For at least a couple of hours no car came by. The wind was chilling her to the bone, and up on the moor there was no shelter from it. She hadn’t thought it would be this cold. She had her coat on and Brighteyes had his jacket on, but neither was enough to keep out the biting wind. And Becky had other worries too, that her mother might already have discovered she was gone, that Craig would be coming after them in the van. She knew she was going to have to hitch a lift, something her mother had always told her never to do. So when at last she saw headlights in the far distance, her first instinct was to duck down in the bracken at the side of the road and hide. But as the lights came closer, she could hear it wasn’t a van, but a lorry of some kind. She felt confident enough then to run out and try to hitch a lift.
It turned out to be a cattle truck and the driver seemed friendly enough, even if he was a bit inquisitive. “Out late, aren’t you?” he asked. Becky said she’d missed the last bus home, and she’d have to walk – the lie came easily.
He said he was on his way to a market “up country,” to somewhere Becky had never heard of. She didn’t know what “up country” really meant, but a ride to anywhere was a lot more inviting at that moment than freezing out on the moor. She could feel the warmth of the cab on her face, and “up country” sounded far enough away. They climbed in, Brighteyes curling up on the seat beside her, and at once making himself at home. The driver asked a few questions, but mostly about the dog, then fell silent and just drove on into the darkness, listening to the radio.
Cocooned in the stuffy heat of the cab both Becky and Brighteyes soon fell asleep. When Becky woke, it was early morning and they were pulling into a petrol station somewhere on the edge of a town. The driver looked across at her, as he turned off the engine. “Bit young to be out travelling on your own, aren’t you?” he said.
“I’m eighteen,” Becky said quickly, “and anyway I’m not on my own, am I? I’ve got the dog and he’s got a bite.” But she knew he was suspicious, that she hadn’t convinced him, which is why, while he was paying for his petrol, she got out of the cab with Brighteyes and ran off.
There was a coach station in the centre of town and one coach waiting, engine running, to go. Becky didn’t care where to, as long as it was far enough away from Craig. She had some money with her, but not much – just £35.75, but that was more than enough to pay for the coach fare. She didn’t like to spend the money – she knew she’d need it later – but she had no choice. If she tried hitching again there could be more questions, awkward questions. On a coach at least she’d be with lots of other people. There’d be safety in numbers, and besides mostly people didn’t talk on coaches. That’s what she thought. She was wrong.
As it was, she found herself, with Brighteyes beside her, sitting on the back seat next to the most talkative and inquisitive old lady on the planet, who immediately asked where she was going. Becky made up some complicated story about visiting her granny in the city and that her granny loved the dog like another grandchild, which was why they were going together. The more Becky elaborated and extended her story, the easier she found it. Luckily the old lady seemed to believe her. She clearly liked her too because she gave her some of her cheese sandwich, and some for Brighteyes too. Then for the next couple of hours, she rambled on about her own grandchildren who were scattered all over the world from Australia to South Africa. She showed her photographs of them and some of their letters too. And then at last, to Becky’s great relief, she dropped off to sleep.
Becky had never liked cities, but as the coach crawled through the traffic, into the heat of the city, she knew it was the right place to be. Here they could lose themselves with no trouble at all. No one could ever find them. So when she walked out of the coach station with Brighteyes, into the streets, where everyone seemed to know where they were going and were in a tearing hurry to get there, it made her feel suddenly very bewildered and alone. She saw a bus going by. The sign on the front said Stanley Park. “We’ll go to the park,” she said to Brighteyes. “Then you can have a run.” She didn’t want to spend any more money on fares so she followed where the bus went, which was easy because the traffic was heavy and slow, and there always seemed to be another Stanley Park bus coming by which they could follow as well. It was a long walk, but the buses told Becky she’d get there sooner or later, so she just kept going.
When they did finally walk out on to the grass of Stanley Park, Brighteyes seemed to know at once that he could take off, and he did. Other dogs – there seemed to be mostly poodles in the park that day – raced after him, trying to keep up with him. They couldn’t get near him, but that didn’t stop them trying, again and again. He dodged and weaved, running circles round all of them. Becky sat on a bench loving every moment of it, glowing with pride. The sun was out now and warming her through. She felt suddenly happy. She knew then as she watched Brighteyes gambolling about that whatever happened, she had done the right thing, and that her father would think so too.
It was this unexpected surge of happiness that made her get up and race after him, made her forget her rucksack. When she came back with Brighteyes it was no longer there on the bench where she’d left it. All her spare clothes were gone, a blanket from her bed at home and all her photos of her mother and father, everything. All she had left was the money in one of her coat pockets, and a few biscuits for Brighteyes in the other. She sat down and cried then, mostly because she was so angry with herself. In that moment of despair, if she’d had her mobile with her, she’d most certainly have rung her mother right away, just given up and called the whole thing off. But she had left it at home deliberately, because she had known that sooner or later, she’d be bound to weaken.
Brighteyes stood there looking up at her, still panting after his run around. It was a knowing look, and one that Becky understood at once. “I know what you’re saying,” she said, wiping away her tears. “You’re saying: no use sitting there feeling sorry for yourself. You’re saying: I’m hungry.” She gave him the last of the biscuits, then counted out the money she had left. “£8.32. Not much is it, Brighteyes? But we’ve got to eat. I’m hungry too.” They shared a hot dog between them, had a long drink from a water fountain and set off across the park.
By evening the rest of her money was almost gone. Becky had bought a couple of apples, two bread rolls, some cheese and a blanket from a market stall, but all the while she was wondering how you go about finding a place to spend the night in the city when you haven’t got enough money to pay for it.
As evening came on she was wandering the streets still looking for a quiet place to shelter, and this was when she discovered she wasn’t the only one out there on the streets with nowhere to go. So many of the best places that were under cover and out of the wind – shop doorways, arcades, underpasses – were already occupied by the people of the street.
Some were playing a flute or an accordion. Some were sitting there begging and others were already asleep in sleeping bags or under cardboard boxes. Many had dogs as well, who would bare their teeth and growl at Brighteyes as they passed by, or even lunge at him, snarling and snapping.
There were old men glaring at her with eyes like those of hungry, angry wolves, young men and girls no older than she was, lost in their sadness, looking but hardly seeing, their faces pale, their eyes sunken. There was one man standing on a corner begging. He was dressed in a kilt with bare legs and bare feet, banging away on a drum, chanting out his sad and angry mantra, “I’m homeless. I’m hopeless. You don’t care, and I don’t care. I’m homeless. I’m hopeless…”
She felt sorry for them, but was frightened of them too. More than once she was tempted to seek out the company of the younger ones, to try to share their bit of sheltered territory, but she was wary of approaching them. She knew instinctively that if she sat down with them she would sooner or later become one of them, become like them, and that was enough to keep her walking. Her legs ached, her feet ached. The wind was getting up all the time and with the d
arkness had come the cold. She had to find shelter, and soon.
She determined to keep clear of the street people, so she kept walking till she had left the lights and noise of the city centre behind her and found herself in quiet, tree-lined streets where there were small gardens at the front of the houses, and she could see lights on in the windows and people at home, people like her. These streets may have been darker, but she felt safer here somehow. There were just the two of them again now, so she could talk to Brighteyes freely. She knew he needed that, that he felt frightened and insecure in this strange world, just as she was.
“We’ll find somewhere, Brighteyes,” she told him. “Don’t you worry, but it’s got to be somewhere where there’s no people, and no dogs either. We can have supper then. Bread and cheese. You don’t like apples much, do you?” He padded along beside her, looking up at her whenever she spoke. “Better than being in that kennel, right? And better than being where Alfie is, that’s for sure. We’ll find somewhere. Soon, I promise.” It helped Becky to talk, kept her spirits up when she needed it most, kept her hopes up when she felt at her most helpless.
After trudging along streets of terraced houses for an hour or so they came to a house which looked different from the others. There were no lights to be seen. Every window was boarded up. There was a builder’s skip outside in the road. The place was obviously being renovated, so it had to be empty. Becky opened the little iron gate and peered into the front garden. An old garden shed stood in the corner behind the hedge, the door open and swinging in the wind. There was no one about. It was worth a risk, worth a look.
The shed turned out to be a perfect hideaway, small and snug with a pile of sacks in one corner that made a perfect bed. Becky pulled the door to behind them, and they made it their own. They ate together, Becky sharing out the bread and the cheese. “One for you, one for me,” was the only way to do it fairly. Brighteyes was so hungry he barely chewed at all before swallowing, and then he was waiting for the next offering. Becky was ravenous too, but even so she forced herself not to eat it all at once, but save a little for later: just half a bread roll and half an apple. Not much, but something. It would do for breakfast.
As she was feeding Brighteyes, she talked to him, but in a whisper. “No one’ll find us here, not if we’re careful. We can creep in here every night. No one’ll know.” The blanket she’d bought was just about big enough to cover them both. Lying there in the dark, the shed smelt musty and damp, and it creaked horribly in the wind. Sometimes she could hear footsteps going by outside, and voices too, but none of that mattered to Becky. She was asleep almost at once.
She slept fitfully but deeply, in and out of episodic dreams, and in every one of them her father was there. He was up on the rock on High Moor, pushing her on a swing, and she was shrieking out to him: “Higher! Higher! Higher!” He was coming out of the shop with the milk in his hand, and the lorry was hurtling down the hill, heading straight for him. As she slept and dreamed, Brighteyes lay there listening to her breathing, to the night noises of the city, all the while alert for danger, knowing it was out there somewhere, that he had to be ready for it, whatever it was.
Early the next morning, leaving the blanket behind in their hideaway, they stole out into the street and went down to the river. Geese came flying in, some ducks and a heron or two. Brighteyes sat watching it all intently, and didn’t seem to want to come away when Becky called him. “We’ll come back, Brighteyes,” she told him. “I’m cold. I’ve got to keep walking, or I’ll freeze.”
So they walked on along the river until they came to a park with trees all around and ponds. There were swings here and slides, with children shouting and laughing and playing. For a while Brighteyes was happy just to watch them, his ears swivelling constantly as he listened. In the end he just couldn’t resist it. He ran off to be with the children, bounding around them and barking playfully. Becky called him back, but it was too late. A couple of the children had taken fright and were running screaming to their mothers.
“He won’t hurt,” Becky told them. “Honest, he won’t. He’s really gentle.”
But one of the mothers turned on her. “You keep him away!” she shouted. “You keep him under control, or I’ll call the police.”
“It should be on a lead anyway,” said another of the mothers. “Should have a muzzle.”
“He doesn’t need a lead,” Becky told them. “And he doesn’t need a muzzle either. He was just having a bit of fun, that’s all.”
Then there were half a dozen angry mothers on their feet, yelling at her and Brighteyes, who stood there looking perplexed and upset. He turned and ran back to Becky. They left the park with abuse ringing in their ears.
It came on to rain later. So they went and sat in a bus shelter for a while, and that’s where they finished the last of their food. Becky counted her money once again, hoping it was more than she knew it was, that somehow she’d made a mistake. She hadn’t. It was still £1.56p. When a police car came by, slowing as it passed them, Becky kept her face hidden, pretending to be petting Brighteyes. They’d be on the lookout for her – she was sure of it. They’d have some kind of description of her by now: fifteen-year-old girl, green coat, jeans, woolly hat, with a light fawn greyhound with a tartan jacket. She might be able to hide her face but she couldn’t hide Brighteyes. She thought the police car would be bound to stop, but it didn’t. It was enough of a scare though to move Becky on, rain or no rain. The police car would be back to have another look any time, she was sure of it.
It took her a while to find the street again – she’d forgotten the name of it – and the house with the boarded-up windows and the skip outside. She’d decided that their garden shed home was the safest place to be for the moment, and the driest too.
One look from the end of the street, though, and her heart sank. The builders were there, two or three of them at least, carrying wood and bricks into the house. There was worse to come. As they walked by on the opposite pavement she saw that the skip looked much fuller than before. It took a moment or two for her to recognise what was in it – their garden shed, or what was left of it. She caught a glimpse of their blanket in amongst the wreckage of the shed. She was tempted to dart across the road to retrieve it, but the builders were constantly coming and going, and she didn’t dare.
How far she wandered after that and where she went, Becky had no idea. She was lost now in a daze of misery and cold. At one point she went into a café and spent the last of her money on a mug of hot tea and a sticky bun. She gave half the sticky bun to Brighteyes who sat by her knee shivering and shaking uncontrollably. Becky made her tea last as long as she could. With nowhere else to go, staying in the warm was everything, and Becky knew that.
From where she was sitting by the window, she could see a phone box across the road. Just a few short steps, one call home, and she could be back there, tucked up in her warm bed. It would be so easy. But every time she was tempted she thought of Alfie: of Alfie and Brighteyes side by side, bounding over the moor; of Alfie alone in his kennel, carrying his hurt leg, limping towards her, the last time she’d seen him alive; then Alfie lying dead in that wheelbarrow. Use that phone, go back home and the same thing would happen to Brighteyes. She’d rather die first.
The lady behind the counter who had poured her tea had been watching her for a while now. Becky could feel it and had avoided looking at her, pretending instead to sip her tea which had long since been finished. But when she came over to her table Becky had to look up at her. She was about her mother’s age, a black lady in a flowery apron. Becky expected to be kicked out, expected the woman to be angry. But she wasn’t, not at all. “You want some more tea, girl?” she asked.
“Haven’t got any money left,” Becky replied.
“That’s not what I asked now, is it? I said, you want some more tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“And water for the dog?”
“Thanks.”
She brought both,
as well as a whole plate of bread and butter and jam. As she put it down on the table, she bent down and spoke to Becky softly, so none of the other customers could hear her. “You want some advice, girl? Whatever it is, I’m telling you it can’t be that bad. You go home to your mum. She’ll be worried sick about you. You can’t stay here for ever, and there’s nothing out there ‘cept streets, and they’re not nice places for a young girl like you. You hear me? You be a good girl, and you go home now. And by the way, I got to say, that dog you got is the most beautiful dog I ever saw.”
Becky wanted to tell her everything at that moment, the whole story, and maybe she would have too, had the lady not turned away to serve someone else at the counter. After that she always seemed to be busy making tea or washing-up. Becky eked out her tea and bread and jam as long as she could. Brighteyes loved the strawberry jam in particular, and went on licking his lips and enjoying it long after he’d swallowed it down.
She stayed on in the café until the lady behind the counter told her she’d really have to go because it was shutting-up time. “You’re not going home, are you?” she said, as Becky went to the door. Becky shook her head. “I didn’t think you were. You got to do what you got to do, am I right? But you got to keep yourself warm, girl. Try the library, about a mile down the road. Nice and warm in there.”
So that’s where Becky headed. It was warm all right, but they didn’t allow dogs. It was the same with the museum. No dogs. She didn’t even get through the front door there. She went and sat in a launderette for a while, but they kicked her out because she hadn’t brought any washing to do. The waiting room at the bus station was empty and it was warm. She lay down on the bench with Brighteyes beside her and just hoped no one would come. She was half asleep when a bus inspector came in, and asked her which bus she was waiting for. She was too dozy to make up a credible story. She just couldn’t think fast enough. So she told him the truth.
The Classic Morpurgo Collection (six novels) Page 17