by Colin Dann
A voice behind him startled him. It was not the voice of any of his fellow workers; it was rather too cultured. ‘You’ve made a wonderful start on that.’
Frank turned and saw a man in late middle age, shortish and tubby, dressed in a suit, with a broad smile on his face.
‘It’s not all my effort,’ Frank answered honestly, grinning back. ‘But thanks.’
‘Hard work, I should think.’
‘Yes.’ Frank pulled a face. ‘I’m all aches today. But I’m not too bothered. Having a job’s the main thing.’
‘Absolutely.’ The older man nodded. ‘You look as if the outdoor life suits you. You have a good colour. You must have been doing this sort of thing for quite a while?’
Frank thought quickly. He knew only too well where his colour came from. But he didn’t want to give the slightest indication of his homeless state. He didn’t know who this man was. ‘Oh well, you know,’ he said vaguely. ‘I forget exactly.’
‘Mmm.’ The man stepped closer. ‘Actually,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I’m looking for someone to help out in my garden. If you know of anyone who might be interested, I’d be glad to hear from them. It’d be a full-time job. There’s an awful lot to do. My wife and I can’t cope with it. We’ve only been in the house a short while. The previous owner rather let the garden go.’
‘A full-time job?’ Frank repeated, trying to hide his excitement.
‘Yes. And there would be accommodation to go with it. There’s a sort of cabin in the grounds – very tiny but big enough for an unattached young man.’
Frank gaped. This was too good to be true.
The man could see he had caught the bait. ‘Would you know of anybody? Here’s my card. There’s the number to ring. Hello – is this your dog?’
Chip had turned up, wagging his tail, and eager to see who Frank was talking to.
‘We couldn’t take anyone with a dog,’ the man said firmly. ‘We have one of our own. It wouldn’t work. Matter of fact, we had two of our own at one time, but what with the house move and everything else to deal with we had to get rid of one of them.’
‘It’s not my dog,’ Frank said in what he hoped was a convincing tone. ‘It’s a stray that comes round here looking for titbits.’ He raised his voice and said as firmly as he could, ‘I wish it would leave me alone.’
‘I see.’ The other man turned to go. ‘Well, you have my card. Perhaps you can talk to your mates; see if anyone’s interested. Mustn’t hold you up any more. Nice talking to you.’ He strode away, leaving Frank clutching the business card and glaring at Chip. For a moment, all he could see was a potential obstacle between himself and a full-time job (with accommodation!). This was the best chance to come his way since his father had thrown him out.
‘Go away!’ Frank shouted at the dog. ‘Go away!’
Chip stopped cavorting about and looked nervously at Mr Perfect. The new harsh tone in the man’s voice added to the dog’s previous uncertainties. Chip’s tail drooped and he backed a few steps, then turned and ran off with a frightened little yelp. Frank slumped down on one of the small boulders, feeling thoroughly miserable. After a while he pulled out his mouth-organ and blew at it guiltily.
The tune calmed him but he didn’t dare look round to see where Chip was, so he played on. The plaintive music carried a little distance, and someone stepped slowly towards Frank to listen. He waited until the tune was ended before he spoke.
‘That’s where I know you from!’ he exclaimed. ‘You used to play by the underground station. You had a dog with you.’
Frank looked up sharply. The staff manager who had given him his job was staring at him.
‘You’re homeless, aren’t you?’
Frank nodded wretchedly.
‘Yes. Well, I’m afraid this puts a different complexion on things,’ the manager remarked, not unsympathetically. ‘I don’t think I—’
‘You don’t have to say it,’ Frank interrupted him. ‘I’ll leave. Will you pay me for the work I’ve done?’
‘Of course. Come to my office in the morning and we’ll settle up. I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand that in a public position . . . I’d be happy to put in a word for you privately, though, if it would help. You’re a good worker.’
Frank pocketed his mouth-organ. His hand touched the business card he had been given a little earlier, and his spirits lifted a trifle.
At the park gate a keeper recognized Chip and grasped him. Later that evening the Dogs’ Home received a new admission.
12
Meanwhile, Digby and Streak were acting like two strays themselves. Neither of them, however, had Chip’s instinct for survival on the streets. The older dog took the lead and Digby was happy to let him. They made their way first to some public gardens that Streak knew well as a quiet refuge from traffic and noise. There was a pond in the centre, and Digby had a long drink. A small café stood next to the pond, and Streak knew where they could find scraps from the kitchen. The two dogs slunk around the containers of rubbish at the back of the café, pulling and tearing at bags and cartons. They found very little to their liking.
‘We’re not cut out for this kind of thing,’ Digby said. ‘We’ve always been used to better rations.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Streak reminded him. ‘We have to eat what and where we can until you’re settled again.’
‘Streak, you don’t have to do this,’ Digby said guiltily. ‘You have a good home. Please go back. Why should you suffer because of me?’
‘Because I choose to,’ Streak replied quietly. ‘Don’t worry on my account. I can bear this for a bit. Let’s make sure it is only for a bit, though. How can we pick up the right trail? Can you think of any clue that would help?’
Digby swallowed a lump of stale bread and thought hard. ‘Would you know the way to the compound from here?’ he asked.
‘Compound? You mean the Dogs’ Home?’
‘Yes. If you could get us there I’d know what to do. I remember everything about the day I was chosen.’
‘All right,’ said Streak. ‘I’ll try my best. I think I know how we should go. It’ll be the opposite way from my way home. We’ll just keep running.’
‘But, Streak,’ Digby begged, ‘don’t run at your usual pace. I won’t be able to keep up!’
Frank left the park without a backward glance. He carried his holdall in his left hand; with his right he continually fingered the card in his pocket. He couldn’t decide whether to get in touch. It all seemed too perfect. Life didn’t work like that: one day you were homeless and penniless and the next set up in a job with a home included. At least, not in his experience. But then again, why not? Stranger things had happened. Maybe this was the turning point. He walked aimlessly along with no definite direction in mind. His head was full of dreams. If he could get this job, if he could stay in it, if he could have his own little place . . . well, the past with all its unpleasantness and trials could be forgotten. He could even write to his father and stepmother and tell them where he was. They hadn’t been in touch for many years.
He took the card out and read it for the twentieth time.
James Odling
Rothesay House
29 Berwyn Road
Tel. 0171–876 2226
There was a telephone box along the road. Frank thought it too soon to make the call. He bought himself some fish and chips and ate them from the paper, seated on the kerb. Afterwards he sat looking at the telephone box and watched people making their calls. He told himself he’d count up to a dozen and then, after the twelfth person had used the telephone, he would use it himself. If he struck lucky with thirteen, then he really would believe that the whole thing wasn’t a hoax.
More than an hour had passed by the time the twelfth person had finished telephoning. Frank hauled himself to his feet and winced at his aching limbs. He stepped to the box and, without any further hesitation, dialled Mr Odling’s number. A young girl answered, and Frank asked for her
father.
‘James Odling.’ Frank recognized the voice.
‘Good afternoon. We spoke earlier about a gardening job.’ Frank’s heart pounded excitedly. ‘I have your card.’
‘Ah yes. Well, you’re very prompt. Are you interested yourself, or is there someone—’
‘No, no, it’s me. I want the job. I mean, I would like to take the job if it’s offered,’ Frank babbled. He closed his eyes, clenching the phone tightly as he waited for the reply.
‘Fine. Come and see us. You might change your mind when you see the garden.’ Odling laughed.
‘Oh no. No. I won’t,’ Frank assured him.
‘OK. Can you come this evening? Good. About six? Right then. Here are the directions . . .’
Frank scrabbled for a pen and quickly noted down what he was told on the back of the business card. He came out of the telephone box chanting ‘Lucky thirteen, lucky thirteen’ to the amusement of a passer-by of whom Frank then asked the time.
‘Four fifteen.’
He hadn’t long. ‘I must make myself respectable,’ he said to himself. He quickly calculated his loose change. There was just enough to buy a five-pound shirt from a bargain clothes market he knew. Was there time? ‘There’ll have to be,’ he decided, and began to run. The holdall slowed him down but he did the best he could. In the market he snatched the first shirt of suitable size. Then into a busy pub while the barman wasn’t looking to make use of its facilities to change and wash. Five o’clock.
‘The jeans will have to stay. But he’s seen them already so I’ve nothing to lose there.’ His hair was too long, he had a slight beard, his jacket was worn, his shoes were scuffed . . . ‘Lucky thirteen, lucky thirteen,’ he chanted as he tried to tidy himself.
The new shirt scratched his skin. He stuffed his old one in his bag and dashed from the building. It had started to rain. He glanced at his directions and set off at an uneven trot.
By the time he reached Rothesay House Frank was very wet. Water dripped from his hair and ran down his face and neck on to his clean shirt. Still, there was nothing he could do about the weather. He took a towel out of his bag and dried his head a little while he looked at the premises.
The house was a large Edwardian building with three steps leading up to an elaborate porch. There were a lot of windows and an imposing front door. But it was the front garden which mostly occupied Frank’s gaze. It consisted of a lawn around which was a gravel drive and a collection of tremendously overgrown shrubs. All the plants seemed to be growing into each other. The immediate impression was one of gloom; almost fore-boding. Frank whistled. ‘Lucky thirteen,’ he muttered. He raked his fingers through his hair and hurried to the front door.
Odling answered his knock. ‘You’re late,’ he remarked irritably as soon as he saw the young man.
‘Am I? I’m really sorry. I don’t have a watch and I thought I was in good time,’ Frank apologized.
‘It’s ten past six,’ Odling announced.
Frank gulped. Was the man always going to be so precise?
‘You’d better come through,’ Odling said. ‘What’s that you have there? Your luggage? This is rather premature, isn’t it? You won’t be staying tonight, you know.’
Frank thought quickly. ‘It’s just some things I picked up from work,’ he invented.
Odling took no notice. He led Frank through the lofty hall and via the kitchen to the back garden. His wife and daughter followed them out. Frank’s jaw dropped as he saw the size of the wilderness before him. It was apparent that, apart from mowing the long rectangular lawn, no one had done anything to the garden for an age.
‘You see our problem?’ Odling commented.
‘I do indeed,’ Frank admitted. ‘It would be difficult to know where to start.’
‘Changed your mind?’
‘Well – er – no. But it would take months of work to get it into any semblance of shape.’
‘Exactly. That’s why we don’t want an ordinary jobbing gardener. Our aim is to enjoy our garden and a keen young man like you should regard that aim as a challenge.’ Odling fixed his eyes intently on Frank. ‘Otherwise you’ll be no use to us.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Frank.
‘Come, I’ll show you the shack. That’s what my daughter calls it.’
Frank followed him to a corner of the garden which was slightly less unkempt than the rest. Among some tall rhododendrons, in a sort of clearing, stood a wooden summerhouse, amply proportioned and in good condition. Odling unlocked the door. It was neat and tidy inside. There was a sitting area, a small kitchenette with cooker and fridge and a tiny bathroom. At the other end stood a divan bed.
‘All mod cons,’ Odling joked. ‘You’ve got light, heat, running water. The previous owner made it into a kind of granny flat.’
Frank was delighted. The shack was light and airy. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he said.
‘I thought I might do my homework in here sometimes,’ Odling’s daughter told him. She was tall and dark and about twelve years of age, Frank guessed. ‘Mummy and Daddy don’t like my music.’
‘I hope you won’t mind if I borrow it?’ he asked kindly.
The girl smiled. ‘No. It’ll be used properly again.’
‘We’ve got all the tools you’ll need. All you have to do is supply the muscle and diligence,’ Odling said. ‘Judging by the new rockery in the park you could make a good show here too.’
Frank forbore from repeating his denial that the rockery work had all been his. ‘I’d do my very best,’ he said simply.
‘Well now, how much notice do you have to give?’
‘None. I’m paid on a daily basis,’ Frank fibbed.
‘Oh really?’ Odling looked at him for a few moments as though undecided. Then he turned and locked the summer house. ‘Well, here you’d be on a weekly arrangement. As we don’t know each other, I’d have to start you on no more than eighty. Then we’ll see how we go on. Of course all your power and water would be paid for. How does that sound?’
Frank thought of cold pavements, draughty squats and busking. ‘It sounds like a dream,’ he murmured before he could stop himself.
‘A what?’ Odling asked sharply.
‘Nothing. I mean – um – well, it’s just fine,’ Frank assured him.
‘Good, good. Well, I’ll have a word with the park supervisor, and if he’s happy with you let’s say you’ll start the day after tomorrow. We’ll sort out all the paperwork when you arrive. Let’s go indoors now before we all end up soaked.’
A dog began to bark from a back room as Frank re-entered the house. He remembered Odling’s regulation, and felt a mixture of guilt and relief that Chip appeared to have given up on him. The man shook hands with him and the wife and daughter looked pleased. The young man’s pleasant, unassuming manner and his pleasing accent had won them over at once. Frank left the house, shut the garden gate and said to himself for the umpteenth time, ‘Lucky thirteen. The day after tomorrow is the thirteenth. So this really does look like Fate.’
However, until that date, Frank still had two more nights of discomfort to endure. He decided to use the shelter of the railway arch again. As he rushed along through the rain he could barely contain his excitement. It was difficult to credit what had happened, his luck had changed so suddenly. He still felt guilty about the way he had banished Chip but tried to comfort himself with the thought that the mongrel had never really been his.
Safely ensconced under the arch, Frank was very wet but he felt no discomfort. In his mind he was already living in the wooden cabin in the garden of Rothesay House. He daydreamed about how he would arrange the place to his satisfaction and then chuckled to himself. ‘I’ve nothing to arrange,’ he thought. ‘I must buy some things with the money I’ll get tomorrow.’
After an hour or so the dampness of his clothing began to irk him. He repacked his bag abruptly and walked to a nearby pizza restaurant. Over a mug of coffee he gradually dried out. The last thing he wante
d now was to catch a bad chill.
He slept well, dry and warm for the most part. In the morning he had a hasty wash and then returned to the park to collect his wages. The sun was shining and pockets of mist rose from the saturated grass and leaves. Everything smelt fresh and new and Frank experienced a wonderful feeling of well-being.
The staff manager paid out what was owed almost without a word. Then, as Frank was leaving, the man said, ‘I had a phone call from a Mr Odling half an hour ago. He wanted a reference, so I told him the reason you were leaving here was nothing that would stop you being an excellent employee anywhere else. Has he offered you a job?’
‘Yes, he has.’
‘Gardening work?’
‘Yes.’ Frank smiled. ‘Of another kind. Working in a wilderness.’ He left the manager, whistling happily. Not until he reached the park gate did he count his money over and plan what to do with it. There were several things he needed to buy – a razor, for instance – but chiefly he needed clothes. But first there was a small debt to settle.
He strode towards Keserly Street. It was a glorious day and he felt he wanted to share it with somebody. He was disappointed to find there was no answer at Miss Crisp’s flat. Frank folded a ten-pound note into a scrap of paper and wrote a short message on the outside. Then he pushed it through the woman’s letterbox. He was still longing to tell someone about his good luck, and suddenly he thought of Norman. He wasn’t sure if he was still in hospital, but decided he would try.
He found the old man sitting in an easy chair in the television room. Despite his bandages he looked very comfortable.
‘My only visitor!’ he exclaimed as Frank walked in. ‘You’ve certainly been faithful to me.’
Frank grinned. ‘You’re going to find adjusting to the outside again very difficult,’ he observed.
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Norman answered, shaking his head. ‘I told you that before. What’s your news?’
