A Dog Called Jack

by Ivy Pembroke

  —Pen

  For a while Max had been contemplating what to do with the bookcase he’d acquired from Sam. Multimedia was not usually Max’s type of art, and while the bookcase was lovely, it wasn’t exactly a unique piece of craftsmanship. It was just a striking piece of wood, but it had not been ornamented in any way, and it could do with a bit of personality. But Max was undecided about the personality that it should acquire. Every day he went out to the shed and regarded the bookcase, but every day the bookcase refused to speak to him. Sometimes Jack came and sat with him, and Max would say things like, “Do you know anything about the Japanese technique of Shou-Sugi-Ban?” and Jack would consider very intently.

  Then Max read the note Pen slipped through his front door—everyone’s front door, Max assumed—about Bonfire Night and taking care of Jack, and that day he walked out to the shed and the bookcase said exactly what it needed to be.

  But the idea should involve the entire street, Max thought, and it should start, really, in fairness, with Mr. Hammersley down the road.

  Which was how Max found himself knocking on Mr. Hammersley’s door.

  He didn’t think Mr. Hammersley was going to open it, but he did, eventually, frowning. “What?” he demanded.

  “Hi,” said Max. “I’m Max. From down the street.”

  Mr. Hammersley looked very unimpressed by this. “What do you want?”

  “I have a proposition for you,” said Max.

  “I’m not interested,” replied Mr. Hammersley, and went to close the door.

  Max caught it before it could entirely close, which earned him a glare that, thankfully, was not literally capable of killing him, or Max would have been dead. “At least hear me out,” he said, striving for cheerfulness.

  “Why?” demanded Mr. Hammersley.

  “Because it has to do with Jack.”

  That got Mr. Hammersley’s attention, as Max had thought it might. “What about Jack?” asked Mr. Hammersley grudgingly.

  “I’ve an idea for a Jack-based gift. For the whole street. And I’d love your help on it.”

  “My help?” Mr. Hammersley looked astonished, and then wary. “Why?”

  “Because Jack starts with you. Because any ordinary street could have got the dog off the street and taken him to the RSPCA to be adopted by someone else. But you were the first one to take him in and decide instead that the street ought to adopt him. So, with any Jack-based gift, I think it should start with you.”

  Mr. Hammersley looked like he didn’t know quite what to say.

  “And also,” said Max, with a smile, “it’s an art project. And you’re an artist.”

  * * *

  There was something living in his attic. Honestly, Sam did not have time for this. Work was busy and he was already taking a day off that week to chaperone the field trip. But he had to do something about it, because he and Teddy had both heard the scratching sound of something up there, and even Jack had taken to barking up toward the ceiling.

  Teddy thought it was cool and hoped that it was a poisonous snake.

  “Why would you want it to be a poisonous snake?” asked Sam. “What if it decided to bite us and kill us in our sleep?”

  “It’s stuck up in the attic,” said Teddy, shrugging, unimpressed.

  “The attic is connected to the house, you know,” said Sam.

  “We’d be okay,” said Teddy.

  “Especially because there aren’t many poisonous snakes that live in the UK,” Sam pointed out.

  Sam told Ellen later, “There’s something living in my attic.”

  “An animal?” said Ellen.

  “Well, I hope not a person,” replied Sam.

  Ellen laughed like it was funny. “Relax,” she said. “Just call someone about it. Get it taken care of.”

  So Sam rang an exterminator and followed him all around the house. The exterminator frowned and made notes. It was a bit like having a medical exam. Sam wanted to ask if the house had passed.

  Instead the exterminator said, “Bad news. You’ve got bats living up there.”

  “Bats?” said Sam. “Bats plural?”

  The exterminator shrugged, as if a herd of bats, or whatever the right collective noun was, was not alarming. “They tend to live in colonies.”

  “Okay,” said Sam, trying to stay calm and not envision an attic crawling with bats. “So what can I do about it?”

  “Well, it’s tricky,” said the exterminator. “They’re protected, aren’t they? So you can’t disturb their roosts, really. Not without permission.”

  Sam stared at him. “So I just have to . . . live with a colony of bats in my attic?”

  When Sam told Teddy that night over dinner, Teddy said, “That’s cool! That’s the best adventure you’ve ever had here!”

  * * *

  “So you’ve got bats living in your house with you,” Pari said, looking appropriately impressed by this, as they enjoyed hot cocoa while huddled in their coats in Teddy’s back garden. Pari had called it a “cold-weather picnic.” Teddy thought it was brilliant.

  “It’s cool, right?” said Teddy. “It’s a whole colony of them.”

  “What’s a colony of bats?” Pari asked. “Like a family?”

  “I think so, yeah. A really big family.”

  “A bunch of bats with a lot of brothers and sisters,” said Pari. “They’re probably rowing all the time.”

  “Rowing?” said Teddy.

  “Like, you know, fighting,” Pari explained. “Mum calls it squabbling. Lots of squabbling.”

  Teddy considered. “I guess. I don’t have any brothers and sisters, so I don’t know.”

  “You’re just like Jack,” Pari said. “He doesn’t have any brothers and sisters, either. But that’s why the street gets to be his whole family, which is pretty amazing.”

  Jack had been lying at their feet, ears back as he looked for squirrels in the growing-bare trees, but at hearing his name he picked up his head and barked a brief contribution to the conversation.

  “See?” Pari said. “Jack totally agrees. Pretty amazing.” She scratched behind Jack’s ears just to set his tail wagging and his tongue lolling out.

  Teddy said, “I wonder if Jack would want to make friends with the bats.”

  “I don’t know,” said Pari dubiously. “He doesn’t like squirrels all that much. And I feel like bats are just flying squirrels.”

  “No, flying squirrels are flying squirrels,” said Teddy. “Bats are totally different.”

  “I guess bats are more like flying mice, then?” suggested Pari. “And Mrs. Pachuta’s cats go after the mice, and Mrs. Pachuta says Jack doesn’t like her cats, so maybe Jack does like mice, and maybe he would like flying mice. Hmm.” Pari looked at Jack thoughtfully.

  Jack wandered off to investigate whether anything interesting might have wandered into the back of the garden.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Teddy said. “We wouldn’t even know how to get into the attic.”

  * * *

  On the morning of the Natural History Museum field trip, Teddy and Sam left the house and almost immediately ran into Mr. Hammersley, heading down the street. Since Mr. Hammersley rarely left his house, Sam said in surprise, “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello,” Mr. Hammersley said, as if they ran into each other every morning.

  “Hi, Mr. Hammersley,” said Teddy happily. “We’re going to the Natural History Museum today!”

  Teddy was looking tremendously forward to this trip. Sam was so relieved and happy; it was like having his child back, frankly.

  Mr. Hammersley said, “Well, have fun, then,” and resumed walking down the street.

  And Sam couldn’t help it. He said, “And where are you going?” because he was too curious not to ask.

  “I’m working on an art project,” said Mr. Hammersley, and kept walking.

  Sam started walking up the street with Teddy but he did turn around just to see where Mr. Hammersley went, which was to Max and Arthur’s door. Will
wonders never cease, thought Sam in astonishment.

  * * *

  The classroom was barely organized chaos, with a bunch of overexcited children all conversing with each other at top volume.

  Miss Quinn came up to Sam and said, “Ah, Mr. Bishop, hello,” and handed him a piece of paper and a laminated drawing of a fish with a safety pin through it. “These are the children you’re responsible for. You are Team Barracuda. Pin it to your shirt, please.”

  “Barracuda?” echoed Sam.

  “Don’t read anything into it,” said Miss Quinn with a quick smile, and then shouted, “Team Barracuda! Over here!”

  Teddy and four other children obediently came to stand in front of Sam, all of them still chattering excitedly.

  “Hi,” Sam said to them.

  They barely acknowledged his presence.

  Teddy wasn’t really participating in the chattering but he didn’t look like he minded. He did wave across the room to Pari Basak, who was clustered next to her mother, also chaperoning the trip.

  Sam glanced at the two other parents chaperoning, and noticed they were both men. Which was maybe sexist of him—he certainly hadn’t expected to be the only father chaperoning—but he hadn’t expected the majority of the chaperones to be men. And, as he watched, he noticed what seemed to him to be, well, an enormous amount of flirting with Miss Quinn going on. She seemed to parry everything gracefully and move on, but it struck Sam at that moment: how horrible and arrogant and rude he was being. To show up at Miss Quinn’s workplace and assume that she wanted to be distracted with flirtation while she was trying to do her job.

  Sam felt like basically the worst person ever for having had the idea.

  Which was why he studiously avoided Miss Quinn as they moved to the coach and took their seats. She had a lot to deal with today, and she deserved to be allowed to do her job.

  Diya Basak sat next to him on the coach and smiled and said, “Hello.”

  “Hi,” said Sam, and was about to say that he was glad that Pari and Teddy seemed to have become friends.

  Except that Diya distracted him by saying, “Did you see that the old man is doing something with the gay couple?”

  Street gossip for the win, thought Sam. “Yes,” he said. “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. We should ask that writer woman. She knows everything.”

  Further conversation was cut off by Miss Quinn, who stood at the front of the coach and said, “Okay, everyone is present and accounted for, and everyone has been given animal badges corresponding to their team. You now all know who you must stick with at the museum. Further instructions when we arrive. Next stop: Natural History Museum!”

  The children cheered and the coach pulled away and Diya started telling Sam all about how busy she was with an extended network of friends and family but it was important to spend these little moments with their children, and Sam found that not much was called for on his part but nodding every so often. A bit bored, he happened to look up at the same time that Miss Quinn happened to glance his way, and she grinned at him, dimples in evidence. And he smiled back and thought later, after the field trip was over, when things were calmer, he would ask Miss Quinn to go for coffee, the way he should have done ages ago, and it wouldn’t be weird and creepy; he would make sure it was just . . . nice. Because he liked her, and she acted as if she liked him, and if she didn’t want to go for coffee, he would drop the whole idea.

  And then, abruptly, the coach jerked and began slowing down.

  Diya interrupted her monologue to say, “What’s going on?”

  Miss Quinn leaned over to have a conference with the driver.

  Sam said, “I’m sure it’s nothing,” even as the coach came to a stop. Nowhere near the Natural History Museum.

  * * *

  Max had stretched a canvas across the back of the bookcase and was working on a painting, but Mr. Hammersley was carving along the front of it, and it was Mr. Hammersley’s carving that fascinated Max. He spent so much time watching him carving that eventually Mr. Hammersley grumbled, “Stop staring at me.”

  “Sorry,” Max said. “Sorry. It’s just . . . amazing.” Max reached out and brushed his fingers over the swirling carving on the wood. “You’re very talented. All I do is throw paint on things; this is . . . extraordinary.”

  Mr. Hammersley grunted.

  Max looked at him, considered, then said, “Did you used to do it a lot? When you were younger?”

  “I was busy when I was younger,” huffed Mr. Hammersley. “Didn’t have time for much of this. There wasn’t much call for it.” He stepped back and regarded his work, then admitted, “I used to do some of it.”

  “For fun,” Max said. “I get that.”

  “You’re all spoilt these days,” Mr. Hammersley said. “You think everything is supposed to be fun. What do you do for fun, when what you do for work is for fun?”

  Max laughed, but when Mr. Hammersley glared at him, he realized that wasn’t the right reaction. “It’s a good point,” Max said. “That’s why I was laughing, because . . . you make a point. I don’t know the answer to that.”

  Mr. Hammersley moved forward, working on his carving again. He said, “Typical. You lot never think things through.” Max wasn’t sure which “lot” Mr. Hammersley was talking about, but he didn’t even think it mattered. He was inclined to agree, no matter which “lot” it was. “That might be a fair criticism,” he agreed, and went back to his canvas.

  * * *

  At first, when the coach stopped, Sam assumed that it was minor, or temporary.

  It was beginning to feel permanent.

  Miss Quinn was outside, on her mobile, dealing with the issue, while the driver was lost under the bonnet, and the kids were getting restless and starting to complain about being stuck on the side of the road instead of at the Natural History Museum. The other two chaperones seemed to be engaged in a heated football-related discussion, so Sam decided that it was up to him to help and stood up at the front of the aisle. “Hello, kids,” he called. “Isn’t this an adventure?”

  The kids were still grumbling. They did not think this was an adventure. Teddy looked horrified that he was up there at all.

  All Sam could think was that it seemed like a good idea to keep the children occupied with something, since it didn’t look as if help was imminent.

  “I hear that you’re working on a play,” said Sam.

  “It’s a Christmas play,” a girl informed him.

  “It has snow and babies,” another girl said.

  “And it’s also about climate change,” added a third girl.

  “We’ve been writing it together,” chimed in a boy.

  “It’s full of drama,” the first girl said.

  “Well, good,” said Sam. “Sounds like just the thing to occupy our time. How do you work on the play?”

  “We plotted it out,” said the first girl again, “and then we’re divided up into groups and each group has a scene we’re supposed to be writing.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, “well—”

  Sam broke off as Miss Quinn appeared behind him, looking at him in surprise.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I just thought maybe I’d—”

  “Have them work on their play,” Miss Quinn concluded. “No. Good idea. Everyone, break up into your groups, work on your scenes, here we go.”

  The children scattered all over the coach, loudly finding their groups.

  Sam turned to Miss Quinn. “I hope it’s okay. I didn’t mean to step on your toes, but you looked like you had your hands full, and the children were getting grumbly.”

  “No, thank you for that,” said Miss Quinn. “It was a good idea. I don’t suppose you also know how to fix coaches? Turns out the driver has no idea.”

  “Not one of my areas of specialty, unfortunately,” said Sam.

  Miss Quinn gave him one of her dimpling smiles. “No? Like beetroot in that respect?”

  “I vowed not to bring
up beetroot in our next conversation,” Sam told her.

  “Don’t worry about it. I brought it up. So you’re safe.”

  “Oh, good,” said Sam, and then completely blanked on what else he could say to her.

  Miss Quinn’s smile widened. “You have no idea what to talk to me about now, do you?”

  “All I can think about is beetroot,” Sam admitted ruefully.

  “Miss Quinn!” someone shouted, and she turned toward them, calling out, “Coming!”

  As she walked away from him, down the main aisle of the coach, she said to Sam, “It’s okay. The beetroot thing is working for you.”

  The beetroot thing is working for you. Sam thought that was a good thing. If it was working for him, surely it must be a good thing?

  Sam settled back in his seat next to Diya.

  Who immediately said, “So you like Miss Quinn.”

  Sam groaned and knocked his head lightly against the backseat. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yeah,” replied Diya simply. “But I think she likes you back.”

  Sam leaned forward eagerly. “Do you think so?” And then: “Oh, Christ, I am literally sitting on a school coach asking if a girl likes me. I have made zero progress in the past twenty years of life on this planet.”

  * * *

  Halfway through the day, Max suddenly stepped back from his canvas and said, “I could do with a cuppa. How about you?” Bill wanted a cuppa, of course, but he was not sure he wanted to have to socialize over a cuppa. Working together on the bookcase project was all well and good. Max was a keen worker, not given to babbling, and Bill appreciated that. But he didn’t want to have a stilted conversation with Max where he would have to admit at least to himself that he had no idea what Max was talking about half the time. Talking with young people, Bill thought, was the surest way to remind yourself that you were old.

  Max said, “I will not take no for an answer; tea is definitely needed to fuel further art,” and went marching inside.

  Bill, unsure what to do, thought maybe he could try to ignore Max and just get back to the wood-carving. Wood-carving was something he understood, unlike the rest of the world at the moment.