--sit up and watch the train a moment-then bolt for their holes--you can see the rufous patch at the backs of their necks. The rabbits get used to the trains in summer, but probably this lot weren't born when last summer's season ended with waving flags and paper bags and sticks of rock all round. A cock chaffinch, slate head and plum breast, flashes white wings and vanishes into the gorse. A magpie flickers in an elder tree and the Plague Dogs, the Plague Dogs are riding to the sea. Here are the pancakes of yellow tide-foam, and the Plague Dogs are riding to their salt sea home. Could you or I have contrived to disappear in Eskdale and turn up in Ravenglass, with two hundred soldiers looking for us under every stone? I trow not. Give them a cheer. There's nothing like a good loser, after all.
"Rowf, can you smell the salt?"
"I can hear gulls calling. How quickly they've changed it all, haven't they?--even the hills."
Along the estuary we go, black-and-white oyster-catchers flashing rapid, pointed wings and peeping off their alarm notes as they fly, and an old heron flapping slowly away by himself. Can that be the tod I see, with Kiff, up on a cloud? No, I beg your pardon, must have got some hairspray in my eyes, but let's raise a cheer all the same. Never again, hide in a drain, ride in a train, died in the rain--it's not raining yet, anyway.
"Houses, Snitter! Look! Oh, Snitter, real, natural houses!"
As the River Irt came steaming into the Ratty terminus and depot, Snitter cocked his ears and looked cautiously out through the door. Seagulls he could certainly hear, and distant, breaking waves. Everything around seemed flat and open, smelt salty, stony. Sand and grass. Houses, smoke and dustbins.
"They've put the houses back, Rowf. I knew they'd have to, sooner or later."
"The trees and things have stopped flying past. All blown away, I suppose."
"I know. But there's the wall we jumped over, look--over there. I can recognize that all right. Well, obviously they'd want to keep that."
"What shall we do?"
"Stay here until everything's quiet. Then we'll run off among the houses."
"D'you think it might be a change for the better at last?"
"I don't know. It can hardly be a change for the worse."
"I'd like to be sure of that."
The letter was written in pencil and a shaky hand, and Digby Driver was obliged to take it over to the window.
21st November
Barrow-in-Furness
Dear Mr. Driver,
Although I do not know your address in the Lake District, I very much hope that you will receive this letter. I am seeking information on a matter of importance to me--though perhaps to no one else--and do not know from whom to obtain it if not from yourself.
I am at present in hospital, recovering--rather slowly, I'm afraid--from a traffic accident. My injuries were fairly serious and for the past few weeks, during which I have undergone three operations, I have read very little and have not been in touch with the news at all. Consequently it was only today that I saw, in the "Sunday Orator," an account by yourself of the dogs who apparently escaped some time ago from the Lawson Park Research Station, near Coniston. With the article were two photographs, taken, as you will know, by a motorist whose car was raided by the dogs somewhere near Dunmail Raise.
I am writing to say that I believe, on the evidence of the photographs, that one of these animals is, or used to be, my own dog. Indeed the markings, as they appear in one of the photographs, seem unmistakable. I should explain that I am a bachelor and live alone, so you may perhaps understand that I have been much attached to the dog, which I acquired as a puppy some three years ago and trained myself. I was told by my sister, after the accident, that the dog ran away from her house and that all efforts to find it had proved unsuccessful. This, while it greatly grieved me, came as no surprise, since the dog had known only one home and no other master.
I am hoping that you may be able to give me some help and information on this matter which, as you will now appreciate, is of considerable personal concern to me. If you could possibly spare the time to come and see me, Mr. Driver, however briefly, I would be most grateful. Is it possible that in some way or other the dog might be found and returned to me?
I'm not back to anything like fit yet and I am afraid that writing this letter has proved tiring. I only hope you can read it.
Yours sincerely,
Alan Wood
"Oh, boy!" cried Digby Driver, aloud. "Now he tells me! But what the hell to do about it?" He took out his car keys and swung them round and round his index finger. After a few moments they flew off and landed on the linoleum on the other side of the hall. Mr. Driver, retrieving them, suddenly addressed his reflection in the still-dark window-pane.
"The bl
oody cow!" he said aloud. "Good God! What did she--? Well, Christ, I'll see her for a start, anyway."
He turned up the collar of his duffle-coat, poked two of the toggles through the loops and pulled on his gloves.
"A line, a line, I gotta think of a line! The good journalist ignores no event that takes place, but turns all to his advantage.' Yes, but what the hell can I do with this?" He stamped his foot on the floor in frustration, and once again the dog barked in the basement. A female voice called soothingly, "Lie down, Honey. Wassa fuss-fuss, eh? There's a girl!"
"Darling doggies!" yelled Digby Driver, in inspiration and triumph. "Stares you in the face, dunnit? And with just a bit of luck it's got everything, Harbottle and all! O God, give me time, just time, that's all! What ho for the great British public!"
He dashed out into the winter dawn. Two minutes later the tyres of the green Toledo were sizzling down the wet road to Dalton-in-Furness.
Ravenglass, on the coast south-west of Muncaster Fell, has a railway station (other than Ratty), a pub, a post office, two to three hundred inhabitants and a single street two hundred yards long. All round it lie the sands and channels of the estuary of the Irt, Mite and Esk, and it is sheltered from the Irish Sea outside by the low, sandy peninsula of the Drigg nature reserve--two miles of dunes and marram grass--which covers the estuary as its flap a letter-box. As long ago as 1620 the place was noted for gulls' eggs and for the numbers of waders and sea-birds attracted to the feeding-grounds of these shallow, tidal waters. It is not a spot where strangers can expect to go unremarked for long--not in winter, not in the early morning, not if they happen to be plastered across the newspapers and wanted in three counties.
Was it Harold Tonge, perhaps, the landlord of the Pennington Arms, who first saw Snitter dancing in. the street at sight of a real lamp-post? Or his trusty henchman Cec., having a look up and down the windy, gull-tumbled street, who recognized the grim shape of Rowf lifting his leg against a white wall below a fuchsia hedge? Or perhaps Mrs. Merlin, the postmistress, emptying a metal wastepaper basket doing-doing against the rim of a dustbin, caught sight of a black-and-white, cloven head looking perplexedly at the stony beach and seaweed-strewn pebbles below the houses? Before the outgoing tide had laid bare the sands of the estuary, conviction and consternation had flooded the village. Incredible as it might be, these were the Plague Dogs, walking the street in bewilderment and broad daylight. Fasten your gates, lock up the stores, bring all the cats and dogs indoors. Get on the qui vive, the telephone and the stick. Grimes is at his exercise. Those who despise us we'll destroy.
The Plague Dogs Page 43