by Tony Nash
Going out with the last load to the car he felt something amiss, and realised that no matter how unlikely the boy he’d seen was the one they were looking for, he really ought to have rung it in. Who knew – he could be another runaway?
Carole picked up when the phone rang, ‘Norfolk Constabulary, Sergeant Somerset speaking. Oh, just a moment.’ She took the phone off her ear and covered the mouthpiece to speak to him, ‘It’s a PC Argyle, and he says it’s urgent.’
Transome took the phone, ‘What is it, Constable? The boy? When? Oh, a boy – but he looked like our boy?’ With his hand over the mouthpiece he said sarcastically to Carole, ‘More or less’. He took his hand away and asked, ‘You’re sure it was an anorak? No, of course not. What was the dog like? Now, that is interesting. We have a dog loose somewhere from a boat in the harbour. Where did you see them? Near Horsey Mere? That’s over twelve miles from here. What time was that, exactly? Oh, no – a pity. It’s out of the question – the boy might just have reached there if he’d got a lift or walked all night, but it couldn’t have been the dog we’re looking for, even if it ran all the way – it escaped less than an hour before that. No, don’t worry, you go and enjoy your holiday. Where are you going, just in case? Lucky chap. I’d like a crack at those Scottish salmon myself. Thanks for ringing.’
Carole asked him, ‘Any chance it’s Billy?’
‘No. ‘Fraid not. Only wish it were.’
‘No news from the helicopter?’
‘Not yet.’ Any time now, he thought. He picked up his cap, ‘I shouldn’t be too long; I’m going to the harbour.’
CHAPTER NINE
Transome stopped at the gangplank, hesitating about going aboard the Eisenstern without permission, but then his ego took over, and he stepped out.
The deck was empty, but he could hear men talking and mechanical noises.
He stopped by an open door and shouted, ‘Anyone home?’
A head appeared out of a porthole further along the deck housing, and a voice shouted, ‘Moment!’
Heini Schlitter came out of a doorway and walked towards Transome. As he came close, he held out his hand and said, ‘Heinrich Schlitter’.
Transome, whose grandfather and uncle had been killed in the struggle against the Nazis, was very anti-German. He ignored the hand, and with open animosity in his voice asked, ‘You are the dog’s owner?’
Heini was used to that kind of treatment from some Englishmen, who seemed incapable of forgetting the last war, and metaphorically shrugged his shoulders. The Inspector wasn’t here to be friendly, after all. He nodded, in answer to the question.
‘Where’s the dog’s kennel?’
‘This way.’ Heini spoke excellent English, with only a slight accent, but was not about to waste time trying to converse with this stuck-up inspector, who had his two-way radio in his hand, and kept stopping to listen to the transmissions. He led Transome down a set of steps and along the corridor, stopping in front of the kennel.
‘This is the dog-house.’
‘But not for ship’s captains?’ Transome took hold of the padlock and checked it for security.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Transome smirked, ‘English humour – incomprehensible to continentals.’
‘Hm. You see, the lock is quite secure. If it had not been for the trouble…’
Transome cut in, ‘Quite. You locked the stable door.’
Heini looked puzzled, ‘But I thought…’
Transome deliberately ignored the reply and interrupted again, ‘The Customs issued a Practique?’
‘Yes, they…’
‘I’d like to see it. And also the dog’s inoculation papers.’
‘I am sorry, I have no inoculation papers, the dogs live on board all the time, and do not come into contact with others, so there is no need for inoculation.’
‘Well one of them is mixing now, isn’t he?’
Heini shrugged resignedly and pointed back along the corridor. ‘If you have finished here?’
Transome gritted, ‘I’ll wait here.’
Heini shrugged, ‘As you wish.’ He walked away, slowly shaking his head and mumbling, ‘Verfluchter eingebildeter Englaender!’
Once he was out of sight, Transome, who loved dogs of any shape and size, though he was not about to admit it to the captain, shook the bars of the kennel and looked in. The big Doberman, Moos, was lying on his bed, seemingly asleep. His dish of food was still on the floor and had not been touched.
Transome rattled the bars of the kennel, ‘Here, boy. Here.’
The dog lifted its head but put it down again.
Transome shrugged, ‘You make a good pair with your master.’
He heard the captain’s steps approaching round the corner, and stepped back again.
Heini held out the paper, ‘The Practique, Inspector.’
Transome took it, barely glanced at it, and handed it back. ‘This dog healthy?’
‘Sure.’
‘Doesn’t look very lively.’
‘He misses his comrade.’
‘Can we have a closer look at him?’
‘If you wish.’ Heini took his bunch of keys from his trouser pocket, unlocked the padlock and opened the door. He held the door open until Transome was inside, entered himself and closed the door firmly behind him. Transome watched him with a sarcastic smile, which Heini could not fail to notice.
They crossed to the dog and Heini bent to stroke it, ‘Komm, Moos, steh’ auf.’
He helped the dog and it got up very slowly onto all fours, as if very stiff.
‘Setz’mal.’ He pushed down with his hand on the dog’s back and Moos sat with difficulty.
‘Sag mal, ‘Guten Tag’.’ He held out his right hand to shake the dog’s paw, but Moos just sat looking at him listlessly.
Heini spoke sharper, ‘Na, komm, Moos – gib’ mir die Pfote!’
The dog took no notice. Heini fondled its ears and stood up with a set smile on his face. The dog lay down again.
‘He wants his little friend.’
Handsome nodded, ‘So do we.’
‘He will perhaps return, but in case he does not, I have my crew searching now, street by street, with a map. He will not have gone far.’
‘Typical Teutonic thoroughness, eh? Very laud…’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Very…systematic. They always said you Germans were systematic, I mean, during the war.’
‘You still think of the war, Inspector, seventy years later?’
‘Are you suggesting we should forget, Captain? My grandfather was k….’
‘Ah, yes, I see. But that war was so very long ago. My father was not even born when it ended.’
Transome changed the subject, ‘You realise your ship is under port arrest?’
‘I have already radioed the owners.’
‘And charges will be brought against you for the illegal importation of a dog.’
Heini smiled grimly, ‘Do not worry, Inspector. As your Mr Bogart would have said, ‘I will not leave town’.’
‘I am sure he would have added something apt, like, “It ain’t me who has to worry, Blue-eyes.”’ Transome turned, smiling cynically, walked out of the kennel and away down the corridor.
Heini watched his departure thoughtfully, a worried frown developing. He bent and fondled the Doberman’s head, looking again at the uneaten food. Moos always ate every morsel as soon as it was put down on the floor, but not today.
‘Ich weiss nicht was los ist, alter Junge, aber Du siehst mir gar nicht gut aus.’
CHAPTER TEN
Billy was not whistling for once. He was listening to the fantastic music being made by the scores of larks in the air. He didn’t know what they were called, but thought their song was wonderful. He couldn’t remember hearing one before, and didn’t know that the heavy use of pesticides had made them a threatened species; the Norfolk marshes, spared the poisons, were one of the few places in England where they st
ill thrived.
He and the dog were walking along a trail made by animals through grass that came up almost to his waist.
He bent to pick up a dandelion, blew the ‘clock’ away, and patted the dog’s head, totally unaware of the danger ahead.
Sam Yallop was watching the boy’s approach. His whole appearance was evil, made even worse by the dirty patch over his left eye. In his mid sixties, wearing a dirty old ragged mackintosh with a muffler and a shabby cap, he had an unkempt, dirty beard and an equally dirty, straggly moustache. His long knife was held like a dagger in his hand, its blade discoloured with blood. He lay completely camouflaged in the long grass. His good right eye and the right side of his face twitched as he waited, the result of an untreated stroke earlier in the year.
The dog had run ahead of Billy, sniffing eagerly. It had picked up the scent of a rabbit, which stopped eating and sat up on its hind legs, suddenly on the alert, before dashing back to its burrow.
The dog came back to Billy’s call once it had lost the scent, and the boy carried on his one-way conversation with the animal, ‘I wish you could talk. Bet you’re good at catching rabbits. Bet you’re a circus dog really, escaped from the horrible old ringmaster because he beat you to make you learn the tricks. You stay with me – I’ll teach you some new ones: how to jump through a blazing fire to rescue your master from the Blackfeet Indians, who’re sittin’ behind the rocks and bushes with their bows and arrows, just waitin’ to pounce…’ His ankle was suddenly grabbed and held tightly, as if in a trap.
‘Got you!’
Billy struggled, kicking the hand with his other foot and trying to pull away. The dog was running around, his barks joining with Billy’s shouts, his eyes on the knife, which Sam still had in his other hand.
‘No…Get off!’
Sam pulled himself upright, only letting go of the ankle when he could take hold of Billy’s anorak. He was breathing heavily and wheezing badly, looking ill. In a really broad Norfolk accent he asked, ‘Now, what hev we got here? Tha’ss a fine sorta rabbit to come hoppin’ along my bunny trail an’ rob me o’ my supper. P’raps I oughta slit its throat and hev it for breakfast, eh? What say, young fella? What’re you doin’ ‘ere – spyin’ on me, were you?’
Billy was still struggling, ‘Let go! Let go!’
‘Well…I don’t know…’ He eyes Billy up and down, ‘You don’t look too dangerous. All right, but no funny business, mind.’ He let go of the boy’s coat. ‘Now, how come you’re disturbin’ my rabbit patch? Not poachin’ are you? That look a fairly decent hound you’re got with you.’
Billy’s eyes were on the bloody knife, ‘No, Sir, we were just going for a walk.’
‘A walk? Out here? An’ where’ve you come from, that’s what I’d like to know? In’t no house for miles.’
Billy was still eyeing the knife, ‘We…like walking.’
‘Ar! I dare say, but…’
Billy cut in, ‘Is this really your land? You’re the sort of lord?’
‘Lord? No, boy. But as fer this land bein’ mine…well, in a manner o’ speakin’ ‘tis; tha’ss common land, see, an’ they don’t come much commoner than me. Rabbits on common land is anybody’s’
‘But you can’t eat them, can you? My mum says they’ve got mixed Moses.’
‘Luke and John an’all, I shouldn’t wonder, but not here they hen’t. These is clean – immune. Tha’ss the salt in the marshes, I reckon. Anyrood, they’re good to eat. Where’re you headed? That’ll be dark soon, an’ you’ll be proper lost. Prob’ly fall into a dyke an’ drown, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He started to chuckle to himself, ‘Tha’ss happened to some very good people round here, that hev. Y’know, I hen’t never seen you round these parts afore, neither.’ He scratched his head, ‘I reckon you in’t local.’
He was watching Billy’s face and saw how his expression changed.
‘Why, blas’ my heart alive – you’re run away!’
Billy stuttered, ‘No…I haven’t…really…I’m just out for a walk with my dog…’
Sam cut in quickly, ‘Wa’ss ‘is nearm?’
Billy was at a loss, ‘His…name…? He’s…Dog. That’s his name, Dog.’
‘What kind o’ nearm is that?’
‘Well, he comes when you call.’ He shouted, ‘Here, Dog!’
The dog ran up to him and he stroked it.
‘Tha’ss the biggest loada squit I’re ever heard. He’d come if you called ‘Cat’. Here, Cat!’
The dog left Billy and went to Sam. He bent down to pet the animal.
‘No, I reckon I was right the fust time; you’re both a coupla strays. I should think the local bobby’d be glad to see you.’
Billy was desperate, ‘No, please, Sir! Not the police! Please?’
‘Well…orl right, but don’t you go callin’ me ‘Sir’; no one’s ever done that afore. Wait a mo. You hen’t done nothin’ wrong, hev you?’
‘Oh, no, but every time I run away they catch me before I can find out what it’s like, living out in the open, like Huckleberry Finn.’
‘Oh, old Huck, is it? I mighta guessed. So you want to live in the open, do you? Well, I’m a runaway too, so I can tell you that in’t all peaches ‘n’ cream; you can get blurry cold an wet sometimes, but I can unnerstan’ how you feel.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Never you mind about that.’
‘Sir…Mister…can you put the knife away, please?’
‘Ah! Scare you, do it? So that should, boy, so that should.’ Sam pushed the knife into a sheath concealed under his mac. ‘You don’t need to worry though. Tha’ss jus’ my rabbit knife. What were you a’gornta say?’
‘Could…could I…we…stay with you…just for a day or two?’
Sam stopped him dead, ‘No! That you blurry well can’t, boy! I…’ His voice faded away as a thought struck him. ‘Why d’you run away?’
Billy had no idea why himself; had never thought about it, but had to come up with something, ‘They beat me…day and night…Chinese water torture, and…’
‘Oh, ar. Dreadful. You look right bad on it.’ He reflected for several moments, then continued, ‘Well, I dunno…mebbe jus’ fer a day or two, mind – no longer. That’d be a change to hev some company, but I don’t want no trouble with the law.’
‘Oh, thank y…’
‘Wa’ss your nearm?’
‘Billy.’
‘Mine’s Sam.’
‘I’m sorry about your rabbit, Sam.’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘He worn’t the only fish in the sea.’ He bent, put his hand into a clump of grass and brought out two pheasants and a rabbit, but the bending brought on a bout of heavy coughing, which went on for over a minute. Billy was worried that the old man looked so ill and was closing his eyes and wheezing between coughs. Slowly the coughing eased, and Sam pulled himself upright again. ‘Come on. Le’ss make tracks.’
‘Tracks?’
‘Head for home. When you walk somewhere you leave a track behind you, see. Sometimes, if’n you don’t want no one to follow you, you hev to scrub it out.’
‘Oh, yes, I know. I’ve seen the Indians do it. Come on, Dog. Dig your paws in.’ He started whistling ‘Clementine’, from a western film he’d seen a couple of days before.
Sam asked, ‘D’you know what tha’ss called?’
‘Celemine…Calomine…something about a miner.’
‘Tha’ss a good ol’ tune. D’you know the words?
‘I think so.’
‘Come on, then, we’ll sing it together now I’re got my breath back.’ He began to sing the words very clearly in a melodious voice which surprised Billy. After a couple of lines he joined in – ‘…lived a miner, a forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine…’ He felt carefree and had forgotten about his mother and father.
Although Billy was unaware of it at that moment he and Sam were nearing the old man’s hideaway.
Billy shouted, ‘It�
�s great out here.’
‘Ar, boy. That it is. D’you know, I’d rather be here without a penny in my pocket than the richest man in the world on his yacht. All the time he’s worried about who’s going to take it off him. No one can take this away from me – or you, if you treat it right. Tha’ss what bein’ free is all about.’ He coughed badly a couple of times and wiped his mouth on an old piece of rag from his pocket. Billy was sure he saw a trace of blood, but thought it was probably from the rabbit.
A skein of geese honked high above them and Sam said, ‘Look up there, Billy.’
‘Cor! They’re big ducks, aren’t they?’
‘Not ducks, Billy; geese. They’re pinkfeet, looking fer a resting place. Dunno why, but there’s a lot more of them t’year than I ever seen afore. Canadas an’ greylags an’ Brent geese an’all.’
‘I saw a programme on the tele, where they said it was because of the Conservatives.’
Sam laughed, ‘Or somethin’ like that.’
‘Would they hurt us if they came down here?’
‘Bless you, no, lad. They’re more scared o’ us than we are of them. Gentle creatures they are. Mate for life. They’ve probably just flown in from Iceland. Tha’ss where they breed, you know. Look how tired they look.’
‘That’s a funny sky up there. What kind of cloud is that?’
‘Tha’ss cirrocumulus, Billy – what country folk call a ‘mackerel’ or ‘herringbone’ sky. Tha’ss little tiny crystals of ice, mainly, an’ that mean we’re in for some rain in about eight to twelve hours or maybe a little longer. Sailors an’ locals hev all sorts o’ sayin’s about them clouds: “Herringbone sky won’t keep the earth dry”, “Mackerel sky an’ mare’s tails make ships carry short sails”, “Mackerel sky, mackerel sky – never long wet, never long dry”, “Mare’s tails – storms an’ gales; mackerel sky, not twenty-four hours dry”. There’s dozens of ‘em. You must know some o’ them old tales, dun’t you? “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning”?’
