The Girl Downstairs

by Iain Maitland

  An utterly overwhelming sense of distress.

  I set off across the fields as fast as I can. Our regular walk.

  Desperately scanning the white landscape for any sign of Fluffy. Hoping he’s somehow followed our usual route and perhaps got lost. That I will find him sheltering somewhere.

  I know, deep down, this is a forlorn hope. That I will not find him alive.

  Fluffy did run off once before, just after I got him from the Blue Cross. He would have been ten years old then; he’d been in the Blue Cross centre for no more than two days when I came along. I liked the look of him immediately. He sat there in his cage all straight-backed and dignified whilst the dogs around him whined and barked and pawed at the bars of their cages.

  The staff let me take him out, and he walked to heel straightaway, and when we got back and I sat on a bench talking to the young girl who worked there, he rested his head on my knee and looked up at me with his chocolate brown eyes. I fell in love with him then and have loved him ever since.

  One weekend, early on, I drove to Rendlesham Forest with him. We parked by the side of the road and headed off along a path in amongst the trees. He was on a long lead, and I noticed that he liked to pull ahead, sniffing and searching, darting one way and the other, as we went along. I don’t think he’d been to a forest before. So many new smells. How excited he was, tugging at the lead.

  It got to a point where, as he seemed such a well-behaved dog, I unhooked the lead from his collar. He ran straight off after something, a rabbit most likely, and disappeared from sight into the undergrowth. For hours. Literally, two and a half hours. Close to three. I was beside myself. As I finally gave up the search and went back to my car, I saw him sitting straight-backed and dignified by my car. I cried when I saw him.

  As I am crying now, walking, almost running, along the side of the path.

  I am calling for him. Over and again. And whistling. I have a little peep-peep-peep … peep-peep-peep whistle I do just for him.

  But there is nothing, no sound, no movement … just a long stretch of white as far as I can see.

  There is a ditch on the far side of this field, running parallel to a path that leads to another lane and beyond. It has struck me that, in the snow and ice, Fluffy may have chased a rabbit across the field and, in his excitement, fallen into the ditch. My old boy, seeing the white tail of a baby rabbit, suddenly becoming a young and eager pup again.

  I reach the ditch and walk its length, looking down, fearing what I might see. I do not think that Fluffy, at his age and perhaps with a broken leg, could have made it through the night with the temperature at minus two or three degrees. But I have to hope and, no matter what, I have to bring him home. I could not bear to leave him out here, abandoned and alone, to the vermin and the elements.

  I see, at the far end of the ditch, something there, a darkness, a shape half covered by the snow, partly exposed. I move towards it, stumbling in the deep snow where it has not been walked in and remains all white and frosty. The thought of Fluffy dying here, struggling to get out of the ditch, breaks my heart. How could I have been so stupid, so careless, as to let him outside to wander off into the night.

  It is not him, thank God.

  Just a Waitrose carrier bag with what looks like a large black oil tub in it – used for topping up car engines.

  I do not know what it is doing there.

  I move towards the path that leads to the lane and, beyond, the next field. The snow is crushed into a frosty ice in places; I can see the footsteps that have trodden here. I would never have believed there would be so many. I thought this was a barely trodden path. I look to see if I can see paw prints, Fluffy’s paw prints, but the ground is just a mishmash of imprints of heavy shoes and boots. I cannot tell them apart.

  The field is a blanket of white, and I can see the prints of animal feet that have criss-crossed it; I am no expert, but I think I can see a fox’s paw prints and the prints of birds, maybe even seagulls, here and there, where they have landed, searching for food. I strain my eyes to see a pattern of Fluffy’s paw prints as he made his way across the field. Going out. Or on his way back home. But there is nothing.

  I stand here, turning slowly 360 degrees, and I can see all across the fields and the lanes in all directions. I see no paw prints anywhere close to me. No odd shapes in the snow further out. Nor dark masses. I whistle. Peep. Peep. Peep. Our secret code. Peep. Peep. Peep. Just Fluffy and I know it is me calling for him, calling him back to his breakfast, fresh chicken and biscuits at the weekend, and his nice warm bed by the fire.

  Peep, peep, peep, I go. Peep. Peep. Peep.

  But there is no response. He is not here. This side of the cottage.

  I turn and trudge back. Any sense of hope was fading. Now it’s almost gone.

  Back at the cottage, it strikes me to check the CCTV. To see if it shows Fluffy leaving, and whether he went left or right.

  But the hard drive on my age-old system is full; it has stopped recording. I drop my head in despair. And frustration at my inattentiveness.

  I will spend all day searching for Fluffy. Until it is dark. I owe him that. My best pal. I am in torment. Flooded with grief.

  In the morning, I go up and down the lane, looking side to side as I go. I peep-peep-peep a whistle every few yards. Then stop and listen. There is no response. I know in my heart that Fluffy has gone. Peep. Peep. Peep. But I have to keep going. Check every possibility.

  I knock on almost every door in the lane, staying there, banging ever more loudly, until someone answers. “Have you seen my dog?” I ask. “A Jack Russell,” frantic at first, then more subdued and finally in a despondent tone. I cannot bring myself to knock on the Man in the Suit’s door nor Widow Woman’s. Instead, I stand and scan the land around their properties. Hoping to see something, my old friend walking on shaky, arthritic legs towards me. With no success.

  There are no houses to the right of the lane, just a long line of conifers, beyond which there is an endless ditch full of snow and ice and fields rolling away forever into the distance. Fluffy may have gone through the trees somehow, after a rabbit, and fallen into the ditch. Or somehow made it across to the fields. I walk and walk and walk. There are no signs of Fluffy anywhere. On and on I go, never giving up.

  Wet and close to exhaustion, I force myself to go back to the cottage at one o’clock. To get a hot drink and warm myself through. To start over. Have another go in the afternoon. To keep searching until I have looked everywhere he might have gone.

  She puts a bowl of mince in front of me. “I invented this,” she says. “With stuff from the cupboards.” I spoon it down, trying not to gag on the spices. I do not like food like this.

  She is not sympathetic about Fluffy, telling me how gangs from London roam the countryside for small dogs to act as bait in dog fights in the cities. I leave as soon as I can. It is not what I want to hear. Everything she says and does sets me on edge.

  Angry now, I knock on the door of 5 Bluebell Lane. The Man in the Suit’s house. As I stand on the front doorstep, faced with this futuristic mix of oak and steel, I feel fury surging in me. A mix of so many negative emotions. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He slides back bolts. Opens the door. I show him my favourite photo of Fluffy, from our first Christmas together. Fluffy has a party hat on. “Have you seen my dog?” I say in a neutral voice.

  He glances, disinterested, almost disdainful, at the photo. “No,” he replies bluntly. I turn and go before he can add, “Fuck off.”

  And I am walking up to Widow Woman’s house. I have to try everywhere. “I’ve lost my dog,” I blurt out as she opens the door. “Fluffy … he got out the back gate … has gone off. He’s not here.” And it is all I can do not to cry. I see the boy, Conor, standing behind her at the end of the hallway. He waves at me. I put my hand up, acknowledging his presence. The small girl is there, too, but she ducks back out of sight just as soon as she sees me.

  Widow Woman reaches out and rests her hand on my arm
. I want to pull it back, but do not. “We will look across the fields on our walk,” she says in a gentle, put-on voice. “This afternoon. If he’s out there, we’ll find him. Don’t you worry.”

  I nod and smile my thanks. And then I am turning to disguise my tears and am gone, off to the main road at the top of the lane, to walk its length and breadth before going home. The hours drag out to the point of exhaustion.

  I return to the cottage when it is dark. I know now that Fluffy must be dead. Wherever he is. He could not have survived out there so long on his own. I sit, my head hanging, at the kitchen table.

  “Has anyone called … has the phone gone at all?” I say to her as she comes in the kitchen a half hour later. I suddenly recall that the Blue Cross had microchipped Fluffy. Had he been found and taken to the police or a vet or the Blue Cross, someone may have been trying to get in touch.

  “No,” she answers as she moves towards the oven to dole out her latest meal into bowls. As I look down into the bowl of mince with red and green peppers, this guts and innards slop, it is all I can do to swallow it down between mouthfuls of water. I’d rather lie down and die.

  We eat in silence. Going through the motions of basic civility.

  Things have turned even further between us now. Unmistakably.

  As we finish, she gets up. Goes to the nookery. Leaves the washing up and drying to me.

  I sit there at the kitchen table for ages.

  My head down, beyond tears now. The hopelessness of my life. My utter gloom.

  There is a sudden knocking at the front door.

  I would normally ignore it. The knocking. It is dark and late; there can be no one there whom I would want to speak to. But I have Fluffy on my mind. And the knocking triggers a surge of hope within me. That maybe he has somehow been found somewhere.

  That someone from the Blue Cross is standing there now, outside my door, holding Fluffy in his arms. And I will open the door and see Fluffy there, looking at me, his mouth open, his tongue out, panting. Exhaustion, possibly. But excitement, seeing me, as likely.

  And I am up and moving out of the kitchen and into the hallway and to the front door. Where I pause. Leaning forward. My head against the wood. Trying to suppress, to quell, the hope that is rising in me, overwhelming me. The complete and utter joy.

  It is the boy. Widow Woman’s grandson. But no Fluffy.

  Just the boy and his earnest, eager little face.

  I hesitate. But I invite him inside. Out of the cold.

  We stand there awkwardly in the hallway for a moment or two. And I wonder whether I should have asked him in at all. What Widow Woman would have said to him. About not talking to strangers. Let alone going into a stranger’s house. Then again, maybe I am not seen as a stranger by her. And I think she must have sent him here. To say something to me.

  He bends down to take off his wellington boots. As if it is rude not to, in someone’s home. First one, then the other. He stumbles slightly, pulling at the second boot, and tips back against the front door. I steady him by taking his arm. I then go down onto my knees to help him take off his boot.

  He stands there, still dressed in his coat and hat and gloves, but with his boots now off. I gesture towards the living room, inviting him in. Then lead the way. He follows me. There is a sense of embarrassment somehow, of not being sure what to say or do, in this strange situation. Or perhaps that’s just me. Knowing it’s not a good idea for an adult to be alone with a child these days.

  He flushes suddenly, all excited, and swallows, about to speak his prepared words. The words Widow Woman will have told him to say. Probably on the doorstep, not indoors, but no matter now.

  “We saw paw prints going over towards the farm … your dog may be in one of the barns.” He looks at me and grins.

  “Granny says …” He stumbles over the words he is meant to say. “It was getting too dark to search, but we can all search tomorrow morning. My granny knows the farmer.” There, he got it out just so.

  I smile back at him, touched by the eager excitement on his face. But I know this is futile. To get to the farm, you have to cross three fields and two lanes, and even then, the farm is some way down the third lane on the right. Somewhere you get to with a stout, fifteen-to-twenty-minute walk through snow. Fluffy won’t be there.

  I thank him, though, and it seems somehow right and proper, with this well-mannered little boy, to acknowledge his help. I decide to shake his hand rather than go for another elbow bump. I put my right hand out towards him. He grins and pulls the glove off his left hand. Then the right. Confused. Laughing. We shake hands. I shake it up and down theatrically, and he joins in and laughs again. This delightful little fellow.

  And we are back in the hallway, and he sits on the step at the bottom of the stairs. Where Andrew Lumb’s skull cracked open. Pulling on his boots. He does not seem to notice the small plant pot that’s there. I am reminded suddenly of when I was a small boy, visiting my maternal grandmother occasionally, and she would always give me something to go home with. A fifty-pence piece for some sweets. Or a banana, if she were short of money that week. I tell the boy to wait there as I go to the kitchen.

  I rummage in the cupboards, trying to find a chocolate bar to give to him. But I do not have a Mars Bar or a Milky Way or anything like that. There is nothing there he would like. Only cereal bars with rolled oats and honey. Old people’s treats. But I want to give something to him.

  So I hand him a cereal bar in the hallway, and he takes it cheerfully enough, thanks me, and says goodbye ever so politely. He adds that he’ll see me in the morning. I am rather taken with this little chap. I don’t know why. I think it is because he reminds me a little of myself at that age.

  I turn to go back into the kitchen, and as I go through the hallway, I notice the door of the nookery clicking shut. She has been listening in to our conversation. I am not sure what to make of that. Nor why it bothers me.

  She stays in the nookery all evening. I cannot hear anything. Even with my ear pressed against the door at regular intervals.

  It must be so cold in there. And uncomfortable. With the heating and water turned off. I wonder how she manages. I suppose it has been worse for her. When she was on the streets.

  I wonder what she is thinking. How she must feel about me to shut herself away like this. We cannot go on this way.

  Fluffy weighs heavily on my mind. The grim reality is that, as an old dog in sub-zero temperatures, he will be gone, long gone, by now if he has been out in the snow and the wind and the cold for more than twelve hours.

  If he is inside somewhere, a barn over at the farm, unlikely though that seems, he could maybe still be alive. If he is huddled away under straw, safe from the snow and the wind and protected a little from the falling temperature. Even that is an unlikely hope.

  But he may have been found wandering somewhere. His best chance. And mine. He has a collar on, but no tag with “Fluffy” and my phone number or address on it. I don’t know why. I never seemed to get around to buying one.

  But he has been microchipped. By the Blue Cross. So they told me. At the back of his neck. Between his shoulder blades.

  And there is some sort of database for chipped dogs on the internet. And I have a little pamphlet somewhere. With Fluffy’s microchip number written in it.

  If I can go online, I can maybe see if he has been registered as being found. If not, I could at least email the local Blue Cross to tell them Fluffy is missing.

  A sudden surge of hope. I get up quickly from my chair at the kitchen table to fetch the pamphlet. Too quickly, I think. A moment’s dizziness. Nothing to worry about. I get it from time to time. It’s just an age thing. And I have a stomach ache. That doesn’t help. I don’t want to move too quickly if I have a stomach upset. I once had an accident when I was locked away; it was not very pleasant. The staff thought it was some sort of dirty protest. It wasn’t. I just got myself in a bit of a muddle.

  I make my way upstairs to my room. The
re is an old-fashioned bureau, an inherited heirloom from my maternal grandmother, by the back window. It’s where I keep my key documents: passport, driving licence, insurance papers and more. All filed in their own little spaces.

  I look at the different compartments inside the bureau. They are filled with documents, some neatly put away, others pulled half-out haphazardly. I cannot remember when I last searched the bureau, nor what I was looking for. I have left it messier than I would normally do. I must have been in a hurry. I know Fluffy’s documents are in the compartment to the far right, my miscellaneous section.

  I used to look at them regularly in the days and weeks after I had adopted him. As if, by reading them time and again, I would somehow discover something about his past. The Blue Cross could not, perhaps would not, tell me anything other than his name was Harold, that he was about ten years old and that the “old boy” who’d had him had died. None of the old boy’s children wanted to take on Fluffy.

  I was so pleased and happy to have him. I had always wanted a dog.

  We became friends. Dearest pals.

  And now he has gone; I have failed him.

  I sit there with the Blue Cross documents in my hands, unfolding and reading them again as if this is the first time I have seen them. I remember how pleased as punch I was the evening I got Fluffy. He settled down by my feet in the living room. In his new basket that I had bought from the Blue Cross, along with all sorts of other bits and bobs: two bowls, tins of food, different brushes, two types of shampoo and glossy grooming pads and no end of various squeaky toys, which he always ignored.

  Those first few mornings, I’d nudge Fluffy out into the garden to do his business. When he was about halfway down the garden, before or after, I would whistle to catch his attention. As he looked up at me, standing on the doorstep by the kitchen door, I would squeak one of the toys over and over again. I would then throw it as far as I could. Most times, it would land just in front of him, and he would look at it as if he did not know what to do.