by Sarah Webb
“He was crying when I came in. Although he pretended that he wasn’t.”
“He’s depressed, that’s all,” said Lucy. “His dog died.”
“Oh,” said Abigail, wondering whether she should go back down and make him some macaroni and cheese to make up for it.
“I’m planning on cheering him up by showing him my fossil collection,” said Lucy, opening a box that contained nothing more than a collection of stones pulled from the back garden, but Abigail didn’t have the heart to point this out. “And I have a book to loan him,” she added, holding one up.
“Very good,” said Abigail. “Carry on then.”
Entering her bedroom, she opened the letter that Dr Napangardi had given her when she was leaving the surgery and looked at it sorrowfully. FINAL WARNING, it said across the top in big red letters. Abigail sighed.
She would have to be very careful if she wanted to keep her job. After all, houdahs weren’t cheap.
You might be wondering what a houdah is. A couple of months earlier, even Abigail didn’t know what a houdah was, but she knew that she wanted one. Back then she didn’t call it a houdah, of course. She called it “one of those big seats with a canopy over the top that I can put on the back of my elephant and ride him around Sydney on sunny days.” But then her father said “You mean a houdah,” and she’d stopped calling it that (the first thing) and started calling it that (the second thing) instead.
She’d seen one in a shop off Market Street and it cost three hundred dollars and she’d managed to save two hundred and eighty-seven so she wasn’t far off.
Downstairs, Lucy showed Henry her fossil collection and Henry had the good manners not to point out that he had rocks exactly like these in his back garden and had even been considering making a rock museum out of them, only his mother had told him that normal people didn’t play in the mud like that.
“How long have you had this elephant?” asked Henry, wondering what on earth his mother, Eleanor Brocket, would say if she knew that he was consorting with a family who kept such outlandish pets in the house.
“Oh, since he was a calf,” said Lucy. “A circus was visiting Sydney and they left without him. Abigail found him wandering the streets and brought him home.”
“Don’t your parents mind?” asked Henry.
“Oh no. They’re very accommodating people.”
“My parents would go mad if I brought an elephant home,” said Henry.
“Perhaps they wouldn’t notice?” suggested Lucy.
“But they do take up a lot of space.”
“Your parents?”
“No, elephants.”
“Well, are they observant?” asked Lucy.
“Elephants?”
“No, your parents.”
Henry thought about it. “I’m pretty sure they’d see him,” he said. He fed some more nuts to the elephant, held out his hand for the toucan, patted the koala bear on the head and popped a few nuts in his mouth. Then he sighed a little as the rain pounded on the window because he was still quite sad.
“Here’s a book to cheer you up,” said Lucy. “I think you’ll like it. It’s about a pilot. It might give you some ideas.”
Henry looked at the title page. It was called Biggles in the Baltic. The cover showed an illustration of a pilot seated behind his control panel, swooping down on a boat in the sea.
“I’m sorry about your dog,” said Lucy, wanting to pat Henry’s hand to console him but worrying that she might go bright red if she did.
“It’s all right,” said Henry, putting the book in his bag, thinking he might give it a go later. “He was quite an old dog. And he’d lived a good life.”
“Will you get another one?”
Henry shrugged. “I want to,” he said. “But my parents say that normal people don’t just get a new dog to replace a dead one. They say we need to go through a grieving process.”
“And how long will that take?”
“At least a year.”
“They want you to be sad for a whole year?” asked Lucy in astonishment.
“That’s what normal people do, according to them,” said Henry.
“Well then,” said Abigail and the two children turned round to see the older girl standing there, eavesdropping on their conversation. “Who wants to be normal if that’s the case?”
The following Saturday – no longer stormy, but still quite cold and damp – Abigail was in work when the Dimplefords from Bogota Avenue came in with their two dogs, Hound and Distinguished Lady.
“Distinguished Lady is about to bear a litter,” announced Mrs Dimpleford in a snooty voice. “She did this once before at home and it was a filthy business. I swore I’d never allow it again so here we are. You can take care of it, I presume?”
“Our rugs are terribly expensive,” added Mr Dimpleford. “And we’ve just had the decking done. We can’t have Distinguished Lady creating a mess.”
“Call us when she’s ready to come home,” said Mrs Dimpleford, handing Distinguished Lady’s lead to Abigail. “Let’s say about eight weeks. That will give the puppies a chance to be weaned.”
“Eight weeks?” asked Abigail. “That’s an awfully long time to leave them here. Will you be visiting every day?”
“I may visit once,” said Mrs Dimpleford, who looked doubtful at the idea. “But then again, I may not. I’m terribly busy. Come along, Hound, time to go.”
And with that, the Dimplefords turned round and marched directly out of the surgery while Hound nuzzled his lady friend for a few moments, apparently wanting to stay. (Hound was a modern dog. He would have preferred to be present for the birth of his puppies. He was completely paws-on in that respect.)
“Come along, Hound!” roared Mrs Dimpleford once again from outside and this time the poor fellow barked and ran after her, too terrified to disobey.
Distinguished Lady gave a little canine sigh and followed Abigail into the surgery where, over the course of the next few hours, she gave birth to a litter of seven puppies.
Fortunately for the puppies, Dr Napangardi lived on the premises and took good care of them over the weeks that followed as they got used to the curious business of existence. When Mrs Dimpleford finally returned, two months later – having never visited once in the meantime – she stared at them with a disinterested expression. “Well?” she asked. “How many have we got?”
“Seven,” said Abigail. “Five boys and two girls.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Mr Dimpleford, rubbing his hands together. “If we sell the boys for a hundred dollars apiece and keep the girls as breeders, we’ll have enough money to buy that new barbecue patio set we wanted. We just had our decking done,” he told Abigail once again. (He was very proud of it.)
“It turned out a treat,” said Mrs Dimpleford.
“Aren’t you going to keep the puppies together for a while?” asked Abigail. “They’re still very reliant on each other.”
“Don’t be sentimental, girl!” snapped Mrs Dimpleford, hitting her on the head with her umbrella. “Dogs are an investment. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Hound barked in displeasure. He wasn’t happy with this description of his species and anyway, he was desperate to see Distinguished Lady again. He pulled at his lead in excitement.
“Calm yourself, Hound!” said Mr Dimpleford. “Fetch the puppies, young lady, won’t you? We want to get back across the bridge before the traffic builds up.”
Abigail went into the consulting room and roused the dogs. She counted them off one by one and to her surprise there were now only six. Four boys and two girls. And Distinguished Lady, of course.
“Doctor,” she said, looking in on Dr Napangardi. “How many puppies did Distinguished Lady give?”
“I’m surprised you would ask that considering how long they’ve been here,” he replied, spinning round and glaring at her. “You’re on your FINAL WARNING, remember!”
“No, no,” said Abigail quickly, scribbling out one number on
the chart and changing it for another as she had a vision of her houdah going up in smoke. “I was just making conversation. Nothing to worry about.”
The doctor grunted and turned away. “Get them packed up,” he said. “We have a family of overweight mice coming in shortly. And a snake who’s been off his food for three months. It might make sense if we put them in different rooms.”
Abigail did as she was instructed, packing the tiny puppies into a carrying case where they huddled together for warmth and allowed Distinguished Lady to lead the way out to the reception area, where she was cheerfully reunited with Hound. As Abigail closed the door behind her, she noticed the six puppies turning their heads and uttering a weak cry of regret but thought nothing of it as she presented them to their owners.
“I made a slight mistake,” she said nervously. “There’s only six puppies, not seven. Four boys and two girls.”
“So we’re a hundred dollars down on the transaction!” cried Mrs Dimpleford. “How disappointing.”
Abigail said nothing. She hoped that the Dimplefords wouldn’t complain to the doctor as that might be the last straw and she’d be fired for good but thankfully they simply told her what a stupid girl she was and advised her to study harder in her mathematics class as they settled the bill and left.
*
In Bradfield Park, Henry Brocket sat wrapped up in his winter coat, a woolly hat and a scarf, watching the dogs running around as their owners threw balls and Frisbees for them. There were lots of different breeds and lots of different types of owners: men, women, boys and girls, old people and young. This was where he had brought Benson, his now sadly departed dog, every day for a run and being there helped him to remember happier times.
Some of the dogs, recognising him, came over to say hello and stared around, wondering where their old pal Benson was.
“He’s gone,” Henry told them, shaking his head sadly. “But he was an old dog. And he lived a good life.”
The dogs licked his hand and he felt a bit happier, but not very much. He didn’t want to go home yet – it seemed so empty there without Benson – and so opened his schoolbag, took out Biggles in the Baltic, which he’d been meaning to get to for ages, and began to read.
Abigail’s final job of the day was to wash the floors of the consulting room, disinfect the surgical instruments and make sure the place was spotlessly clean while Dr Napangardi finished playing Tetris on his computer. She had almost finished when she heard a curious sound coming from behind one of the filing cabinets. She frowned, wondering whether she’d imagined it, but after a moment there it was again. A tiny cry, barely audible at all. She walked over to the cabinet, looked behind it and to her astonishment discovered a small puppy hiding in the corner, looking quite terrified and alone, trembling, his wide eyes filled with nervous tears.
“Oh dear,” said Abigail, realising that she had been right all along. There had been seven puppies. One of them had simply gone walkabout and got himself lost.
“Yap,” yapped the puppy, trotting cautiously towards her, an expression on his face that suggested he was terribly sorry for any trouble he might have caused but he’d really quite like somebody to let him know what was expected of him.
“I’m afraid they’re all gone,” said Abigail, picking him up and patting his soft fur. The puppy buried his face in her uniform and she rested her neck on the top of his head. I could call the Dimplefords, I suppose, she thought. But if Doctor Napangardi hears about it, that will be the end of my job here. And I want that houdah!
“Abigail,” said Dr Napangardi, marching into the room at that very moment. Abigail quickly stuffed the puppy into the long pockets of her overcoat. “Everything finished in here?”
“Yes, Doctor,” said Abigail. “I’m all done.”
“Good. And may I say that I was very happy with you today. You had your mind on the job and didn’t make any mistakes.”
Abigail reached into her pocket, ready to reveal the truth, but then changed her mind. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, stepping away. “Can I go home now?”
Abigail made her way along the road towards Kirribilli, wondering what on earth she was going to do with the puppy in her pocket. She couldn’t bring him home, that was for sure. Although her elephant, toucan and koala bear got along tremendously well with each other she had once tried to introduce a dog to the family, hoping to expand her menagerie from three to four, and the animals had been firmly opposed to the idea. The koala bear had spat eucalyptus oil at the dog. The toucan had tried to poke out his eyes. And the elephant had rolled him in his trunk, then lowered him up and down, up and down, over and over until the dog became so dizzy that, upon his release, he had run outside and refused to come back in. In the end, she had been forced to give him away to her Aunt Jackie who lived in Melbourne.
As she passed Bradfield Park, Abigail decided to rest for a few minutes and have a think. She spotted an empty seat next to a little boy who was reading a book and sat down, glancing at him for a moment before realising that she recognised him.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, and the boy jumped, almost dropping the book from his hands in surprise. “It’s Harry Breckitt, isn’t it?”
“Henry Brocket,” said Henry. “And you’re Lucy’s sister.”
“That’s right. What are you reading?”
Henry turned the cover of the book to show her. “Oh yes,” she said. “Lucy’s book. I was sorry to hear about your dog,” she added after a moment. “Do you miss him?”
“A lot,” said Henry. “He was a Good Boy.” He said those last two words with particular force.
“I’m sure he was. Will you get another?”
“Someday,” said Henry. “If I can persuade my parents. My sister is working on them right now. I’m supposed to be home by the time she goes for her swimming lesson to take up the evening shift. Relentless nagging. That’s what Melanie and I are determined upon.”
“But they must like dogs,” said Abigail. “If you had one before, I mean.”
“Benson just arrived one day,” explained Henry. “Wandered in off the street and behaved so well that they couldn’t let him go. They used to tell me that’s how I had come to live with them too,” he added, frowning, as if this was a joke that he didn’t think was particularly funny. “They said they just got used to me and let me stay.”
“They sound like charming people,” said Abigail, shaking her head. “Oh, look over there!” She pointed to a place in the distance, somewhere in the general direction of Cremorne Point.
“What?” asked Henry, narrowing his eyes as he turned his head.
“Look! Can’t you see it?”
“I don’t see anything,” he said, turning back and staring at Abigail.
“I must have been mistaken,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I thought I saw a shark.”
“Not this close to shore!”
“No, my mistake.”
Henry frowned, checked his watch and picked up his schoolbag, holding on to his book all the time. “I better be going home,” he said.
“Goodbye, Henry,” said Abigail, smiling at him. “I hope you’ll all be very happy together.”
Henry walked on, not having any idea what she could possibly mean by that, but as he strolled along he couldn’t help but think that his bag was a little heavier than it had been earlier.
And it seemed to be trembling a little too.
“Henry, please don’t throw your things on the kitchen floor,” said Eleanor Brocket with an exasperated sigh.
“Normal people put their schoolbags in their bedrooms,” said Alistair, Henry’s father, just as Melanie came in with her swimming bag.
“All ready then?” asked Eleanor.
“Yes,” said Melanie, turning to her brother. “Your turn,” she said.
“Can we get a new dog?” asked Henry immediately, turning to both his parents.
“No,” said Alistair, shaking his head.
“Can we get a new dog?�
�� repeated Henry.
“It’s too soon,” said Eleanor, reaching for her car keys.
Henry said nothing for a moment, then looked up at them both as if he had just had a tremendous idea.
“Can we get a new dog?” he asked and this time both his parents opened their mouths to tell him to be quiet but before they could a yapping sound came from the floor and they all looked down at their feet in astonishment. But there didn’t seem to be anything there.
“Did you hear that?” asked Eleanor.
“It sounded like a yap,” said Alistair.
“It did sound like a yap,” agreed Melanie.
A moment later, Henry’s schoolbag started to move and Eleanor screamed in surprise.
“That’s not normal,” said Alistair, looking across at his son. “Schoolbags don’t move of their own accord. What have you got in there anyway?”
“Just my books,” said Henry. “And half an old sandwich. And a catapult. And a collection of football cards. And a whistle. And a packet of ready-cooked sausages. And a novel I’m working on in my spare time. And an extra pair of socks in case I lose the ones I’m wearing. And a false eye. But that’s all. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
The family stared at the bag and it continued to move and yap until finally Melanie, who was a brave little thing, reached down, pulled open the straps and a puppy bounced out and stared up at them all, wagging its tail as if to suggest that this had been a great game but he was tired of being locked up like that. The family said nothing and the puppy sprinted to the back door, ran outside to conduct a piece of private business before coming back inside and wagging its tail again in delight.
Mission Accomplished, it seemed to be saying. He’d obviously been trained well during his stay at Dr Napangardi’s surgery.
“Well it has manners anyway,” said Eleanor, who hated cleaning up after dogs.
“And he’s a cheerful little fellow,” said Alistair. “But Henry,” he added, turning round. “What’s he doing here? What breed is he?”
“Indeterminate.”
“And his parentage?”
“Unknown.”
“He doesn’t have a collar,” said Alistair. “So he can’t belong to anyone. And he’s no more than about eight weeks old. It’s really not a normal thing to discover puppies in your schoolbag, you know.”
