by Lizzie Lane
The dog was still with them, limping along at Lily’s side. Hopefully he would follow them all the way to Bluebell Cottage, then she could attend to that sore leg. The piece of wire trailed behind him and she could see it had dug in deep, the fur above his paw coated in blood.
‘Come on, Rudy. Come on,’ she said, feeling sorry for what he’d been through, partly as a result of her refusal to give him a home. ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ she whispered.
As they walked along the verge of the village green, a self-satisfied thought came to her mind and a smile to her face. The dog had chosen to be with them. Other people in the village, including PC Carter, had tried to seduce the animal with food and kind words. Nobody had succeeded enticing him home. It struck her then how little encouragement she had given the animal. It was with a sense of pride that the dog that had escaped the village policeman wanted to be with them.
Feeling more hopeful than she’d been for a long time, she sneaked glances at the two close companions – child and dog. They were all three of them in a row. Just like a family.
At the place where a trio of weeping willow trees trailed feathery fronds into the duck pond, the dog fell back and Lily stopped too. Alarmed, she turned round to see where he was. Surely he hadn’t deserted them now?
He had not. Rudy was standing rigidly, his head raised and staring into the distance. Meg’s hope that he was the answer to her prayers was instantly dented. She had to get him home. Lily, too, looked alarmed, her little jaw dropped, her eyes full of concern.
‘Rudy?’ Her voice failed to carry.
Meg wished again that she had something to tie around his neck. She would drag him home if it meant Lily would be on the road to recovery.
‘Rudy. Come on, boy. Come on! Heel!’
Heel. She didn’t really know what it meant but had heard people out walking their dogs use the word. The dog glanced at her before turning his eyes skyward, gazing into the far distance as though seeing something nobody else could see. Or perhaps he can hear something, thought Meg.
I need to get a lead, she decided, thinking she could hurry home and find something. She tugged at Lily’s hand. ‘Come on, Lily. Let’s keep walking, then the lovely doggy will follow us home. Shall we do that? And then I can run back with something to put around his neck.’
Lily was standing absolutely still, fascinated by the dog’s sudden behaviour. Disappointed, Meg decided there was nothing to be done for now but was determined to have another go. She turned to Lily and, in a disconsolate voice, urged Lily to march on with her. ‘Come on, Lily. Supper and then bed.’
The little girl stubbornly refused to move.
Meg sucked in her breath and rubbed at her temple. Somehow she felt cheated. Everything had been going so well. ‘Do you remember who he is?’ Meg asked tentatively.
‘Rudy.’
‘Yes. Rudy. But he doesn’t want to come home with us today. We’ll come back for him tomorrow.’
Lily turned her gaze from the dog and looked up at the sky, her eyes suddenly as big as saucers and her bottom lip trembling.
Telling herself she had already done her best, Meg lost patience. ‘Oh, come on, Lily. Come on!’ She gave Lily’s hand a tug.
‘No!’ cried the little girl, her attention firmly fixed on the sky. ‘No!’
Meg shivered. She could see nothing up there herself, so what was Lily seeing? Her thoughts went back to what Miss Pringle had said. ‘If she doesn’t improve by next spring, then you will have to make other arrangements.’
Meg had pleaded for more time. Next spring wasn’t that far away. Miss Pringle had relented. ‘All right. This time next year.’
Meg stared at Rudy and told herself she had not imagined Lily’s response to him. She had visibly improved before her very eyes. A part of Meg resented that. It was only right that a mother should be the centre of a child’s universe. Not a dog. Surely not a dog!
But I’m not her mother. Not really.
‘That dog’s going to get shot if he’s not careful. Or he might die anyway if somebody don’t take a look at that bad paw.’
Not realising anyone else was close at hand, Meg started. The speaker was Cliff Stenner, who kept the village inn, the Bear and Ragged Staff, an old thatched place with low ceilings and small windows that smelled of sawdust and hops. He was standing with his hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy trousers, studying the dog with a deep frown and narrowed eyes.
‘Why is he likely to get shot?’
Cliff Stenner dug his hands deeper into his pockets as though that was where the answer lay. ‘Farmers don’t like stray dogs around. They kill sheep or harry them when they’re lambing.’
‘That’s not fair. He’s got an injured paw.’
‘I know. I’ve been trying to catch him and take him home with us. He’d be a good dog to have in a pub. Alsatians are excellent guard dogs.’
‘I won’t let that happen. He was my husband’s dog,’ Meg declared, surprising herself that she was fighting the dog’s corner.
Cliff raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure of that now, are you?’
Meg stated that she was. ‘Do you have any idea how he injured his paw?’
‘Looks to me as though he somehow got it caught in a wire snare.’
‘Do many dogs get caught in traps?’
‘Enough. It’s not unusual for dogs to get trapped in snares put down by poachers to trap rabbits or even foxes. Some animals chew their paw off rather than stay trapped. But that’s a big dog. A strong dog. He managed to get away and pull the wire with him. Poor devil. It’s still around his leg but he won’t let anyone close to him.’
‘I managed to get quite close. For a moment he seemed to be following us home. Now he’s just sitting there staring into the distance and nothing I say will move him.’
There was a rasping sound as Cliff rubbed his chin. He frowned as he looked at the dog, then looked in the same direction as the dog. ‘Odd behaviour. A thunderstorm, perhaps? Or …’ His voice melted away and his expression clouded. Born in the country, Cliff respected the instincts of animals. He was no military genius, but he had a suspicion that Upper Standwick was about to get dragged into the twentieth century.
‘How is he surviving?’ Meg asked him, though she sensed his thoughts were drifting.
‘People are feeding him.’
‘I’ve decided it would be best if he moved in with us.’
Cliff shrugged. ‘Up to you, love. It’s your business. I would have given him a billet if he’d let me near him. A few others tried too. Thought we’d get him to the vet and then think about what to do next, but the blighter just eats the food then runs away regardless of his injured leg. And this is where he mostly ends up. He was sleeping under that bench old Percy Smart had put up by the terms of his will. It was his favourite place in the village. Sat there day after day feeding the ducks. Not sure where he sleeps now.’
‘I take it you mean the dog.’
Cliff laughed. ‘The dog. Yes. Old Percy sleeps over in the churchyard. Been there five years or so.’
Rudy turned his attention from whatever he’d been looking at in the distance, his attention suddenly switching to Lily. Meg heard him whine plaintively.
Lily’s eyes flickered for a moment. ‘Rudy?’
To Meg’s ears, Lily sounded as though she were questioning whether that was indeed the dog’s name. There was a swishing sound as the dog’s tail thrashed through the grass.
‘He seems fascinated by Lily.’
Cliff shrugged his bulky shoulders again. ‘He must like kids.’
Lily reached out her hand. The dog came to her, but turned quickly away as though something more important had caught his attention. Suddenly the dog was barking excitedly, his front legs leaving the ground with the effort.
‘Hello. That’s different.’ Cliff looked impressed. ‘I wonder what he’s hearing that we can’t. Marvellous hearing, dogs. Better nose than us too.’
Meg’s heart began to race. ‘
Is it an air raid?’ The memory of the London bombing turned her legs to jelly. She narrowed her eyes. What did the dog see? What did he hear? She herself saw nothing.
Cliff did the same. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be but his instinct wasn’t so bad. He felt a bad thing was coming. The dog, however, knew it was. ‘Barking at nothing,’ he muttered, not wishing to frighten Widow Malin.
Despite his injured paw and the length of thin wire trailing behind him, the dog began running in circles like dogs do when they’re chasing their tails, stopping every so often to look back at the two humans and small child as though surprised they couldn’t hear what he was hearing.
Cliff’s brow furrowed into ridges. ‘We’ve never had an air raid here.’
Meg felt suddenly cold. ‘Please tell me nothing’s changed. I had enough of that in London.’
Cliff shook his head vehemently. ‘There’s nothing here to bomb …’ He paused as a thought struck him. ‘Or there wasn’t. Not before the airbase was built, anyway …’
Only seconds after his words faded away, the wail of an air-raid siren filled the air.
‘God’s teeth!’ Eyes wide with alarm, Cliff scanned the church tower. A black-robed figure was just about discernible. The air-raid siren was situated on the roof of the tower and the churchwarden was turning the handle.
‘So they know about the airfield,’ exclaimed Cliff. ‘Well that’s our peaceful existence interrupted, though hopefully they won’t come this way, but in case they do, there goes the churchwarden doing his job. Better get to safety.’
Meg felt as though her blood had turned to ice. She had come here to Upper Standwick to escape the bombing and it scared her to think it had followed her here.
‘But there are no shelters here, are there?’ For Lily’s sake, she attempted to control the trembling in her voice. Lily squirmed when she grabbed hold of her hand.
‘Just a few Andersons. But never you mind. Come with me. The Bear and Ragged Staff’s got deep cellars. We’ll be safe there.’
Trying not to let Lily see her panic, Meg walked hurriedly along at Cliff’s side, dragging Lily with her. She was aware that the dog was following close behind them, limping along at a pretty fast pace. Yet Cliff had said he didn’t go with anyone and he was following her now just as she’d wanted him to.
At the very instant a plume of smoke appeared in the direction of the airbase, Cliff’s wife, Gladys, appeared at the pub doorway, waving frantically.
‘She’s seen something from the upstairs window,’ said Cliff, huffing and puffing as they increased their speed, his face turning as puce as a beetroot. ‘We’ve got a good view of the airfield from there.’
Other villagers were also moving swiftly in the direction of the village inn, everyone well aware that the old thatched pub had deep cellars and at least they’d have company.
Just as they reached the pub door, an old chap called Tom Morris, wearing moleskin trousers tied at the knees with string, doffed his cap and stepped aside so Meg and Lily could go in first. ‘Get the youngsters in. I’m an old codger and I’ve lived my life,’ he exclaimed through the few teeth that remained in his head.
‘There’ll be no room in the cellar at this rate,’ Gladys Stenner remarked, her face as red as her husband’s with the effort of dashing for keys, then down the stairs and opening the cellar door, then back up again. ‘Right! How many wants to go into the cellar?’ she shouted.
‘Well, you can count me out,’ said Old Tom. ‘In case Jerry bombs me, I’m having a last pint at the bar. Set ’em up, Gladys.’
‘You’ll have to wait. You’re always first in the bar.’
‘And I intend being the last!’
‘There’s beer in the cellar,’ somebody said.
‘Yes, but it ain’t tapped and ready to draw,’ chuckled the old man.
‘He certainly knows how things are done,’ said Gladys as she helped those who wanted to shelter down the cellar steps.
‘No dogs,’ she said, when Rudy appeared to follow.
Cliff put her in the picture. ‘He’s injured, Glad. It’s the one I’ve been trying to get hold of.’
Gladys loved her husband but when it came to on-the-spot planning and knowing the rules, she was the one who took charge. ‘You know how it is, Cliff. Rules is rules. No dogs allowed. Especially strays.’
‘Just because he’s a stray?’ said Old Tom from his spot at the bar. ‘Somebody must own him.’
‘He belonged to my husband,’ Meg blurted, feeling instantly guilty that it hadn’t been so long ago she’d wanted nothing to do with the animal. ‘He used to live at my husband’s airfield. At Waddington. He was a mascot.’
She couldn’t remember whether that was really the case, but in Lily’s interest she felt obliged to stand up for him.
‘Then he’s a war dog,’ said Old Tom. ‘Dogs that live with servicemen usually are. Even get pay, they do. Usually got some skill that’s appreciated by the military.’
‘I reckon you’re right, Tom,’ said Cliff, nodding as he supped back half a pint of bitter and passed another over the bar to the old man. ‘In fact, I’m sure that dog heard them bombers coming before we did. Now that’s what I call useful. In fact, he heard them bombers even before the churchwarden turned the handle on the air-raid siren.’
‘Then he deserves to be saved,’ declared the old man. ‘Anyway, he can have my place in the cellar. I like dogs. Dogs have got more sense than a lot of humans I know.’
The dog followed Meg and her daughter down into the cellar, finding a place next to them and settling down. Meg hugged Lily to her side. The dog sat snugly against Lily, glancing at her with a protective look in his eyes. Lily returned the dog’s glances. Sometimes their looks seemed to lock together as though they were exchanging thoughts. It made Meg wonder what horrors the pair of them had been through.
Laughter at Old Tom’s words followed them down into the cellar until the door was firmly closed. Cliff had stayed up there too.
‘Leave Old Tom in there and the barrels could be supped dry,’ said Gladys. ‘Nobody can drink like Old Tom.’
‘I prefer to be down here,’ said Meg and truly meant it. Although she’d heard the public air-raid shelters in London were quite jolly, she couldn’t believe they compared well to the pub cellar. People talked to her, asked how she was, how Lily was and did she need anything in particular?
‘Always willing to help out.’
The same words were used over and over again. That was the way it was in the community that was Upper Standwick.
A sudden thud brought dust floating down from the ceiling. Everyone gasped and Meg drew Lily closer. The sound of explosions seemed far away. Some people screwed their eyes shut and stuffed their fingers in their ears. One or two elderly women sat knitting, comparing patterns and wool as though nothing else was going on.
Gladys did her best to reassure everyone. ‘You can bet your life no bombs will fall here. They’ll save them for the airbase. Upper Standwick is God’s little acre. Nothing will ever fall on this village, you mark my words.’
Meg was inclined to ask why she thought that, but something else had caught her attention. Lily’s head rested against that of the dog and both arms were wrapped around him. The dog’s jaw hung open and just for a moment Meg could believe that he was smiling. But dogs didn’t smile. Did they?
‘Poor love,’ said Gladys, looking down at the dog’s damaged paw. ‘I wonder if he’ll let me take that wire off him?’
She made a move towards Rudy, her fingers barely brushing the harsh wire. The dog growled.
‘Ooh,’ she said, quickly withdrawing her fingers. ‘Sorry, I’m sure. Still,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘It’ll go septic if it don’t come off.’
Meg conceded that she was right. ‘Do you think you can do it?’
Gladys nodded. ‘I think so, though somebody will have to hold him. I’ve seen his teeth.’
Meg knew little about dogs but she badly wanted thi
s one to survive. Taking a deep breath, she decided to make an effort. ‘I’ll do it.’
She placed her arm around his neck. ‘It’ll be fine, Rudy,’ she said, speaking the dog’s name as she stroked his head. ‘We’re just trying to help you. Ray would want you to be good. So just keep still. There’s a good dog. How about you stroking him, Lily? How about you telling him to be a good boy?’
Lily spoke to him in German. Meg was astounded. The dog was putty beneath the child’s hands.
Gladys heard what Lily had said. She exchanged a swift look with Meg before doing her bit to gain his trust. Meg offered him her hand. He sniffed it thoroughly before his nose ran up her sleeve. He did the same to Lily, though lingered longer, sniffing up and down the arm of the blue cardigan she was wearing.
Meg wondered why that was before remembering she had made the cardigan from wool unravelled from one of Ray’s old jumpers. The dog sniffed up and down Lily’s arm one more time before lying calmly down, his head on his front paws.
The dog’s interest in the knitted wool that had once been worn by her husband gave Meg an idea. Taking hold of Lily’s hand, she burrowed her daughter’s fingers into the thick fur encouraging her to soothe him again. ‘The poor dog’s been hurt,’ she explained to Lily. ‘If we stroke him and talk to him, he might let us take that nasty wire off his paw.’
Lily’s fingers curled into the thick fur and for a moment Meg thought she would retract her hand, but she didn’t.
Gladys looked relieved. ‘Well, that seems to have worked. Now to cut that wire. Cliff keeps his tools down here. There’s bound to be something we can use.’
After clattering around in a wooden toolbox, she came up with a pair of wire cutters. ‘Keep talking to him,’ she whispered to Meg. ‘And you keep smoothing his fur, young lady,’ she said to Lily.