The constable pulled a face. ‘It’s a shame.’
Mrs Sugden felt impatient with people who repeated themselves. ‘What’s a shame?’
‘I’m told if it can’t be off our hands within the next hour, I’ve to have him put down. Apparently, he’s too friendly by half and a bad influence on the other dogs.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Sugden did not ask in what way such a gentle-looking creature could be a bad influence. It looked intelligent. She thought it might understand if its failings were corrected in a kindly manner.
The constable looked down at the dog. ‘And I know that Superintendent Hood has been on the list a long time, only there haven’t been any failures up until now. Not in Wakefield and none here. This fellow is the first write-off.’
The dog lowered its head.
Mrs Sugden wondered if she imagined it, but the creature appeared somewhat apologetic. That subdued demeanour might conceal a vicious streak.
‘How has it failed?’
‘It’s good at the sniffing out, only it doesn’t know when to stop.’
The dog sat down on its haunches and looked up at Mrs Sugden, waiting for her to speak.
‘I don’t know what to say. I haven’t the authority. Can’t you take it home?’
‘I’m in the constables’ residence. It’s not allowed.’
He was very young, and had clearly been given this job because no one else wanted it.
‘It seems a quiet enough creature.’
‘Oh it is. I had to walk him up from town. He was no trouble.’ With a stroke of inspiration, he added, ‘He saw a cat and didn’t make to chase it.’
‘Has he been taught to lie down and stay put?’
‘Oh yes.’ The young man looked at the seated dog. ‘Down!’ The dog lay down. ‘Stay!’ he dropped the lead and walked towards the gate, calling back to her, ‘You see, he’ll be no trouble.’
‘Not so fast, constable!’
He stopped.
The dog looked up at her. She did not want to have to say to the nice Mr and Mrs Hood that a dog came to be given a home but had to be done in because of the inconvenience. It was the face that did it. Whenever she saw a creature with a sad face and a touch of longing in its eyes, she knew they were just like us, but different.
‘Go round the back. You’ll see a gate into the wood. Walk him round there in case he wants to do something, and then take him to the back door.’
Mrs Sugden unlocked the door of the photographic studio. She stepped inside and turned the sign to Open. The dog padded in and began to sniff about. ‘Do you have a name?’
The dog gave her a look of infinite sadness, or perhaps that was just the cast of its features.
‘Well I can’t name you. I don’t want to cause confusion.’
She had brought a dish and went through a door into the back room where there was a sink in the corner. The dog followed her. She filled the dish with water and set it down. She decided that it could stay in there, out of the way, so as not to frighten timid customers. ‘Stay!’
She went back into the front of the shop and sat down behind the counter, opening a drawer. Mr Murchison had left a float. The dog followed her. She counted the money and made her own note. Eight half crowns, ten florins, twenty shilling pieces, thirty tanners, eight threepenny bits and two shillings in coppers, making three pounds and nineteen shillings.
With the change was a piece of notepaper, folded in two, with her name on it. She unfolded the paper.
Mrs Sugden, if you see your way to clearing up the cellar, there’ll be two guineas for you. T. Murchison
That was not to be sneezed at.
At ten minutes past nine, the first customer came. He brought a ticket and collected a packet of photographs.
Mrs Sugden was satisfied. Doing this would make a nice change. It also kept her from having to introduce the cat to the dog.
By eleven o’clock there had been just one other customer, coming to make an appointment for a wedding photograph.
The dog whimpered.
She went through and took it into the yard. When it came in from the yard, it expressed a strong preference not to stay on its own but pushed its way into the shop. The day was warm. The dog was panting. ‘I’ll open the door to the cellar steps and you can lie down on the cold stone.’
This seemed agreeable to the bloodhound. For several minutes it lay still.
When she looked, it was gone. She switched on the electric light and walked down into the cellar. The dog was sniffing at a pile of old film that had been thrown in the corner, dribbling over it too. Someone had tipped tea leaves on the top so she knew it wasn’t wanted. Nearby was a sack. Once upon a time somebody must have decided to clear this lot.
A door on the opposite side opened onto a darkroom. She saw at a glance that this area was speckless, and closed the door.
Not being one for a mess, Mrs Sugden decided she would make a start. The shop clapper was loud enough, and even if she didn’t hear it, this canine ought to bark. She began to clear the pile of old film. It was not pleasant to the touch, being brittle and somewhat smelly with a pong not easily identifiable.
The bloodhound agreed. It walked round and round and would most certainly have helped her if it could.
Mrs Sugden changed her mind. It would not do to sit behind the counter looking mucky and smelling stale.
She cluck-clucked to the dog and told it to come on.
It took no notice but turned its attention to the wall along from the darkroom. It began to sniff, and paw as if trying to dig. As it did so, it whined in a low plaintive manner so that at first she thought it had hurt a paw.
‘No wonder you failed your test. There’s nowt there of interest.’ She took the dog by its collar and dragged it away. ‘Don’t you know a distempered wall when you see one?’
Perhaps not. If this creature had been brought up in kennels or a stable with others of its kind, and a police handler barking orders, it wouldn’t know about houses and cellars and how walls were of no great interest except for standing the dresser against or hanging pictures.
She hauled the dog back upstairs.
The creature was quiet enough after that. It went to sleep, sprawling against the cellar door which Mrs Sugden had shut firmly.
In the early afternoon, Jim Sykes called in to see how she fared.
She explained about the bloodhound and its failure to meet required standards.
He made a fuss of the dog, scratching its ears. ‘No one can spoil you, you’ve spoiled yourself.’
She told him about the cellar, and about the dog’s antics, and the extra two guineas for clearing and cleaning the cellar, which was a generous amount that she’d be willing to split.
‘I wonder what he sniffed that caught his attention?’ Being Jim Sykes, he had to go down and take a look.
When he came back up, he said, ‘Let me know when you want to start on that cellar. I’ll give you hand.’
She opened her purse and gave him a bob. ‘Fetch me a pork pie and an egg custard. We’ll make a start when I shut up shop.’
‘You’re on. Does this animal have a lead?’
‘He does.’
‘I’ll take him off your hands for a while, and fetch you that pie.’
‘And egg custard.’
‘I won’t forget your egg custard.’ He clipped on the lead. ‘And what’s its name?’
‘That’ll be up to Mr and Mrs Hood to decide.’ An idea struck Mrs Sugden. ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy looking after that animal until Mrs Shackleton arrives back from Stanbury?’
Surprisingly, he agreed. ‘The kids will love it. We’ll walk it on the moor.’
‘I didn’t know you liked dogs.’
‘When I was in the force, I applied to be a dog handler but it wasn’t to be.’
CHAPTER NINE
Such a Journey
Early on Friday, 3 August Mother, Dad and I set off for Stanbury by car from Wakefield. The others would be going by t
rain from Leeds.
That morning’s drive stretched into infinity. Mother and I share private knowledge. My father, although superb at his job, passably good at golf, a thoughtful husband and a kind parent, is an abominable driver. Like many people who are bad at something, he has great confidence in his abilities. When he gets behind a wheel, something in his brain must switch off. Given a globe, he would be able to point to the most obscure places on earth. Given an open road, he somehow wants to keep going. He never sees a signpost until he has passed it, and so there is a great deal of turning back because he does not trust that anyone else in the car may have seen it first, and read it properly. Our neighbour next door takes care of the mechanics and the petrol. Dad assumes that will be satisfactory until the next time.
Mother puts these foibles down to the fact that he never drove a car until long after he was driven by a constable. Following on from that, he somehow assumes that a car has a mind. This belief is reinforced because his car does indeed know the way to the golf course.
Naturally, he would not let me take the wheel. It would be extremely embarrassing for him to be seen, even by total strangers, being driven by a female.
Not wishing to hurt my feelings, he made the excuse that his Crossley Coupe was a big car and I was unused to it. Mother reminded him that I have a Rolls-Royce in my garage – a gift in lieu of cash from a grateful client. Dad advised me to sell it before I had an accident.
Only once did I break my unspoken vow not to upset him, and that was because he upset me. When he sees two women in a car together, he exclaims, ‘Budgies, Ginny! Budgies!’ This is his way of saying that they are doing nothing but chattering, without a thought for where they are going, for other road users, or unfortunate pedestrians who step into their path.
‘Dad,’ I said in as controlled a fashion as possible, ‘just remember they are budgies who now have the vote. They won’t look across at you and call you a jackdaw.’
Mother wanted me to be with them on the journey in case Dad got hopelessly lost. Dad wanted me to be there to ensure that Mother would be suitably accommodated.
Mr Porter, my parents’ intended host at Stanbury had sent hand-written direction cards, supplied by the Automobile Association. The cards had been well used and were somewhat dog-eared. I called out directions as I juggled the unwieldy map and kept the cards in order. We stopped on the outskirts of Shipley, at tearooms where water went off the boil in 1913.
Plan A was that Mother and Dad would spend a week with the Porters. Plan B was that if, by Sunday, they and the Porters were sick of the sight of each other, I would find some urgent reason why I must be driven home.
It was a relief when we finally arrived at Laverall Hall, at the west end of Stanbury village. A long drive led to the Tudor-arched doorway. Dad brought the motor to a stop outside a handsome two-storey house in dressed stone with a slate roof and double-chamfered mullion windows with attractive round-headed lights. The house had three gables and the centre of the building was set back a little from the sections on either side, like the roast beef in a sandwich that does not come all the way to the crust.
I climbed out first and went to help Mother who appeared to have become fixed to her seat.
Over the door was an oval panel containing illegible letters and the date 1641.
Mother stared. ‘Goodness. Is this it?’
Father and I agreed that it was.
This house was grander than she had expected.
Mr and Mrs Porter had heard the sound of the motor. They came out to greet us. He walked to the car, looking very pleased, as if we were the first visitors they had ever welcomed. Mrs Porter followed close on his heels.
‘It will be all right,’ I said to Mother in answer to her whispered question, through lips that did not lose their smile, as to did I think they would have indoor plumbing.
After an exchange of warm greetings and assurances from Dad to Mr Porter that our journey had been splendid, we stepped directly into a room with low ceiling beams, a flagstone floor and four stone doorways. An elderly spaniel with rheumy eyes rose clumsily from a rug in front of the range and made its slow way across the room for mutual inspection.
We all sat down. A pleasant-looking woman, her grey hair pleated into a narrow roll, brought in a tray with tea and hot water and put it on the table in front of the fireplace, near to a second table that was set with china cups and home-made biscuits.
When the dog, introduced as Max, trotted over and sat beside me, I felt oddly flattered.
Mrs Porter said, ‘He has an instinct for who might pat his head and give him a biscuit.’
We females listened politely while Dad and Mr Porter exchanged news about old comrades, where they were now, and which men had left this earth for the great police parade ground in the sky.
Mrs Porter led Mother upstairs to the bathroom. Mother’s sense of relief at the naming of such a room was palpable.
Later, Mrs Porter, Mother and I went outdoors to admire the garden.
‘I hear you are staying at Ponden Hall, Kate?’ Mrs Porter frowned.
‘Yes.’
‘Well I expect you will be all right. As long as it doesn’t rain.’
‘What happens when it rains?’
‘The roof could do with a little attention. I do know that there’s a great scramble for sufficient buckets to catch the leaks. I’ve seen people from the Hall at jumble sales, buying up any cheap and useful containers. We all know what they’re for. Our own roof isn’t perfect, but …’ She did not bring herself to finish the sentence.
‘It will be characterful,’ Mother said, looking about the garden like a person suddenly satisfied, her worst fears allayed. Not only was Mrs Porter amiable, she had a bathroom. What’s more, she knew how to create a garden.
‘Is there anything else I should know about Ponden Hall, Mrs Porter?’ I asked.
She thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t want to put you off. I’m sure Mrs Varey will have gone to a lot of trouble to ensure your comfort. She really does need the income. Of course, it will be her daughter Elisa that you will have dealings with. Don’t let her rather brusque manner put you off. They are a family living in the shadow of personal grief and lost expectations.’
CHAPTER TEN
The Keighley Train
Harriet looked at the clock on the station concourse. She was in good time. Auntie Kate had given her the choice of going to Wakefield first and travelling in the car, or catching the train to Keighley and changing for Haworth.
Derek would be taking the train. Harriet had taken a liking to him.
Time off meant swapping shifts at the Hyde Park Picture House. It also meant losing pay by missing her hours at the café, but it would be worth it.
She saw Derek. Seeing him set her at ease. She had come to the right station. He was standing close to the barrier, waiting. He always looked the same, that same suit, but today he carried a haversack on his back and held one of those tripods like a walking stick. Someone must have lent it him.
He did not see her at first, though he was looking out for people. Harriet stared at him. I see you, you don’t see me. Thank you very much. Feel my stare.
He did feel her stare. He looked and waved.
She joined him. ‘We’re to go onto the platform.’
‘Yes I know. Don’t think the others are here yet.’
‘Well I’m going through. You might have missed them.’ Not adding, ‘You nearly missed me.’ She took the ticket from her pocket, joined the short queue and went through the barrier, taking a deep breath of smoky air. He did not follow her.
I am a seasoned traveller. No flies on me. I have travelled on a milk train.
Auntie Kate had described Rita Rufus and said that she was one of a kind and could not be missed. True. That must be her.
She wore purple silk trousers so wide they could be a skirt, a big-sleeved white blouse with embroidered bodice, a turban the colour of her trousers and peep toe sandals of a kind Harri
et had never seen in any shoe shop. Rita wore a woven stole, draped over one shoulder. On the opposite arm she carried a carpet bag, patterned with dragons.
Rita raised her hand and took a few steps towards Harriet who went to meet her, a little uncertainly. Harriet wondered how Auntie Kate had described her to Rita. She probably would have said, shiny dark hair cut short, big hazel eyes, probably wearing a blue dress with white polka dots and navy bar shoes.
‘You’re Harriet.’ Rita took Harriet’s hand rather firmly and shook it.
‘Hello.’
‘I’m Rita Rufus. You don’t see me at meetings because they clash with madrigal rehearsals. I’d rather sing than listen to self-important men drone on about developing techniques and “My Best Seaside Snap”.’
‘I don’t go either. I’m usually at the Hyde Park Picture House.’
‘Very sensible.’ She looked about. ‘Where’s Kate?’
‘Gone by car with her parents. Mr and Mrs Hood will be staying with friends in Stanbury.’
Just then, Rita waved. ‘Here they are.’
Harriet turned to see Tobias and Carine Murchison, and Derek. So that’s who he had been waiting for. Derek was gazing at Carine.
Harriet had never been struck by lightning, but it must feel a little bit like this. Like the realisation that Derek was not only carrying Carine’s canvas bag, but a torch for her. Carine was old enough to be Derek’s mother. Harriet felt herself blushing for him, blushing for his ridiculousness. She never swore aloud, only in her head.
I hope he drops her bloody canvas bag. I hope his bloody tripod rolls under the bloody train.
He is a sappy article.
The smoking train curled chokingly into view.
I hope he gets grit in his eye the size of a bloody lump of bloody coal.
Yet she could understand why he would fall for Carine, with her perfect face and her curling hair. Carine came up to Harriet, smiling, touching her arm. She wore a pale green dress with a dipped hem that made Harriet realise her own dress was too short. ‘I’m so glad you are here, Harriet. You are such a good photographer, and it’s a delight to have a young person with us old fogies. I’m sure we’ll all have the most marvellous time.’
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