The Dotty Dalmatian

by Anna Wilson

  For Ben Fallon, who wrote a brilliant book report

  on The Poodle Problem. I hope you like

  The Dotty Dalmatian just as much.

  Contents

  The Remindery Bit

  1. Fully Booked!

  2. Chaos Is the Order of the Day

  3. Raphael’s Solution

  4. An Unlikely Candidate

  5. Another Bad Day

  6. A New Arrival

  7. The Dog Whisperer

  8. Pippa Peppercorn Is Unimpressed

  9. Minx Charms the Crumblies

  10. A Dark and Foggy Night

  11. The Postie Whisperer

  12. Minx Is Right Again

  13. More Poochy Problems

  14. It’s in the Bag!

  15. The Missing Post Bag

  16. Intruder Alert!

  17. A Three-Bone Problem?

  18. The Dotty Dalmatian

  The Bit at the End Where Everything Is Sorted Out

  The Remindery Bit

  Hello, dear reader. I do hope you have been well since we last met. It is a pleasure to have your company as we ramble along the streets of Crumbly-under-Edge once more. We are going to drop in on Mrs Fudge and her pooch-pampering parlour again, if that is all right with you.

  Now, I do realize that it is possible you are one of the unfortunate readers who did not have the pleasure of reading The Poodle Problem, which was all about how Mrs Fudge came to set up her pooch-pampering parlour. If so, that is a great shame, as it is a rather lovely story. Also, you will have no idea what I have been talking about so far, which is indeed an even greater shame.

  But have no fear! I shan’t hold it against you. I shall introduce you to all the main characters so that you know who’s who and what’s what.

  If, on the other hand, you are a reader who has already read The Poodle Problem . . . Well, hip, hip, hooray to you! And because you are obviously a marvellous person with excellent good taste, I am sure you won’t mind a quick reminder of the main characters, will you? Good, now that’s sorted, let’s begin.

  This is Pippa Peppercorn. She is ten and a half (she has grown a little since the last story) and because of this she has to go to school. This is obviously extremely irritating, but if you are ten and a half there are certain things that you cannot get out of, and school is one of these. She would much rather be helping out Mrs Fudge all the time but sadly she can only do this after school, at weekends, and in the holidays. Her parents don’t mind, by the way, that she spends all her spare time at Mrs Fudge’s place, as her parents are too boring to notice. (As indeed are most parents, I’m sure you’ll agree.)

  This is Mrs Fudge. As you can tell, she is kindliest lady that ever there was, from the ends of her fluffy white hair to the tips of her shiny black shoes. She used to run a hair salon called Chop ’n’ Chat in a back room of her house on Liquorice Drive. Well, she still does run a hair salon called Chop ’n’ Chat actually (which is where Pippa helps out), but she also very recently branched out into pampering pooches alongside their owners. And she bakes, as they say, ‘exceedingly good cakes’. All in all, she is a multi-tasker extraordinaire and a thoroughly good person to boot.

  This is Raphael. He is the postman in Crumbly-under-edge. He is a great friend of Mrs Fudge and Pippa. He always gets the gossip before anyone else, so he is really rather useful too.

  This is Muffles. She is Mrs Fudge’s cat. She doesn’t do or say much, but she didn’t want to be left out.

  This is Dash.

  Charming! Leave me until last – and after the cat! I ask you . . .

  *Sighs*

  Dash is a dashingly handsome miniature dachshund.

  That’s more like it!

  He is also a right little chatterbox and suffers occasionally from ‘small dog syndrome’. In other words, he can act a bit big for his boots sometimes, when actually he is not at all big. Nor does he wear boots. Oh well, you get my meaning. He fancies himself as a bit of a detective as well. (Actually, he just plain fancies himself most of the time.)

  Huh!

  However, Mrs Fudge, Pippa and Raphael adore him in spite of (or even because of) his snootiness.

  I am beginning to feel a little upset!

  Oh, come on. You know we love you . . .

  Now, dear reader, I hope that you’re ready for what comes next: it’s a twisty-turny rollercoaster of a tale with a lot of bumps and bruises along the way, so you’d best buckle up and hold on tight . . .

  1

  Fully Booked!

  Pippa was riffling through the pages of the enormous black ledger next to the shiny red telephone in Mrs Fudge’s salon. ‘Have you seen the list of people you’ve got booked in today, Mrs Fudge?’ she cried. ‘How on earth are we going to fit them all in?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ the old lady sighed, peering over her assistant’s shoulder at the scribbled lines of names and appointment times. The pages were so full of hurried pencillings that Mrs Fudge had quite a time of it trying to read what she had written. She squinted through her half-moon spectacles and over the top of them, then she gave them a quick clean on the edge of her favourite blue-and-white daisy apron, but the writing remained as messy and undecipherable as ever. One thing was certain, however: there were more customers wanting to come to Chop ’n’ Chat than ever before.

  Mrs Fudge pushed her spectacles further up her nose and scanned the first page. ‘I know it’s a lot, but with your helping hand I’ll be fine, I’m sure, dear. I just can’t bring myself to turn anyone away. Not after . . . well, you know.’

  ‘After what?’ said Pippa.

  Mrs Fudge sighed. Pippa Peppercorn was good at many things, but picking up subtle hints was not one of them. ‘After Trinity Meddler opened a new salon and took all my customers away,’ Mrs Fudge reminded her, rather impatiently.

  ‘Mmm,’ Pippa said, her lips pursed. ‘That old beeswax. Well, she’s gone now. Good riddance to bad rubbish. So I think you could sit back and relax a bit, Mrs Fudge.’

  ‘Oh . . . I know you probably think I’m crazy, filling up my time like this,’ Mrs Fudge said anxiously. ‘But if people need me, I can’t very well say no.’

  ‘You don’t think your customers would leave you again?’ Dash asked, pricking up his glossy, russet ears. ‘That horrible Trinity Meddler business was surely a one-off.’

  (No, you’re not hearing things. Dash can talk. And Mrs Fudge, Pippa and Raphael are the only three people in Crumbly-under-Edge who have the privilege of being able to understand him.)

  ‘I don’t think we should even mention that woman’s name again!’ Pippa blurted out. ‘She was a fiend. A traitor! A VILLAIN!’ Pippa was shouting now and waving her fists provocatively.

  ‘That will do, Pippa dear,’ Mrs Fudge remonstrated (although there was a twinkle in her eye as she said this). ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on? Our first customers will be here shortly.’

  ‘Not before I’s had me mornin’ cuppa with you, darlin’s!’ Raphael the postman had appeared in the doorway. He always let himself in. He was part of the family at Chop ’n’ Chat, forever popping in and making himself at home.

  ‘Raphael!’ cried Pippa, rushing towards him. She began talking at top speed. ‘We haven’t got time for tea this morning. We’re fully booked and rushed off our feet and totally beside ourselves with worry! Maybe you can talk some sense into Mrs Fudge. She’s running herself ragged, filling up her appointments diary and—’

  ‘Talkin’ o’ runnin’ ragged,’ Raphael interrupted. ‘You never guess what I see this mornin’!’ He plonked himself down on a twirly-whirly chair, propping up his long legs on the work surface in front of him (which is not very polite, but if you are Raphael, you can get away with these thi
ngs).

  ‘No, you’re right. We won’t guess,’ said Dash curtly. ‘So why don’t you get on with it and tell us?’

  Mrs Fudge gave him a stern look, but Raphael laughed. ‘He right . . . he won’t guess . . .’ He paused until Pippa joined Dash in crying, ‘Raphael! Tell us!’

  ‘Rooaaaaoooow!’ agreed Muffles.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Raphael said, holding his hands up to silence his audience. ‘I is walkin’ down Liquorice Drive, comin’ to see you, Mrs Fudge, darlin’, when I hears a rustlin’ and a hustlin’ in the bushes. I looks up from sortin’ through me letters, and I fairly jumps right outta me skin! A HUMONGOUS dog come a-rushin’ out in front o’ me – all white and dotty-spotty it was. I never seen a ting like it in my life.’

  Dash growled contemptuously. ‘A Dalmatian,’ he said.

  ‘A what?’ said Pippa and Raphael in unison.

  ‘A Dalmatian,’ repeated Dash. ‘That’s what those large spotty dogs are called.’

  Mrs Fudge frowned. ‘I know all the dogs and their owners in Crumbly-under-Edge and I’m positive there is no one with a large spotty dog.’

  Raphael nodded enthusiastically. ‘That is what I is tinkin’.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me, you were seeing things,’ said Dash. ‘I have to say, I hope you were. We’ve only just got rid of those infernal poodles,’ he added, curling his top lip in a snarl.

  While the Crumblies had been under Trinity’s spell, she had persuaded them to replace their own dogs with oodles of pernickety poodles. It had been a relief for the canine population of Crumbly-under-Edge when the silly fluffy dogs had disappeared one day along with their wicked ringleader, and life had returned to normal.

  Pippa gave a dry chuckle. ‘Yes. Thank goodness they have all gone,’ she said.

  ‘So was this spotty dog on its own?’ Mrs Fudge asked.

  ‘All I seen is the dog,’ replied the postie. ‘But it runnin’ so fast, no human bein’ could be runnin’ with it!’ he cried. ‘And I is so shocked, I is not hangin’ around to find out.’

  Mrs Fudge shook her head. ‘Oh well, I expect whoever owns it will want to bring it in for grooming too. What am I going to do? There are simply not enough hours in the day . . .’ She turned her attention back to her messy, overbooked diary. ‘I should change the name of the salon to “Chop ’n’ Bark”, the way things are these days. There’s certainly not enough time to chat to my customers any more . . .’

  Pippa was deep in thought, tapping the fingers of her right hand on her chin. ‘You know, Mrs Fudge, now that the poodles have gone, you should really have less work in the salon, not more.’

  Mrs Fudge took off her spectacles and rubbed her tired eyes. ‘But, Pippa dear, you’ve forgotten that I have to do the Crumblies’ hair as well as pamper their pooches, so I’ve got double the work I used to have! And I’m not getting any younger, dearies,’ she added, looking sorrowfully at her friends.

  Quite.

  There was no need for that.

  Sorry.

  Mrs Fudge frowned as she ran her eyes over the page in front of her yet again. She was racking her brains for a way to get through the appointments. Thank goodness it’s a Saturday, she thought. If I didn’t have Pippa’s help, I don’t know what I would do.

  ‘So, who’s first?’ Dash asked, jumping up on to the sofa and craning his neck. He didn’t like to be left out of anything that was going on.

  Muffles bristled and moved along to the far end of the sofa. She had always considered it her sofa, and she was not terribly keen on sharing.

  Mrs Fudge bit her lip and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s Marble.’ She squinted at her writing. ‘Although it could be Coral. I wrote it in such a hurry, and now I can’t read it. Oh dear,’ she muttered, taking off her specs again and giving them another vigorous rub on her apron..

  Pippa rolled her eyes. ‘If it’s Marble I think I will go and put that kettle on.’

  Pippa had never forgiven Marble Wainwright for being the first customer to abandon Mrs Fudge in favour of Trinity’s new salon. (Not to mention abandoning her perfect pooch Snooks in favour of one of the ghastly poodles.)

  Mrs Fudge tutted. ‘Marble’s seen the error of her ways, you know that.’

  ‘Really?’ Pippa said, her face twisted with scepticism. ‘I doubt very much that Marble would see the error of anything she ever did. She only ever sees other people’s faults.’ Then, leaving her words hanging in the air like a bad smell, she went to the kitchen to make the tea.

  Dash let out a little snort of doggy laughter. ‘I don’t think you’ll manage to persuade Pippa that Marble is anything other than bad news, Mrs F.!’

  ‘Miaow!’ said Muffles in agreement.

  As Raphael had watched this scene, he began to look distinctly less comfortable at the idea of staying for a cup of tea. Eventually he said, ‘Marble is comin’ now, you say?’ Then he jumped hastily from his chair, sending it spinning wildly. ‘Is dat de time? I is runnin’ late with de post this mornin’.’ He tipped his cap to Mrs Fudge. ‘I had better be off. And if I sees the spotty-dotty dog again, I’ll keep you posted – cos that’s what I do!’

  And with that, the long-legged postie was out of the kitchen and out of the door, rollerblading down Liquorice Drive as fast as a greyhound racing home for its dinner.

  2

  Chaos Is the Order of the Day

  Almost immediately after Raphael had left, the doorbell rang.

  Dearie me! I’m nowhere near ready,’ muttered Mrs Fudge as she hobbled down the hallway to answer the door.

  If she had been anxious before she opened the door, she nearly fainted when she saw how many people and dogs there were outside, all clamouring for her attention. It had been bad enough seeing the list of names in the book; seeing the actual people and dogs on her doorstep was even worse.

  Sure enough, Marble was there at the front of the queue with Snooks the Welsh terrier. Coral Jones was jostling for position behind her in the porch, cradling her pug, Winston, in her arms and elbowing Marble quite viciously. Behind them was Mrs Prim with her spaniel, George. And behind them was a long line of people waiting for appointments with their dogs as well. The queue meandered down to the end of Liquorice Drive and all the way out into the main road.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘Oh dearie, dearie me.’

  She flinched as Marble and Coral tried to get through the door together, their dogs panting excitedly and straining to free themselves from their owners’ grasp.

  ‘One at a time, please,’ Mrs Fudge stammered.

  ‘Out of my way,’ Marble insisted. ‘I am the first customer.’

  Mrs Prim stepped forward. ‘That’s not right,’ she insisted. ‘Coral and I made our bookings together. And you said we should come first thing – don’t you remember, Mrs Fudge?’

  ‘That’s right!’ Coral agreed. ‘Georgie and Winnie love having their baths at the same time, don’t you, boys?’

  George and Winston barked in approval, which unfortunately seemed to set a number of the other dogs off as well.

  ‘Hang on – I had an appointment for ten o’clock,’ said Mrs Peach, pushing forward.

  ‘That can’t be right! So did I!’ cried Penelope Smythe, elbowing Mrs Peach sharply out of the way.

  ‘Er – excuse me, but I did too,’ said Millicent Beadle, apologetically shuffling up to the door.

  And before Mrs Fudge could stop them, everyone came streaming in, dogs and all, gabbling and chattering as they made their way down the hall; dropping and trampling over coats and hats and scarves and gloves as they filed noisily into the salon.

  ‘How are we going to cope with this lot?’ Pippa exclaimed. The room was full to bursting. The windows were steaming up and the cacophony of barking and gossiping was overwhelming.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ shouted poor Mrs Fudge above the chaos. She was quite pink and flustered. ‘It’s all my fault. I must have written everything down wrong. I’ve been so busy this week, darting t
o answer the phone in between doing people’s hair and giving the dogs their treatments too, I can’t have been thinking straight.’

  ‘Too right!’ Pippa snorted derisively. ‘Well, I’m thinking straight, Mrs Fudge, and I’m telling you, we can’t deal with all these people and all these dogs!’

  ‘We’ll have to,’ said Mrs Fudge firmly. ‘I am not turning away perfectly good business.’

  ‘I thought we’d been through this,’ Dash said gently.

  ‘We are going to give these people what they want and that’s that,’ said Mrs Fudge. She may have sounded stern, but she was looking very dazed as she surveyed the mayhem; she honestly did not know where to start.

  ‘It’s perishing out there today, you know,’ Marble said, walking right into Mrs Fudge’s personal space to make sure she could not be ignored. (Marble Wainwright was not someone who was backward in coming forward, you see.)

  Mrs Fudge tried to move away, but only succeeded in treading on Muffles, who had been attempting a furtive getaway. The poor cat yelped and disappeared out of the door in a blur of grey and white, which unfortunately served only to excite the dogs further.

  Marble seemed not to notice any of this, however, so intent was she on getting what she wanted. ‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ she continued. She blew on her hands and rubbed them together theatrically.

  Mrs Fudge gazed out of the window at the beautiful winter’s day. She would not have described it as perishing if she had been outside, instead of stuck in a stuffy hair salon, she thought. The sun was low over the marshmallow-coloured cottages of Crumbly-under-Edge, lending them a soft golden sheen; the sky was dusty blue with not a cloud in sight, and the trees and bushes were covered with a spiky hoar frost that lent them the appearance of Christmas decorations. Mrs Fudge found herself wishing fervently that she could walk out, close the door and leave everyone behind.