Grabbing the edge of the desk with both hands, she bobbed down so that her eyes were level with the books. ‘Three Cursed Pharaohs by Tobias Appleby!’ The tingle ran down her back. ‘Lightning Strikes Twice by Tobias Appleby. A Mousetrap in Moscow by Tobias Appleby. Rome’s Reward by Tobias Appleby.’
She stood up and gasped. ‘Why, Tobias Appleby is a writer!’
Lifting the telephone, she grabbed the book at the top of the pile, Three Cursed Pharaohs. She flicked through the pages, reading a sentence here, a paragraph there. A smile stretched across her face and her eyes twinkled. It was better than she had imagined! Clutching the book to her chest, she felt a deep satisfaction in knowing that she had at least solved one part of the puzzle.
‘Why, Tobias Appleby is a writer,’ she whispered. ‘And his specialty is crime!’
CHAPTER 7
Bickies and licks
‘Morning, old chap!’ Tobias sang out from where he was standing at the stove. ‘I’m afraid Finnegan has started without us. Burnt toast and jam is his thing. And there’s always plenty of that around. Especially the burnt toast.’
Finnegan sat on a chair at the head of the table, his nose deep in a jar of jam, slurping and guzzling. The tablecloth in front of him was scattered with crumbs.
Freja crept through the kitchen door, wondering just how long she had been lost in the opening chapters of Three Cursed Pharaohs. She sat down beside the hound. Tobias passed her a plate with a soft-boiled egg and piece of hot, buttered toast cut into four little soldiers. Just the way she liked it.
‘Thank you!’ she whispered. She dunked her first soldier into the egg yolk, nibbled the toast down to her fingers and popped the stump back on her plate.
‘Pleasure!’ cried Tobias. Sitting himself down at the opposite side of the table, he gobbled toast while staring at the ceiling. Between slices, he poured a cup of tea, stirred in copious quantities of milk and sugar, sipped it, spilt it and muttered to himself. Halfway through chewing his third slice of toast, Tobias dropped it and banged his hands down on the table. ‘That’s it!’ he shouted. ‘The ravine! Carl Benziger is hiding, lurking, snivelling in the ravine!’ He leapt out of his chair and darted from the room. A moment later, the typewriter could be heard clackety-clacking in the living room.
‘The ravine?’ asked Freja. ‘What ravine?’
Finnegan grinned and dribbled jam onto the tablecloth. He leaned forward, stole Tobias’ deserted egg from his plate and gulped it down, shell and all. He sneezed at the pepper, coughed up a piece of shell, then started in on Tobias’ sweet, milky tea.
Breakfast over, Freja crept back into the living room and stood, half-hidden, beside one of the wingback chairs. Tobias sat at his desk, typing. Fingers tapping, elbows flapping. Lost in a whirl of words.
And then he stopped. His hands hovered over the typewriter for a moment, then dropped to his lap. He sighed, stared at the pineapple-shaped teapot and pushed himself back from the desk. His chair rattled and rolled on its worn wheels until it hit the bookcase and fell over sideways, with Tobias still in it! Three books fell from their shelf onto his head. Sweeping them aside, he leapt to his feet, crying, ‘Aha!’ He set the chair right, wheeled it back to the desk, sat down and resumed typing.
Freja stuck her head around the side of the wingback chair and said, ‘I might have a little look around now.’
Tobias didn’t reply.
‘If that’s okay,’ she added.
Tobias typed on, oblivious to her presence. A different child might have been upset, felt neglected or lonesome. But Freja, who loved to be left alone, was delighted. She tiptoed away, feeling like things were growing more and more bearable with every passing hour, and spent a quiet morning exploring her new home. Finnegan shadowed her wherever she went, blinking, dribbling and licking random objects.
First, Freja made a lap of the garden, poking at woodpiles, climbing a winter-bare apple tree, cracking the ice on the birdbath with a stick and rubbing her face against the warm, musty neck of the chestnut horse. Back inside, she found very little beyond what she had already seen. The first door she opened revealed Tobias’ bedroom, a dark chamber that smelt like soap and old books. The second door led to a pale green bathroom. The third led back to the kitchen, where she discovered a comfortingly large supply of baked beans, jam and biscuits — both cream centred and chocolate coated.
Finnegan sat down in front of her and placed his paw on her arm.
‘What is it?’ asked Freja, tilting her head to one side.
Finnegan tilted his head the same way and dribbled on the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Freja. ‘I don’t understand.’
But she soon did. Finnegan trotted to the open cupboard door. ‘Boof!’ he exclaimed and poked a large jar of cherry jam with his nose.
‘Jam?’ asked Freja. ‘But you have just gobbled a whole jar for breakfast!’
‘Woof! Boof!’ Finnegan sat by the cupboard. He grinned and swept his shaggy tail back and forth across the floorboards.
‘I think,’ said Freja, ‘that one jar of jam a day might be all a dog needs. Even a super-sized Irish wolfhound.’ She pushed the door shut with her foot.
Finnegan’s ears drooped and he whimpered.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Freja. ‘But even puppies must show some restraint.’
Finnegan blinked slowly, three times, then threw back his head and howled. ‘Oooooow!’
‘Shoosh!’ hissed Freja, looking over her shoulder towards the door. ‘What will Tobias think?’
‘Oooooow!’ howled Finnegan, eyes closed, nose to the ceiling, mouth tightened to a little ‘o’. It was a pitiful sight, a harrowing sound.
‘Shh-shh-shh,’ whispered Freja, wrapping her arms around his hairy grey neck. ‘There, there!’
But Finnegan howled on and on and on.
Freja was now quite frantic. What if Tobias thought she had done something cruel to his beloved puppy? Scolded or kicked? What would he think of her? What would he do?
‘Ooooooow!’ Finnegan mourned as though his heart was about to break in two.
‘Bickies!’ cried Freja. ‘How about some bickies?’
The howling stopped. Finnegan’s chin dropped. His eyes sprang open. He licked his nose and grinned.
Freja opened a packet of Jam Whirlies and held them out. ‘Just one,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure if you’re allowed to —’
Finnegan knocked the biscuits from her hand, scoffed them all down and finished by licking the crumbs off the floorboards. ‘Boof!’ he said and swiped his tongue back and forth across Freja’s face.
‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered.
Satisfied, the dog trotted off, tail in the air, along the corridor and into the living room. He flopped in front of the fire and spent the rest of the morning licking the hearth stones and snoozing with his nose tucked into one of Tobias’ slippers.
There was no use crying over spilt milk — or gobbled bickies — so Freja followed Finnegan to the fireside. Lying down with her head resting on the dog’s shaggy grey back, she continued to read Tobias’ crime novel. Three Cursed Pharaohs, written for adults, was totally unsuitable for a child, but Freja loved it. While most of the animals Freja encountered were gentle and shy, she had also seen her share of hunting, fighting, violence and death in the animal kingdom. Reading Tobias’ novel, therefore, was not so very different from a season spent in the Arctic observing wildlife behaviour. Besides, she found it all so terribly informative, especially the kidnapping scene.
All the while, Tobias tapped away at his typewriter, stared into space or paced the floorboards, mumbling to himself and scratching his head with a pencil. He remained completely absorbed in his writing, oblivious to the small girl who had crept into his living room and his life.
CHAPTER 8
Marmalade and tears
At three o’clock, Tobias headed out for a walk. Finnegan leapt up from the hearth and followed, barking and tugging at the saggy seat of his master�
��s trousers.
‘But of course, Finnegan!’ cried Tobias. ‘Freja simply must come along too. That goes without saying.’
Freja grabbed her coat and scarf and slipped out the door after them. Tobias strode through the garden gate and into the meadow. He swooshed through the long, damp grass in his gumboots, heading towards the stone bridge that crossed the river. He didn’t say a word and Freja had to run to keep up, but she did not mind. She preferred silence to the awkward questions or stern judgements that so often came her way. Besides, her face was tingling deliciously with the chilly fresh air and there was so much beauty to take in — the winter branches grabbing at the clouds as they whispered across the sky, the lush grass rippling in the breeze, the glossy banks of bracken with the strange leaves that looked like lace and teeth and serrated knife-blades all at the same time. She would remember it all, every detail, to share with Clementine when she sat down to write to her this evening.
Halfway across the stone bridge, Tobias stopped. ‘I say, old chap, how about a game of Pooh Sticks?’
‘I love Pooh Sticks!’ cried Freja. ‘Clementine and I play it all the time. It’s her favourite game.’
‘I know,’ said Tobias.
‘How do you know?’ asked Freja. But Tobias had already crossed the bridge and was fossicking around the bank for what he thought was the fastest stick on earth.
When they had both found their ideal stick, they returned to the bridge. Hanging over the side that faced upstream, Freja sang, ‘Ready, steady, go!’ They dropped their sticks into the water, ran to the other side of the bridge and waited.
‘There!’ cried Freja as her stick floated into sight. ‘I won! I won! My stick is the champion!’ Just then, the stick caught in a tiny whirlpool and spun around and around in the same spot as though doing a victory twirl. Freja giggled.
They waited and waited, but Tobias’ stick did not appear. ‘Well, that’s a jolly nuisance,’ he said, tugging at his ear. ‘It would seem the stick I chose is as bad at floating as me. I swim like a stone.’
Freja said, ‘I swim like a fish. I’ve swum with seals and walruses. Seals are funny and friendly, but walruses are enormous — much bigger than you’d expect — and rather frightening. I can snorkel too.’
‘You’re jolly smart, you know,’ said Tobias. He looked at her with such kindness and admiration that Freja felt tears well up in her eyes.
‘Come along, old chap!’ he said. ‘Can’t stand here all day waiting for my useless stick. Finnegan has just run into the forest after a rabbit and we won’t find him before dark if we don’t go now.’
Tobias strode off once more, muttering to himself. Freja ran after him and plucked up the courage to ask some burning questions about his crime novel she’d been reading, like, ‘Do people always bleed a lot when their finger is chopped off?’ and ‘What’s the quickest way to escape from the boot of a car?’ Tobias did his best to answer in a clear and concise manner. By the time they had found Finnegan and returned to the cottage, Freja felt as though she had spent a surprisingly enjoyable and educational day.
That evening, however, things went south. They had just sat down to a simple supper of tea and toast when Freja began to weep.
Finnegan trotted to her side. He tried to cheer her up by licking her hand, her cheek and, finally, her earhole, but Freja couldn’t stop the tears. She wept on and on, her face crumpled, her nose dripping.
She was, of course, homesick. Not for any particular place, for she had been moved about with more regularity than a morning-tea trolley in the corridors of a large office block between the hours of ten and eleven o’clock, and had no real place that went by the name of ‘home’. Rather, she was homesick for Clementine, her darling mother. She was sad and soggy to the depths of her soul.
Freja did not, however, wish to admit such a thing. She had promised Clementine she would be brave, and a promise made was one that must be kept. Besides, Tobias had turned out to be a marvellous fellow — a font of fascinating and gruesome facts, and ever so kind. She did not want to seem ungrateful or in need of more attention. There was, therefore, only one thing to do. She would have to lie.
Tobias reached awkwardly across the table and patted her hand. ‘What on earth is the matter, old chap?’
Freja poked at her toast and wailed, ‘I don’t like marmalade!’ The words were false, but the tears were genuine and abundant.
‘Oh my,’ sighed Tobias, relieved that the problem was one so easily fixed. He gave both pieces of toast to a confused but appreciative Finnegan. Spreading two more slices with butter and a thick layer of blackberry jam, he passed them to Freja with an encouraging nod.
By now, the worst wave of homesickness had swept on by and Freja was able to force a smile onto her face. By the time she had downed her toast, two glasses of milk and three chocolate biscuits, she was feeling quite robust once again.
Tobias relaxed and congratulated himself out loud. ‘Disaster averted!’ He put the kettle on to boil and took the teapot down from the shelf. ‘We’ll rub along just fine. This child-minding caper is not so difficult after all. Why, it’s every bit as easy as making a cup of tea!’
And with that, he tripped on Finnegan’s tail and dropped the pineapple-shaped teapot onto the floor, where it broke into a dozen pieces.
CHAPTER 9
Conversation and clouds
Three days later, Freja was reading, Tobias writing, when the clock struck two and fell off the wall. Tobias jumped with fright and toppled a cup of tea.
‘Whoopsy-daisy!’ Tobias leapt to his feet and used a nearby cushion to mop up the tea. Then he squashed the cushion into the large bottom drawer of his desk and rehung the clock. Glancing over his shoulder, he announced, ‘I see what you’re doing there, Finnegan!’
The dog stopped chewing on the hem of the green velvet curtains. He blinked slowly up at his master. Freja peeped over the pages of the latest crime novel she was reading, Lightning Strikes Twice.
Tobias planted his hands on his hips, his elbows popping through the frayed holes in his cardigan sleeves. ‘We’ve talked about this before, young pup. The gumboot is for chewing, but not the velvet curtains . . . or any other curtains for that matter!’
Finnegan continued to blink at his master. He flicked his tongue across his big, wet nose and yawned.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Tobias. ‘You are a very charming puppy, cute and just the right amount of silly. But I know that you know exactly what I’m saying!’
Finnegan dropped his shaggy grey head to the floor and whined.
‘Gumboot!’ commanded Tobias. He stamped his foot and shook his head, his hair flopping forward into his eyes.
Finnegan covered his face with his front paws and whimpered.
Freja’s eyes grew wide.
‘Gumboot!’ Tobias repeated. He stomped across the room and grabbed an old black gumboot from the corner. Lifting it to his face, he eyeballed Finnegan, then began to chew on the rubber toe!
Freja dropped her book and giggled softly.
‘Yum-yum-yum!’ Tobias chomped and rolled his eyes as though the gumboot was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
Finnegan peered out from beneath his paws and whined.
‘Yummy-yummy-yummo-yummikins!’ sang Tobias, gnawing and tugging at the boot with even more enthusiasm.
Freja giggled a little louder.
Finnegan lifted his head, tilted it to one side and yawned again. Then, blinking defiantly at Tobias, he turned back to the curtains and resumed chewing on the frayed and soggy hem.
Freja fell back onto her nest of cushions and laughed until tears rolled down her face.
Tobias spun around. He took the gumboot from his mouth and dropped it on the floor. His eyes twinkled and wrinkled at the sides. ‘I say, old chap! What a splendid cackle you have there. Like a happy hen splashing in a babbling brook. Simply marvellous.’
Freja blushed with delight. She sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes.
‘Now what were we about to do?’ Tobias scanned the room, stopping only momentarily to frown at Finnegan. He stared at his typewriter and tugged at his ears.
‘Were we going to take a walk?’ ventured Freja.
‘Yes!’ shouted Tobias, throwing his arms wide. ‘Absolutely. Wind and clouds on the move! Don’t want to miss the action. Pop your hands in your scarf. Wrap your neck in your mittens. It’ll be brisk outside and we’ll be sitting still for a long time.’
‘I thought we were going to walk,’ said Freja.
‘Walk. Sit. Dream. Come along, old chap. Less talk, more action!’
Freja smiled. If only all instructions were as simple!
They walked, galloped, tucked bits of grass in their hair, tossed stones in the river and discussed the latest research Tobias had been doing on frostbite. Freja wondered how many toes you could lose before you were forced to walk with a permanent limp. Tobias told a very exciting story about a chap who was lost on a glacier, in a blizzard, and saved his thumbs from frostbite by sucking on them to keep them warm until he was rescued. They both wondered about polar bears and how they managed to keep their paws and claws and cute knobbly tails intact when they spent all their lives in ice and snow.
‘Fat and fur, I think,’ said Freja.
‘And maybe they have central heating in their dens,’ added Tobias. ‘Or a cosy log fire.’
‘Electric blankets,’ suggested Freja.
‘Thick, woolly bedsocks.’
‘Hot-water bottles with fluffy covers shaped like seals.’
‘And steaming mugs of cocoa to wrap their paws around and sip upon while listening to the BBC news on the radio each night,’ added Tobias.
Freja’s breath caught.
Was she scared? Was she sad?
No. It was something quite different.
Joy.
Excitement.
Pride.
For she had realised that she was, in fact, having a conversation. A relaxed and happy conversation with someone other than Clementine.
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 4
