by Lizzie Lane
‘In case you ain’t noticed, you silly old cow, there’s a blackout. Nobody will see you.’
‘I think they will, Bert. I did tell you we have an air-raid warden now … Reg Puller … You know Reg. Runs the greengrocers. He patrols the village all night long and always checks my front door in passing … I did tell you that, Bert, love …I did.’
‘Another nosy old bugger!’
‘I wouldn’t say that, son. He just likes to make sure I’m all right.’
Bert grimaced, his eyes like coal as his glare met the more measured look of the dog. ‘I don’t like dogs. You know I don’t like dogs.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll go to the police. John Carter will help find him a home.’
‘Carter?’ Bert’s voice tightened. The very mention of the village policeman unnerved him.
‘I’m sure he will.’
He grabbed her bare arm where the yellowing bruises lingered from his last onslaught. ‘You’ll say nothing about me being here. Got it? Nothing at all.’
Ivy winced and her eyes began to water. ‘Bert, you’re hurting me.’
‘I’ll hurt you a lot more if you don’t get rid of that bloody dog! Hear me?’
‘Son! Please,’ she whined, her hand still flat to her chest. ‘I’ve already got a terrible pain in my chest … Something I ate, I suppose.’
Bert grinned. ‘It probably was something you ate if you had the same slop you served me.’
Ivy eased herself towards the edge of the bed, every inch causing her severe pain. ‘I’ll get you some bread and cheese.’
‘In a minute. Now listen carefully: you do as I say. The dog goes in the morning. I don’t care where, just so long as he ain’t here. Right?’
The pressure of his fingers digging into her arm was unbearable. More bruises would be there in the morning.
‘I’ll get John Carter to collect him …’
‘You’ll do no bloody such thing! Do you want to get me arrested? I don’t want any nosy parker neighbour here. You take the dog to him. You take the dog to anyone who’ll have him. Got that?’ His eyes bulged. He clenched his jaw, spitting the words out in rapid succession through closed teeth. ‘Now get me something to eat.’
‘Bert, I …’
His expression darkened. He hated it when people – even his mother – didn’t obey him. Well, he would damn well make her –just as he’d done a few others in his time.
‘Do … as … I … say!’ Cupping her face, he banged her head against the wall, not once but three times, just to ensure his message was getting through.
The dog watched. He did not understand these humans, some of whom could so easily harm the weak and helpless, while others had shown him only kindness. He recognised in this man the same cruelty he’d witnessed in the guard he’d toppled into the pit some time ago, on the night he’d befriended the little girl.
Ears laid flat on his head, he let out a warning growl.
Too absorbed inflicting pain on his own mother, Bert failed to heed the warning. Just as he was about to bang his mother’s head on the wall for a fourth time, the dog’s jaws clamped around his calf. Roaring with pain, he staggered backwards, tried to turn round, but the dog’s jaws held him tightly.
‘Look! Look, you stupid bitch! This is all your fault.’
He shook his leg in an attempt to dislodge the dog’s jaws. The dog held on. Out of his mind with pain and shock, he lunged for his mother but got nowhere. The dog held on grimly. Paw by paw he was moving backwards, dragging Bert towards the door.
Bert was beside himself. ‘He bit me! He won’t let go! I’m bleeding!’
He put more vigour into shaking his leg, but Rudy wouldn’t let go. In Bert’s warped mind the blame lay with his mother. He glared at her, wanting to hurt her as much as the dog was hurting him.
‘You stupid—’
Unable to reach the dog, he made a huge lunge towards her, raising his hand so he could hit her again. He’d reckoned without Rudy. The dog jerked him away, his jaws clamped firmly around his calf, its teeth slicing through skin and flesh, grating on bone.
Ivy screamed. The pain in her chest was worse now. All she could do was scream. She had no breath left for shouting.
Afraid that the air-raid warden might be passing and hear the commotion, Bert snarled at her to shut up. Having given up getting to her, he struggled his way to the door and out on to the landing, dragging the dog with him, jerking his leg, kicking out, trying everything and anything to shake the dog off.
Somehow he manoeuvred himself between the dog and the bedroom door where he put all his energy into one last effort, one almighty kick. The dog yelped and let go. Bert backed out of the room, heading for the ladder and the safety of the attic.
Although Bert was a cowardly bully, he wasn’t stupid. Taking the rungs two at a time, he climbed up the ladder to the trapdoor. With luck, the dog wasn’t capable of climbing a ladder. The thought cheered him until he glanced over his shoulder.
The damned creature managed the first three rungs and might have climbed higher, but Bert moved quickly. As he pulled the ladder up behind him, the dog lost its footing, tumbling backwards on to the landing. Bouncing back on to its four legs, the dog growled up at him, its open jaws and angry expression only disappearing once Bert had shut the trapdoor behind him.
Alone in his hiding place, Bert worked quickly, examining his bloodied calf, ripping up pillowcases to bind the flesh back to the bone. The bleeding was heavy and made him feel sick. He probably needed a doctor, but there was no way he could chance doing that. Nobody must know he was here. There were people in London looking for him. If they found him, he’d bleed a lot more than he was at present. He’d be dead meat.
‘Pull yerself together,’ he muttered, wincing as the pain bit in. He wasn’t the best educated of men, but he knew his main problem would be infection. He only hoped the dog wasn’t suffering from rabies. People died from rabies. Or went mad. He didn’t want to do either of them.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the wall. Sweat beaded his face and forehead, his chest rising and falling swiftly with his rasping breath. He needed a smoke. His hand shook as he reached for a cigarette. Luckily his mother had got a good stock of fags in. She’d told everyone in the village that her nerves were on edge since the beginning of the war and that was why she’d suddenly taken up smoking. Nobody would suspect that Bert Dando was back, hiding in the attic.
He thought he heard his mother cry out, but he couldn’t tell exactly what she was saying – it could have been help. Now why would she cry out for help?
He grimaced into the spiral of cigarette smoke. Never mind his mother calling out for help, what about him? His leg was painful thanks to the filthy cur that had bitten him. Well, if she thought he was going back downstairs just to check on her, she was very sadly mistaken! He would stay up here and take care of himself, no harm done. It was nothing that couldn’t be avenged and he would certainly do that. In fact, he’d take pleasure in it. He had the time to do it. He’d be here for a while.
Bert considered himself a clever sod in that he’d avoided being called up to serve his country. Let somebody else do it. Let the toffs do their own fighting. Bert was all for himself. He’d always looked after number one, seeking opportunities to feather his nest without too much effort on his part, such as going out and getting a job. Ducking and diving, that was the way he lived. Nick a bit, spend a bit, then nick a bit more.
At first he’d looked on the war with dismay, loathing the thought of putting on a uniform and going off to fight. It had nothing to do with him! Then the shortages began. Luckily he’d left the village some years before the outbreak of war and gone to the nearest city. Bath was an old city and, as far as he was concerned, not big enough for his grandiose ideas of getting rich with as little effort as possible. Anyway, the scale of his thieving reached the ears of the local plods. Crime was noticed in a small city and it wasn’t so easy to hide. He’d realised then that he n
eeded to be where the real action was, in a big city where criminals could melt into the background. London. That was the place where he would make his fortune – just like that bloke Dick Whittington in the pantomime he’d seen as a boy with his mother.
He couldn’t believe his luck when he got to London. Riches were there for the taking and with so little effort. Avoiding local gangs, he’d set up by himself, doing the same as they did, looting houses of anything valuable while the residents of leafy suburbs, stocky terraces or handsome Chelsea flats were hiding in their cellars, shelters or Underground stations. To him, the falling bombs were a gift from heaven, not Hitler. He’d thrown back his head and laughed at them, until he’d fallen foul of a London gang, looting a house belonging to the mother of a gangland villain.
Shortly after that he’d only barely escaped the law after he’d once again avoided being called up at his London address. Loot was piled high floor to ceiling at that flat and it had grieved him to leave it all behind, but what with the London gangsters and the police, he knew it was time to lie low for a while. And where better to lie low than with his old mum in a sleepy little village where crime was centred around poaching or digging up a few spuds from a farmer’s field. Also in his favour was the fact that he was only known as living at a London address. Even his call-up papers had gone there once the authorities were informed. The old lags in London knew nothing of this address. He was safe enough here, though he didn’t dare show himself in the village – just in case.
He swore as he examined his leg wound. The dog’s teeth had sunk deep into his flesh. There was a lot of blood. He wondered how much of a trail he’d left behind. Never mind, his dear old mum would clean it up and she’d kick the dog out. Not physically, of course. She wasn’t capable of being cruel to anyone. But he was. He most certainly was. Everything would go back to normal. Nothing would have changed. He would be safe. Nobody would find him.
He didn’t know anything had changed until he saw old Doctor Fudge puffing his way up the garden path accompanied by Reg Puller, the air-raid warden. He couldn’t hear what was being said but assumed Reg had called to see if his mother was all right. Probably had a fall, he thought to himself, and got Reg to call the doctor. He frowned when he espied the front wheel of a bicycle sticking out from the other side of the front hedge. So PC John Carter, the village policeman, was also downstairs. Somehow he guessed it wasn’t about the dog.
It didn’t occur to him that something really bad had happened to his mother until the undertaker arrived from Hinton Charterhouse, a nearby village, and he found himself looking down at two blokes manhandling a coffin up the garden path and in through the front door. His mother was dead?
Shocked that things had taken such a surprising turn, Bert eased himself back from the small dormer window just in case somebody might look up at the swallows’ nest hanging beneath the eaves and see him. He needed to take it all in. He needed to think what he would do next.
I’ll be safe, he said to himself, and he certainly wouldn’t be going to his mother’s funeral. The old woman’s gone and it’s now my house. The village won’t know where I am but will respect this place until my ‘return’. It was my dad’s place, after all. He shed no tears for his mother’s passing but was put out that she’d chosen such an inopportune moment. He’d needed her to feed and look after him, to get his cigarettes from the village store or on her monthly trip to the city.
He winced as he put his weight on to his leg. It would be some time before the pain was gone. That sodding dog! In his twisted mind, the dog was to blame for everything and, as he would for anyone else who upset him, he would plan to get even.
He slept for the rest of the day, but that night, disturbed by the pain in his leg, he thought through his priorities. First off, he had to plan his survival very carefully. Things might be a bit different now and, heaven forbid, he might have to do a few things for himself. Stealing cigarettes from the village store was top of his list, though eventually, once things had cooled down, he would make his way back to London.
In the meantime he would sit tight. The cottage would creak in the stillness and remain unoccupied until his mother’s will was sorted out. Her memory would be respected and nobody would trespass until they had located him, Bert Dando, her one and only son. Not that they would find him, of course, though they’d be a while trying. He’d covered his tracks well and the shabby basement flat in London would be empty of stolen goods by now. It was also likely that somebody else was in residence.
Lie low and keep yer head down, he said to himself. A walk in the park. He took out another Woodbine and shoved it in the corner of his mouth. It wouldn’t be easy, but somehow he had to manage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day before she’d died, it was Mrs Dando standing at Meg Malin’s front door with the dog from the RAF base; now it was PC Carter. Some men grow up from boys into men, their faces bearing no resemblance to the happy chaps they’d once been. John Carter was an exception. He had fair hair, blue eyes and a dimple in his chin, plus a scattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose. His eyelashes were dark and totally at odds with the rest of his colouring. It was these that Meg noticed first, that and a persuasive expression halfway to a smile. She wondered why he wasn’t in the armed forces.
‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Dando?’
Meg nodded. ‘Yes. I heard.’ She glanced down at the dog. ‘And I know what you’re going to say,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Allow me to put you straight here and now. I’ve got too much on my plate with my Lily to bother with a dog.’
PC Carter didn’t waiver before her steadfast expression. He had a job to do, which was to attempt to persuade Mrs Malin to face up to her responsibilities. ‘Mrs Dando told me the day before yesterday that the dog belonged to your husband and was apparently brought here by a young RAF chap. I understand you were away at the time.’
‘Yes. I was in Cornwall when he called.’
PC Carter adopted a pained expression. ‘I understand you not wanting the dog, but I doubt anyone else round here would want him either – things being the way they are, and seeing as he belonged to your husband, it seems to me—’
‘I thought he belonged to the RAF. Surely he’d be of more use to them than to me? I understand the military are asking for dogs that can be of service in England’s hour of need.’ The statement was delivered in a bitter tone. The nation had taken her husband and now they wanted to land her with a dog she didn’t want.
PC Carter shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know, Mrs Malin. I only know what I was told by Mrs Dando, God bless her soul. It was a heart attack, you know.’
‘So I hear.’
The village policeman paused. She knew he was giving her time to reconsider, but she wasn’t going to. Her mind was made up. She felt exasperated. Why was it this dog kept ending up on her doorstep when it was clear she did not want him?
Meg shook her head vehemently. ‘I don’t want him! I can’t! I’ve a very sick little girl to deal with. I do not have room or the patience for a dog.’
PC Carter poked at the peak of his helmet and shook his head disconsolately. ‘Well, let’s give it a bit of time, shall we? Let’s see what can be done. I’ll take care of him until you’ve had time to make up your mind or another offer turns up. Shall we do that? At least until after the funeral?’
Meg bit her lip. Constable John Carter had such an open, trusting face and happy disposition, and wanted everyone else to be as happy as he was – as though a whole village could be completely happy all the time. A little unrealistic in her opinion but it wouldn’t hurt to agree.
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. How are you settling in?’
She shrugged. ‘Well enough. It’s very different from London.’
‘I should hope so. Some of your neighbours’ families have lived here for centuries and are not always welcoming to outsiders. The war has changed all that – especially the ev
acuees,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Little scamps, some of them.’ There was kindness in his eyes when he smiled.
‘I imagine so. It’s very kind of people to take them in.’
‘I take it you’ll be going to Mrs Dando’s funeral.’
‘I didn’t know her very well.’
The policeman looked taken aback. ‘That don’t matter. You live in the village and it’s traditional that everyone goes to a neighbour’s funeral. It’s always been that way.’
‘Then I suppose I’ll be there,’ said Meg.
In London you only went to the funerals of people you knew very well, mostly relatives. Still, she couldn’t be mean and the policeman was still beaming at her while telling her there would be beer and sandwiches at the pub afterwards. ‘The money for it was set aside in her will – though even if it hadn’t been, the village would have clubbed together.’
‘When is Mrs Dando’s daughter coming down?’
PC Carter looked surprised. ‘Daughter? Mrs Dando didn’t have a daughter. Only a son – a right wastrel if I recall. We’re trying to find him to tell him his mother’s passed over. He was last heard of living in London. Nobody’s seen him since. Got a bit of a criminal record around here and up there. Certainly never deserved a mother like Ivy. And now he inherits the cottage. Don’t seem fair somehow.’
‘Oh. I must have been mistaken. I was sure she told me she had a daughter.’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘I’m sorry for lumbering you with the dog, but I just can’t …’
PC Carter waved his hand dismissively. He wouldn’t tell her that one look at her and her wish was his command, but that was how he felt. ‘Look. I can’t promise and it might be that I can only keep him at the station house for a few days. After that …well … I’ll have to make other arrangements.’
Meg cringed at the thought of what ‘other arrangements’ might be but she’d made a decision and at least for now she was sticking to it. She didn’t want a dog. She wanted Ray.