by Colin Dann
‘Why don’t you go after him?’ Max purred from an outside window sill. The cat had seen everything. Streak looked up sharply. Max had guessed his thoughts. ‘Quickly,’ he urged. ‘You haven’t much time. You’re not much good at anything else but you have got speed.’
Streak stepped quietly through the open garden gate. His owners had their backs to him as they craned their necks in Digby’s direction. Without hesitating any longer the greyhound launched himself forward, shot past the elderly couple and set his sights on the blur of movement that Digby had become in the distance.
The speed of the racing dog was, even now, something to marvel at. Streak’s long legs simply devoured the long street ahead. People stopped to gaze in wonder and curiosity, but he cared nothing for that. He glimpsed Digby turning into the lane and pelted after him. By the time Streak had also turned the corner, however, Digby had vanished into the coach yard. Streak slackened his pace, looking round for his friend. The policeman’s car had passed the turning and Streak was free to explore as he wished.
A coach turned into the lane and lumbered towards the yard, its engine droning noisily. Streak watched where it went, and realized that Digby must have hidden himself somewhere in that yard. There was nowhere else he could have gone. He trotted forward cautiously. The coach came to a halt, and the driver climbed out and spoke to another man who was carrying a clipboard. Streak peered round the side of the gate, keeping his body out of sight. There was no sign of Digby. Streak didn’t venture into the yard while the men were close. Eventually they strolled towards a small office and went inside.
‘Digby! Are you there?’ Streak called quietly.
No answer.
Streak waited a little to ensure that the men were still safely out of hearing. Then he called more loudly. ‘Digby! Digby! Can you hear me? It’s Streak.’
This time there was a muffled response, almost inaudible thanks to the huge mass of the coach framework above him. But Streak caught something of it and inched further into the yard.
‘Where are you?’
‘Underneath,’ Digby barked, rather unhelpfully.
This time the men heard. They came out of the office and glanced round. Digby stayed hidden, but the men soon spotted Streak by the entrance. The yard manager went towards him, waving his arms to drive him away. Streak retreated into the lane and sat down a metre or so away. The man shouted at him and, with the assistance of the coach driver, swung the heavy gates closed. There were no more vehicles due in and the yard was made secure with bolts and padlocks.
Streak hung about outside, fretting with vexation. There was no other way in, but he wasn’t going to desert Digby. He remained just out of reach, in case the men decided to come after him, but he need not have worried. Once the yard gates were shut the men forgot all about him. Some while later a little door opened in the wall of the yard and the coach driver stepped out and walked to a parked car nearby. Streak watched this narrow opening tensely. Should he try to slip through it or should he alert Digby to this slim chance of escape? He edged towards it, unsure what to do and fearful in case the other man should suddenly appear. The coach driver left, his car disappearing into the main street. Streak felt he must at least try to contact Digby. He reached the open door just as the yard manager was locking his office, and realized he was too late to join his friend.
‘Digby, here! Run! Run quickly!’ he barked as loudly as he could.
Digby began to scramble from under the parked coach. But as he was about to pull himself clear he saw the yard manager striding towards the door in the wall, and he shrank back again. Streak barked even more urgently.
‘Now, Digby! Run before it’s too late!’
The man ran towards the greyhound, shouting at him angrily. He knew nothing about the collie’s presence and saw Streak only as a noisy nuisance. Streak could see Digby’s one chance was lost and made haste to retreat from the angry human. Moments later the man stood in the lane with the little door closed behind him. Digby was alone in the yard with no way out.
Streak kept his distance until the manager had also driven away. Then he crept back and positioned himself by the high yard gates. Digby’s frightened whines could be heard on the other side.
‘Calm down. Calm down, Digby,’ Streak called to him. ‘There’s nothing to be done now. We shall have to be patient.’
Digby could hear Streak clearly through the chinks in the gates. Relief flooded over him as he realized the greyhound was still nearby. ‘Streak, you’re such a friend! But what about your owners? They’ll be missing you terribly.’
‘I know,’ the greyhound answered soberly. ‘That can’t be helped. I know where they are and I can go back when I choose.’
‘Are you sure? Won’t they be searching for you?’
‘That’s a danger I’ll have to face. But they’re not very quick and, if necessary, I could easily evade them.’
‘Why would you want to? Because of me?’ Digby’s voice was hushed.
‘Yes. I’ll stay around here until you can get away. Then we must keep together. We haven’t discovered each other again to be parted so soon.’
‘I’m so grateful to you,’ Digby said feelingly. ‘Your company makes all this bearable. But I don’t want to be the means of separating you from your kind owners.’
‘We’ll see it through, you and I,’ Streak assured him. ‘It may not take too long.’
Digby wasn’t absolutely sure he understood. ‘See what through, Streak?’
‘Why, restoring you to your master, of course. Whatever else?’
‘Well, of course that’s what I want,’ Digby said. ‘But I don’t know where he is any more.’
‘There must be ways of finding him. We have noses,’ Streak pointed out. ‘Another thing – we have to eat. Have you any ideas on that score?’
‘There’s nothing to eat in here.’
‘I know that, Digby. I wasn’t talking about what’s behind this barrier. I mean, once we’re together.’
‘Oh. No, I’ve no ideas at all. I’ve never had to feed myself. Have you?’
‘No. But I’m confident we can. We just have to find out how.’
‘Bouncing Jet Streak of Fleetwood,’ Digby murmured, savouring the sound. ‘You know, you really deserve a special name like that.’
Streak kept his gaze along the length of the lane. He knew it was only a matter of time before one, at least, of his owners showed up. ‘Listen, Digby,’ he said, ‘I’m going to move now. If someone comes after me here I haven’t anywhere to run to. I’ll make myself scarce until it gets dark. Then I’ll come back.’
Digby knew it made sense but he hated the idea of being left alone again. ‘You’re sure you’ll come back?’ he asked nervously.
‘It’s a promise,’ Streak answered. He ran up the lane, and stopped dead. His owner, the old man, was in sight further down the main street. Evidently it hadn’t yet occurred to him to search any of the minor turnings off it. Streak ran in the opposite direction, back towards his home. He knew the perfect place to hide – the cellar below his own garden.
He made certain that his mistress wasn’t on the look-out and then leapt athletically over the low garden fence. Max was in the front garden and Streak almost landed on top of him.
‘Clumsy dog,’ the cat complained. ‘You could have flattened me!’
‘Never mind that. Is the mistress indoors?’
‘Probably. She usually is, isn’t she? And where’s your friend? Didn’t you find him?’
‘Oh yes, I found him,’ Streak replied. ‘He’ll be all right where he is for now. And I’m going down here,’ he told the cat as he entered the dark cellar. ‘Don’t let on by calling outside or leading one of the dear humans in to me,’ he cautioned Max. ‘It would spoil everything and you wouldn’t want that.’
Max recognized the veiled threat but pretended not to notice. ‘You’ve no worries on my account,’ he mewed. ‘I don’t involve myself in dogs’ concerns.’
In their different hiding places Digby and Streak were both acutely aware of their stomachs’ demands. Digby, in particular, had eaten only one substantial meal in a number of days. Both of them thought almost exclusively about food. Streak racked his brains for a solution to the problem of feeding, while Digby was reminded of Chip.
‘He lived on the streets,’ he thought to himself. ‘How did he manage?’
By the time it was dark Streak had heard movements and voices overhead which told him that both the old lady and her husband were back in the house. He emerged tentatively from the cellar. All was well. He set off on the return journey.
Digby was already by the yard gates, listening for his friend. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said when Streak trotted up. ‘What can we do about eating? I’m half starved.’
‘Nothing for the present,’ Streak answered. ‘We’ve got to get you out of there first.’
‘There’s no way out,’ Digby sighed. ‘I’ve looked all round.’
‘The men will be back, never fear,’ Streak assured him. ‘As soon as they make an opening you must run for it.’
‘You bet I will,’ Digby said. ‘I don’t know why I thought they meant me any harm.’
‘You got yourself all jangly.’
They settled down as best they could for the night on either side of the gates, their empty stomachs rumbling in sympathy with one another. In the morning, sure enough, the yard manager arrived. Streak moved away from the gates, but not before he was spotted. The man stared at him, but this time did no more than shake his head. Then he went to the little door and unlocked it. As soon as it was open, Digby came rushing up and darted through before the manager had a chance to enter. The man turned quickly and saw greyhound and collie running together up the lane.
‘So that’s what he was hanging around for,’ he marvelled.
‘Where to now?’ Digby asked. The main street was still fairly empty.
‘I don’t know. We need to make for the area where your master is likely to be if we’re going to look for him. Which way is that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Digby confessed. ‘I told you; I was brought here in a car.’
‘Of course. Then we’ll just have to do the best we can.’ Streak replied. ‘I know a lot of the roads round here. I’ll take you to the quietest part.’
‘Shall we look for food on the way?’
‘Certainly. There must be scraps around if I know human habits. We’ll keep our noses active and see how we get on.’
11
Frank tried to forget about Digby but it was impossible to erase the young border collie’s image from his mind. He decided to do something positive, and applied for the job in the park. The supervisor gave him a curious look.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked. ‘Anyway, I’ve seen you around.’
‘Maybe. Does that stand against me?’
‘No, not necessarily. What experience have you got of this kind of work?’
‘None especially. Only the strength I was born with, which might just be sufficient for a labouring job.’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’ the supervisor asked suspiciously.
‘I didn’t mean to be, no.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you about the work and then I’ll need to ask some more questions.’
At the end of the interview, Frank was taken on at once on a provisional basis to see how he coped. The supervisor held the door open as Frank left.
‘Is that your dog sitting there waiting?’ he asked. Chip was doing just that.
‘Not exactly mine, no,’ Frank replied.
‘Because you’ll have to leave him behind if he is. We don’t allow staff to bring pets into the park.’
‘Understood,’ Frank answered. ‘I’ll see he goes home before I start.’
‘Be quick about it, then.’
Here was a problem. There was no home for Chip to go to and Frank wasn’t at all optimistic about his ability to drive the mongrel out of the park and make him stay away. Chip had got too used to Frank’s good nature and relied on him more and more.
‘Now, Chip.’ The dog was looking at him expectantly. ‘I need this job. I can’t earn enough busking and I want a place of my own. Doorways aren’t comfortable and I’ve been used to just a little more luxury. So you’re going to have to leave me – at least until later. This job could be my passport to a proper home – and proper food for both of us. Come on, then.’ He led Chip a few steps and then pointed to the nearby street. ‘Go and find Norman. Go. That way!’ He raised his voice to one of command, gesturing firmly that Chip must leave him. The mongrel trotted a little way off, then turned to see if Frank was following. When he saw that he wasn’t, he began to run back.
‘No!’ Frank cried. ‘No! Go back! Oh, Chip,’ he muttered beneath his breath, ‘don’t muck this up for me.’ He ran towards Chip, shouting at him to go. In the end Chip took the hint and ran off with a puzzled and rather hurt expression on his face.
Frank went to see the head gardener and receive his instructions. He felt sad and guilty and Chip’s bewildered look stayed in his mind. He would go on feeding the mongrel if Chip stayed in the locality, but any care or attention could only be given after working hours.
He was put to work on a rockery which was being constructed in a corner of the park. His job consisted mainly of humping huge chunks of sandstone from one place to another and setting them in position. Even with a wheelbarrow it was heavy going. While he was busy Frank kept wondering how he could make Chip understand that he must keep out of sight until he was called at the end of the day. He knew Chip was intelligent, but this was a tall order and Frank didn’t think the dog could manage it. He didn’t expect to find Chip again.
Frank’s reckoning proved to be wrong. Chip hadn’t given up on him. After the initial shock, the mongrel gradually crept back towards the park entrance. Of course by then Frank was working in quite another quarter, but that didn’t bother Chip, who knew the park well. Wary as ever, he kept away from the main paths and used the ground cover to screen his movements as much as he could. He needed to know why Frank had behaved as he had done. He didn’t yet believe that they could no longer be friends.
Frank eventually saw Chip at a distance, his head up, sniffing the air with one front paw raised. It was clear that he had caught Frank’s scent and was now starting forward uncertainly.
‘Oh no,’ Frank moaned to himself. ‘What can I do?’
Chip trotted nearer, saw Frank, paused irresolutely and waved his tail in recognition.
‘That your dog?’ another gardener asked. ‘He seems to know you.’
‘No, he’s not my dog,’ Frank answered with irritation. ‘He – he keeps following me around. I suppose I was too friendly to him once and now he’s a bit of a nuisance.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be friendly any more if I were you. They don’t like stray dogs running about here and it could get you into trouble.’
‘I know. I’ve already been warned about it,’ Frank said. He continued with his work, deciding his best policy was to ignore Chip altogether.
The dog came no closer. Receiving no encouragement, he remained in a state of uncertainty. He skulked around among some bushes where he could still watch Frank without too many people being aware of it.
At the end of the day, sore and aching from his labours, Frank helped return the tools to the store. His workmates left for home in dribs and drabs. Frank stayed on, seated himself on one of the rockery slabs and played his mouth-organ. He didn’t want to be seen leaving in case Chip followed him. When he was sure he was on his own he picked up the holdall with all his belongings in it and walked off slowly.
‘I carry my home with me,’ he thought. ‘I must find a different place to sleep tonight. If I were discovered by any of the park staff I’d be out straight away.’ The supervisor had been more than lenient with him already, but Frank knew he was suspicious. Frank had had none of the necessary documents required by an employer, and had t
he labouring job been a permanent one he’d never have been offered it.
‘If I can just stay on here long enough to get myself a room somewhere,’ he mused. ‘There are no squats to be had round these parts any more.’
Chip emerged from the shrubbery and bounded up hopefully. Frank wasn’t hard-hearted enough to resist him. ‘All right, Chip,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t understand what’s going on. We can stay together for now. You must be famished.’
After filling their stomachs Frank and Chip settled down under a railway arch near the river. ‘Tomorrow,’ said the young man to the dog, ‘I’m going to have to teach you a whole new meaning of the word “stay”.’ Frank fell asleep, thinking of Digby.
The next morning Frank awoke at dawn feeling dreadfully stiff. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache and his hands had been scratched by the rough stones of the new rockery. ‘Worth it in the long run,’ he whispered to himself.
Chip stirred and stretched his limbs.
‘You’d do better to stay here,’ Frank told him. ‘But I know you won’t.’
When he arrived, hobbling, at the park entrance, he managed to make Chip understand that he was to come no further. Chip put his head on one side and watched Frank walk on, believing he would be back in a short while. It never occurred to him that he was supposed to stay there all day.
When they saw him, Frank’s workmates chuckled at his awkward movements.
‘The first week’s the worst,’ one of them laughed. ‘Then you should get used to it.’
The rockery was beginning to look really impressive. Frank was quite proud of his partin it. When the other men strolled off to eat their sandwiches at midday he stayed on, doing a little unpaid labour as he resettled some of the rocks in a more natural way. He had no lunch to eat and he was determined to keep his back to the spot where Chip had skulked the previous day. Frank guessed the mongrel was probably lurking in the shrubbery again.
