The Bolds on Vacation

by David Roberts

  “You’re so cool. Can we take a selfie with you?”

  “Can you teach me some of your amazing moves?”

  But eventually they made it to the far end of the beach where the rocks were. Sadly there was no sign of Stinky anywhere. And the tide had been in since the night before, so even his scent had now disappeared. Tony gave a sigh and sat down to rest.

  “Poor Tony. He no happy today,” squeaked Miranda, sitting down next to him. “Me sad too.”

  Just then there was a whirring, wheezing sound above them, and in a shower of feathers, Pam the puffing puffin landed on the rocks beside them.

  “Dydh da!” she said in Cornish. “Good morning, folks!” She then had to stop to get her breath back.

  “No. It’s not a good morning, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Tony. “Stinky has gone missing and everyone is frantic with worry.”

  Pam looked concerned. “Oh no,” she puffed. “That is awful news.”

  “Mrs. Bold, she howl all night long,” Miranda informed the puffin.

  “We’ve all split up into groups to search different places and ask if anyone has seen him,” Tony explained. “But so far—nothing!” He lowered his eyes and gazed at a rock pool, as if hoping he might find the answer there.

  Pam hopped onto Tony’s knee. “Listen,” she said. “I have an idea. I can’t fly very far because my lungs are no good. But let me go and speak to my puffin friends—ask around. And the sea gulls! We’ll do an aerial search. Between us, we can cover all of Cornwall in no time!”

  Tony looked at Pam, hope showing in his old eyes at last. “Why, thank you, Pam. That will be a brilliant help!”

  “Findy Stinky! Findy Stinky!” said Miranda, jumping up and down with excitement.

  “We’ll do all we can, I promise,” said Pam. “Now I’ll just take a few deep breaths before I fly off.” She opened her beak wide and inhaled as deeply as her damaged lungs would allow, spread her wings, and then up in the air she flew. “Don’t worry. I’ll report back as soon as there is any news. Good-bye!”

  And off she fluttered.

  Chapter 13

  Meanwhile Mr. Bold and Mr. McNumpty had arrived at the gates of the St Ives Animal Shelter. It was a large brick building on the outskirts of town. The pair followed the signs to the reception area and went inside to ask if any lost dogs had been handed in overnight.

  You remember how I told you that the Bolds were people that unusual things happened to? Well, this was going to be one of those days. If I lost my dog and went to the animal shelter, they would either say, “Yes, here he is!” or, “Sorry, no, we don’t have any dogs of that description,” and that would be that. But for Mr. Bold and Mr. McNumpty—nothing was that simple. Perhaps it’s best if I just tell you what happened. Stand by.

  The receptionist on duty that day was called Morenwyn, and she was just finishing off a muesli bar for her breakfast when Fred Bold and Nigel McNumpty walked in.

  “Good morning,” said Morenwyn, wiping her hands on a tissue. “You’re here bright and early. How can I help you two gentlemen?”

  “Ah, good morning, miss,” said Mr. McNumpty with a smile. “We’ve lost our dear dog, Stinky, and wondered if he might have been brought here?”

  “Do you have a photo of him?” asked the receptionist, turning to her computer screen and tapping noisily on the keys.

  “Er, no, we don’t, I’m afraid,” shrugged Mr. McNumpty. “He hasn’t been a dog for long. I mean, we haven’t had him for long.”

  Morenwyn glanced at Mr. McNumpty. “I see,” she said with a sigh. “What does he look like?”

  “I can answer that,” Mr. Bold jumped in. “He looks rather like me! Only smaller and, ahem, more dog-like.”

  “Yes, they often say dogs look like their owners, don’t they?” said a flustered Mr. McNumpty.

  “But you only recently got him, you said?” frowned Morenwyn.

  “Y-yes,” stuttered Mr. Bold. “But that’s why I chose him. The spitting image of me as a pup, I mean boy. Uncanny . . .”

  “Was he microchipped?”

  “Ah . . . no. Well, yes. But it fell out.”

  “A microchip can’t fall out!” scoffed Morenwyn.

  “Found it in his pajamas one morning,” said Mr. McNumpty vaguely.

  “A dog in pajamas?!”

  “He feels the cold terribly,” improvised Mr. McNumpty.

  Morenwyn looked incredulous, took off her glasses, and peered at the two friends.

  “Now look,” she began. “If you’ve just come here to be funny—”

  “Oh no, here we go,” muttered Mr. McNumpty.

  Morenwyn wasn’t impressed. She put her glasses back on and consulted her computer screen.

  “So. You’ve lost a dog. He wasn’t microchipped and you have no photo. All I can suggest is that you have a look around the kennels and see if you can find him. Through that door over there.” She sniffed and gestured to some swing doors at the far end of the reception.

  “Thank you. Most kind,” said Mr. McNumpty. He looked sharply at Fred. “This way.”

  Now the animal shelter at St Ives is perfectly fine. But dogs who are homeless or lost are not at their happiest. We all (dogs included) like a nice home to live in and kind people to look after us. That is what every resident of every animal shelter dreams about, after all. Now, you know that Mr. Bold is a hyena and Mr. McNumpty is a grizzly bear? And you know that animals everywhere recognize each other as animals and are pleased to see each other? And of course you know that the Bolds are famous in the animal world . . . So, for an actual member of the Bold family to turn up at their place of residence was like a pop star turning up at your school assembly. The dogs sensed their presence even before the swing doors opened to reveal the two celebrity visitors.

  With their superior animal hearing, Mr. McNumpty and Mr. Bold heard the excited low-pitched whining. But nothing prepared them for the greeting they got once they entered the kennel area. I can only describe it as a euphoric happy, yappy hero’s welcome. The dogs leaped up at the wire cages, tails whirring with delight, not barking so much as shouting—chanting even—“Bold! Bold! Bold!”

  In animal language they shouted their thanks to Mr. Bold for all he’d done, rescuing animals and giving them new lives. They called him their champion, their idol, their savior!This unprecedented noise didn’t go unnoticed, of course. The kennel workers, including Morenwyn, came rushing at once, wondering what on earth was going on.

  Mr. Bold and Mr. McNumpty knew they didn’t have much time. They thanked the dogs for their kindness and adoration, but begged them to stay calm.

  “Is my son Bobby here?” asked Mr. Bold. “Please tell me if you’ve seen him?”

  But Bobby wasn’t among the excited inmates of the St Ives Animal Shelter so Mr. Bold and Mr. McNumpty left quickly, before they caused even more of a rumpus.

  Chapter 14

  Uncle Tony, Miranda, Mr. Bold, and Mr. McNumpty weren’t having any luck in finding Stinky, so that just left Mrs. Bold, Betty, and Minnie—whose job, you remember, was to put up “Missing Dog” posters on lampposts and trees and in any shops that would be willing to display them.

  As they didn’t have any photos of Bobby as Stinky, Minnie had drawn a picture of him and then written some information about him too.

  “It’s marvelous!” declared Mrs. Bold, her lip quivering at the resemblance to her missing boy. “Just like him!”

  The poster read:

  “If anyone finds him I’ll make the best hat ever!” declared Mrs. Bold.

  Next they went to the printing shop in St Ives High Street and had a hundred leaflets and posters made.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Bold. “Let’s get organized. Betty and Minnie, you stand outside the shops and hand out leaflets to passersby while I go inside and charm the shopkeepers.”

  “What do we say?” asked Betty.

  “You say, ‘Excuse me, have you seen our little dog?’ and give them a leaflet. Then ask if they could show
their friends or maybe put the poster up in the street where they live.”

  “Right-o!” said Betty.

  “Be polite, remember!” Mrs. Bold added, then disappeared into the first shop—a pharmacy.

  The man in the white coat behind the counter listened to Mrs. Bold’s tale of the lost dog and agreed that the poster could be put in his window.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I hope you find young Stinky very soon. Er, while you’re here, though . . . I can’t help notice you have a rather hairy face. I’ve got some hair removal cream that could get rid of that for you, if you like? Just a thought.”

  Mrs. Bold stroked her face. “Oh, very kind of you. But I like my hairy face. Keeps me warm in the winter. Good-bye. And thank you,” and she hurried out of the shop. “The nerve!” she laughed to Minnie and Betty when she joined them on the street and told them about the pharmacist’s offer. “Let’s move along.”

  The next shop was a grocery store, and they agreed at once to display a Stinky poster—in fact, almost all the shop owners were only too happy to oblige, and the shoppers of St Ives whom Minnie and Betty gave leaflets to were very concerned too, taking posters home with promises to put them up in their front windows.

  “Almost done!” said Mrs. Bold when they reached the top of the high street. “It’s disappointing that no one’s seen him, but if Stinky is anywhere around here I think we’re bound to find him. Well done, girls!”

  The last shop Mrs. Bold entered was called Tiddles Tea Shop, where tired shoppers were enjoying Cornish cream teas, served to them by a smiling lady with large green eyes.

  “Ah, good afternoon!” she purred. “Welcome to Tiddles. My name is Bertha.”

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Bold. “I wonder if you—”

  But the lady interrupted her. “Yes, of course. I’ve been expecting you. Have a table here at the back where it is nice and quiet, then we can have a private chat.” Bertha winked knowingly.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Bold, following the instructions and settling herself in a chair at a round table with a frilly white tablecloth over it. The table was already laid with a pot of steaming tea and freshly cut sandwiches, and a two-tiered display of cakes and pastries. “Thank you,” she said.

  Bertha glided around to the other side of the table and sat down too. “Dear Amelia,” she said. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll be quick. You’re looking for your missing son?”

  “Er, yes. No. Yes. Stinky, our dog, but . . . how do you know?”

  Bertha glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening. “Look into my eyes, Amelia. Look deep, deep into my eyes. Tell me what you see.”

  Amelia had guessed already. “You’re one of us!” she whispered excitedly. “An animal living in disguise!”

  Bertha’s smile got even wider. “Correct. Have a sandwich.”

  Mrs. Bold was rather hungry, so while Bertha poured the tea she gulped down several ham sandwiches.

  “Milk in your tea? Or cream?”

  “Just a little milk, please, Bertha.” Amelia had guessed that Bertha was a cat of some sort.

  “I’m a cougar, my precious. Caught illegally in South America, I was kept as a pet when I was a kitten by a very rich and ruthless gangster—let’s call him Mr. X—in, ironically, Mousehole in Cornwall. When I grew up I was used to, shall we say, frighten his enemies . . . I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Amelia nodded. “Humans don’t like it when cats spit and growl.”

  Bertha rolled her big green eyes. “No, they don’t. Not too keen on having my teeth sunk into their necks either.”

  “So you were a bit like a guard dog?” asked Amelia.

  “You could say that. But I’d rather you didn’t.” Bertha’s eyes narrowed. “Anyway, the police eventually caught up with Mr. X, and he was locked away in prison for an awfully long time. He decided to set me free, which was rather a shock, I can tell you. After a few months out on Bodmin Moor, I decided to get myself a more comfortable life, here in delightful St Ives. You Bolds were my inspiration. Hyenas in Teddington! Then why not a cougar in St Ives? I’ve been running Tiddles Tea Shop for two years now. Bliss! Friendly customers and all the cream I can drink.”

  “But how could you afford to—”

  “Jewelry. Let’s just say the emerald collar my owner dressed me in was not imitation . . . And of course I know where the rest of the stolen goods and cash are buried, should I ever need a top up. Mr. X always took me with him for protection . . .”

  “Gosh,” said Amelia, glancing out the window to make sure that Betty and Miranda were OK. “But how did you know about our Bobby?”

  “Pam the puffin is one of my regulars. At least, she hangs out in the back by the trash cans and I give her stale buns to eat. She flew in this morning in quite a tizzy and told me what had happened.”

  “So she told you about Bobby?”

  “Yes. And I was hoping you’d come in here today, because I have some information that might help,” said Bertha.

  Just then a rather bad-tempered customer from the next table called out, “Excuse me! Could we have some service here, please?”

  Bertha glared over at the lady. “Just a miaow-ment, please, madam!” Something in Bertha’s stare made the woman shrink back.

  “So what do you know about Bobby?” asked Amelia, desperate for any news.

  “Well, I’d better be quick. I don’t know anything specifically about Bobby. But I do know that he isn’t the only dog to go missing from St Ives these last few weeks.”

  “Really?” gasped Amelia. “So there are others too!”

  “Seems so. I hear all the gossip in here. I’ve heard three or four customers saying that their dogs have disappeared without a trace. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. There one minute. Gone the next.”

  “How strange! Who would want to steal pet dogs?”

  “There’s only one person I can think of around here.”

  “Who?”

  “A very nasty and eccentric woman who lives alone on a boat at sea. She was an old friend of Mr. X’s. Not nice. She’s known to be rather keen on dogs. Used to breed pedigrees once, I heard, before she was jailed for animal cruelty.”

  “No!” gasped Mrs. Bold. “You think she might have Bobby?”

  “I heard she was released from jail recently, so it’s possible. But it’s only a hunch and I’m afraid that’s all the information I have. But maybe it will help you in some way.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you! I appreciate it. What’s this woman’s name?”

  “She’s known as Dog-Mad Debby.”

  Chapter 15

  So, do you think Bertha was right? Could Bobby have really been taken by an evil dog-napper? Well, I’m sorry to tell you but the answer is yes.

  And at that very moment, Bobby was hungry and shivering down in the hold of a boat with several other poor, unhappy dogs. He’d just spent the loneliest, scariest night of his life there, and he was sure things were going to get a whole lot worse.

  Suddenly the hatch above his head opened, and Debby shouted down for all the dogs to get up on deck. “Now! Quick march, or you’ll get a good kicking!”

  She was a stout woman with beady eyes and a hairy chin. Over her big, grubby coat she was wearing a stained plastic poncho, and her matted hair was covered with a frayed headscarf tied tightly under her chin. She paced up and down in front of her captives like a sergeant major inspecting the new recruits. Tucked under her arm was a whip.

  Bobby watched the woman warily. When he’d been playing on the rocks yesterday she had smiled at him, stroked him, and given him a very tasty biscuit before starting a game of “fetch” with a tennis ball. He’d realized later that she had simply been luring him closer and closer to her boat, because before he knew what had happened, she’d thrown a blanket over him and bundled him onboard.

  There had been no more smiles or biscuits after that—he’d been quickly sailed out to sea and locked in the hold with an assortment of other dogs, all
with similar tales to tell. He was frightened, hungry, and very homesick.

  The smallest of the dog-napped dogs aboard with him was a quivering, hairless little dog called Walter who had been stolen from his owner’s handbag while she sunbathed on the beach.

  “I always wear a woollen coat, because I’m a Chinese crested dog, and I feel the cold terribly,” he’d told Bobby. “She—Debby—ripped my coat off me to blow her nose on. Now I can’t stop shivering,” he said.

  The other dogs did their best to keep little Walter warm, but it was damp and drafty in the hold of the boat. And now all six of them were tied up in a line on the rolling deck, and poor Walter was feeling seasick as well as freezing.

  “Now then, my lovelies,” said Debby. “Let’s have a look at you. You all seem a bit sad. Cheer up! No one is going to want to buy a miserable-looking hound, are they? Look happy, please, and then you’ll get a posh new home. Look fed-up and I’ll be forced to throw you overboard. Understand? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” She stopped suddenly in front of Walter. “You!” she shouted accusingly. “What on earth am I supposed to do with you? What was I thinking, stealing an ugly mutt like you? No one will want a half-dead bald dog, will they? I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s apron.”

  Poor Walter whimpered with cold and fright.

  “SHUT UUUP!” screeched Debby. “I think in the morning I’ll chop you up with some tomatoes and make you into a nice spaghetti bolognaise.”

  She moved along the line and stopped in front of Bobby. “Hmmm. Show me your teeth,” she demanded. Bobby obliged. “Very healthy, I suppose. I can see potential in you,” she said, appraising him. “Once I’ve added a few Debby touches!”

  Bobby dreaded to think what Debby was going to do to him. Whatever plans she had, he doubted they would be very pleasant. She was the nastiest, unkindest, meanest human he’d ever come across, and he’d met some pretty horrible people in previous adventures.