The Dotty Dalmatian

by Anna Wilson

  ‘Interviewing for an assistant,’ Marble Wainwright butted in rudely. ‘Which is precisely why I am here. And you’d better let me in quickly before I get knocked over by that mad dog that’s running around out there.’

  Mrs Fudge peered over the shoulder of her potato-faced neighbour. ‘Dog, you say? What dog?’ There was no sign of a dog in Liquorice Drive.

  ‘Yes, I hope it’s not one of your customers’. I can tell you that when I’m your assistant I shall forbid anyone to bring any such raucous beast on to the premises.’ Marble pushed her way in, and with a quick glance behind her pulled the door fast with a slam.

  Mrs Fudge shrugged at Pippa, then led Marble into the kitchen and offered her a cup of tea and a piece of homemade shortbread. Then she sat down herself and gathered together her pen and clipboard on to which she had clipped sheets of paper covered with interview questions. Meanwhile Marble took three pieces of shortbread and made a huge performance out of munching her way through all of them: crumbs gathered in the corners of her mouth, a thin dribble of saliva worked its way down her hairy chin and she made a lot of rather unappealing noises as she ate. Poor Mrs Fudge had to wait quite a while before she could start asking Marble any interview questions.

  Pippa was bursting with indignation as she watched Marble polish off her final slice of shortbread. Mrs Fudge cannot be so desperate for help that she would take on this old trout as her assistant, she told herself.

  Dash was evidently thinking the same thing as he trotted over to sit at Pippa’s feet, his mouth curled into a faint snarl of disapproval.

  Finally, with one last long slurp of her tea, Marble sat back, smacked her lips and said, ‘So, what would I have to do as your assistant then? It can’t be that hard if she’s been doing it,’ she added, nodding disdainfully in Pippa’s direction.

  Mrs Fudge was lost for words. She need not have worried though, as Pippa usually had enough words for the two of them, and on this occasion she certainly did not disappoint.

  ‘First of all, Marble,’ she said, pouring scorn on every syllable as though she was pouring weedkiller on a particularly stubborn thistle, ‘I should remind you that you are the one being interviewed, so it is not for you to ask the questions, and second of all, you did not give your name over the phone so Mrs Fudge was not expecting you, and third of all, had she known it was you she would have told you where to shove your opinions—’

  ‘Er, thank you, Pippa dear!’ Mrs Fudge had found her voice at last.

  Pippa snapped her mouth shut and said, ‘Fine. I just hope you know what you’re doing, Mrs Fudge,’ which, admittedly, was quite rude, but I probably would have said the same.

  ‘I think the best way to see if you would be right for the job is to give you a challenge, Marble,’ said Mrs Fudge. She winked surreptitiously at Pippa as she said this.

  Pippa liked the sound of that and waited eagerly to see what would happen next.

  Marble sniffed snootily. ‘I don’t see why that should be necessary, Semolina.’

  Mrs Fudge flinched. She hated her first name. Everyone in Crumbly-under-Edge knew that.

  ‘I would prefer it if you would call me Mrs Fudge. Especially if you are serious about being my assistant,’ Mrs Fudge added carefully, discreetly putting a big black cross on her interview sheet against the words ‘Be good with people’ and another next to the phrase ‘Have a sunny nature’.

  ‘I bet you would, Semolina!’ scoffed Marble. ‘I should too if I had your silly name!’ Pippa gasped and Dash’s hackles went shooting up along his neck.

  ‘You must get rid of this old bat immediately!’ he barked.

  ‘And I can’t work with that sausage on legs under my feet all the time,’ Marble sneered, nodding her head brusquely in Dash’s direction. ‘He’s a Health and Safety hazard if you ask me. Anyone could trip over him, he’s so short.’

  Mrs Fudge hastily invited Marble to follow her into the salon as Dash gave a warning growl. ‘I think we need to see you in action, dear,’ she said to Marble, handing her a pair of rubber gloves, some dog shampoo and a set of brushes. ‘Dash here will be our guinea pig—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Pippa cried, wrapping her arms around the miniature dachshund. ‘First he gets called a sausage on legs and now you’re going to change him into a different type of animal entirely!’

  Mrs Fudge was shaking her head and laughing. ‘It’s only an expression, dear. It means that Dash will be our model.’

  Dash looked very coy at this. ‘Ah yes, well. I do have some experience on the catwalk, as it happens.’

  Muffles, who had been sleeping on a twirly-whirly chair, pricked up her ears at this and growled softly.

  ‘Not that kind of catwalk, you imbecile,’ snarled Dash. ‘A catwalk in a fashion show!’

  ‘I think this is an excellent idea!’ Marble butted in, seizing the shampoo and brushes in one hand and roughly scooping up poor Dash in the other. ‘Come here, mutt. Let’s see if we can’t get you looking half decent for once.’

  Mrs Fudge quietly put a big black cross against the words ‘Be good with dogs’.

  Dash said afterwards that it was the worst twenty minutes of his life. Marble upended the entire contents of the shampoo bottle over his head and proceeded to pummel and push and prod and poke him, all the while telling him he was a ‘filthy little hound’ and that she had ‘never seen the likes of such a messy beast before’.

  By the time she had finished with him, Dash looked more like a drowned rat than a dashingly handsome miniature dachshund. His beautiful feathery fur was left sticking to his skin in thick soapy clumps. He sat on one of Mrs Fudge’s best fluffy towels, shivering and shaking and looking very sorry for himself indeed.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Fudge, turning to Pippa, ‘how many marks out of ten do you think Marble deserves for her efforts?’

  Pippa was bright red in the face. Half of her was furious with Marble for thinking she could walk into the job of assistant, when she obviously had no idea what she was doing, and the other half of her was trying very hard not to laugh at how silly she had made Dash the ‘fashion model’ look.

  ‘I – er – mfulllluggle!’ she babbled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I think too,’ said Mrs Fudge. She was doing a very impressive job of keeping a straight face. ‘I’m sorry, Marble, but that’s a two out of ten from us. Not good enough, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A TWO?’ bellowed Marble. ‘Well, I’d like to see anyone make that excuse for a dog look presentable.’

  Mrs Fudge stood up abruptly and slammed her clipboard down on the table in front of her. ‘As I say, I am most terribly sorry.’ She was taking care to keep her voice low and even. ‘But, do you know, I should have thought of this earlier – I don’t think I can really have a customer as an assistant, Marble. Think what the others would say! They would think I was giving you preferential treatment.’

  Marble bristled. ‘But that’s the whole point of my coming to work for you,’ she said, astonished at Mrs Fudge’s evident stupidity. ‘I thought you would give your staff reduced rates. I’ve supported you enough over the years, haven’t I?’

  Marble, support us! thought Pippa. That really took the biscuit. (not to mention half a plate of shortbread.)

  ‘Thank you for your time, Marble,’ Mrs Fudge said stiffly. ‘It was kind of you to think I might need your help. I will let you know how the other interviews go. I have rather a lot of other people to see today,’ she fibbed.

  ‘But—’ Marble exclaimed.

  However, she did not get the opportunity to protest further, as Dash had leaped down from the table and was hurriedly butting her with his very wet and soapy head, which had the desired effect of herding the disagreeable woman out into the hall. Pippa skipped ahead of them to hold the front door open to allow for the quickest exit possible.

  Mrs Fudge followed, smiling thinly. ‘I’ll see you and Snooks soon, Marble. Until then, take care!’ She opened the door
and handed Marble her coat and tea-cosy hat, giving her a little push in the right direction.

  Marble crammed her tea cosy on to her head and spun round, letting out a harrumphing noise as she beetled off down the path.

  ‘Good riddance!’ said Dash.

  ‘To very bad and stinky rubbish,’ added Pippa, wrinkling her button nose.

  ‘I only wish it was,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘But, as you know, it’s not that easy to get rid of Marble.’

  5

  Another Bad Day

  The minute Marble left, the phone started ringing.

  ‘I had better answer that in case it’s about the advertisement,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘Can you finish rinsing Dash, Pippa dear?’

  Pippa scowled. She had been planning to answer the phone herself.

  I could have told them the post was already taken, she thought. By ME!

  But one look at the bedraggled little dog at her feet was enough to know he couldn’t remain as he was for much longer without catching a chill, so she called for him to follow, and the pair of them scampered into the salon to get on with the job Marble had left unfinished.

  ‘Well, dears!’ Mrs Fudge announced, as Dash was being restored to his former self. ‘This is a turn-up for the books. Our next candidate is a man! He’ll be here in five minutes, so we’d better look shipshape.’

  ‘Why, is he a sailor?’ asked Pippa.

  ‘No, dear,’ said Mrs Fudge patiently. ‘He’s a mechanic.’

  ‘Whatever next!’ said Dash.

  Pippa smiled to herself. He’s bound to be useless, she thought.

  And from the moment he arrived, it certainly looked as though Pippa was right.

  For a start, the man was huge: over six and a half feet tall and with a tummy so round that when he sat down there was no room on his lap for anything else. Sitting or standing, he seemed to fill up all the space in the cosy little kitchen.

  He’ll scare the customers away! Pippa thought smugly. And I bet he eats far too much cake. Mrs Fudge won’t like that.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been workin’ in the garage for thirty years. Fancy a change, really,’ he was saying, as he slurped the tea Pippa gave him (and took a fistful of flapjacks, she noticed with glee).

  If all the candidates are as greedy as Marble and this man, Mrs Fudge will never find anyone suitable! she thought.

  ‘I like your little mutt,’ he was saying. ‘Wouldn’t mind a tiddler like him meself, actually.’ He bent down and picked Dash up with one massive meaty hand, holding him up to his face as though he was thinking of taking a bite out of him as well.

  Dash’s eyes opened wide in alarm. ‘Put me down, you monster!’ he yapped. ‘You’d better not ask him to groom me, Mrs F., or this will be the last you see of me!’

  ‘Ooo, chatty little scoundrel, ain’t ’e?’ chuckled the man as he set Dash back down with a bump. The dog gratefully scooted under Pippa’s chair and stayed there, shivering with fright.

  ‘I – I’d rather you didn’t call Dash a “mutt” or a “scoundrel”,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘I like to treat every dog that comes to Chop ’n’ Chat with respect.’

  ‘Ha! Respect! To a little moog like that?’ crowed the mechanic.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘Respect to ALL my customers.’ She let out a small sigh as she put black crosses against the words ‘Be good with dogs’ and ‘Be polite’ and went on hurriedly: ‘So, erm, what skills do you think you have to bring to the post, exactly? I also run a hairdressing business – would you be able to help with that?’ she added doubtfully.

  ‘Well . . . I’m willin’ to learn,’ the mechanic said.

  ‘It’s not like we have much time to teach you,’ Pippa snapped.

  The man suddenly looked desperate. ‘Please give me a shot, Mrs Fudge,’ he said, wringing his huge hands. ‘I can’t be doin’ with workin’ in the garage no longer. There’s been some funny goin’s on down there and I don’t like it no more.’

  Mrs Fudge frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  The mechanic looked around furtively as though he thought someone might be spying on him. ‘Things have gone missin’ from me workshop. Weird things. An old pair o’ boots I use for particularly mucky jobs, my favourite overalls – they both disappeared overnight. And then yesterday mornin’ I had a lovely sausage-and-bacon sandwich packed up for me by the wife, and that got nicked while I was answerin’ the phone! And then there was my towels what I use after I’ve ’ad to change the oil. Goodness knows why anyone’d want them. Awful dirty they are. But I lost them too – all I could find was a few shredded bits o’ fabric out in the yard, like some dreadful beast had torn them up with its teef!’ He shuddered as he said this.

  ‘Well, that’s most unfortunate,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘But I don’t quite see why—’

  ‘And then there’s the howlin’!’ he blurted out. ‘Terrible, blood-curdlin’ howlin’ on these dark winter afternoons. It chills me to the bone! I can’t stay workin’ down at that garage no more, Mrs Fudge. Take pity on me!’

  Pippa snorted and made a big show of clearing away the tea things and clattering them into the sink.

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Fudge, sighing. ‘So what do you think you would be able to help us with?’

  ‘I’ve got a very useful toolbox,’ said the man eagerly. ‘Give me a blowtorch and you’ll soon see what I can do!’

  Mrs Fudge shook her head. ‘Oh, no, no, no! What on earth do you think we would use one of those for?’

  ‘We-e-ell,’ said the man. ‘You could use it to remove unwanted hair!’ he suggested.

  Mrs Fudge swallowed and quickly changed the subject. ‘What about shampooing or fur-clipping or claw-trimming?’ she asked. ‘Would you be any good at those jobs?’

  ‘I suppose I’d use my pliers and wire-cutters—’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ cried Mrs Fudge, slamming down her clipboard.

  ‘But you must need a man about the place – to fix things sometimes, for example?’ he pleaded.

  Mrs Fudge put a couple more big black crosses on her interview sheet. ‘What about my sore feet, tired arms and exhausted brain? Could you fix them, I wonder?’ she asked, impatient to get rid of the man.

  The mechanic looked down at his huge feet and shook his head sheepishly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that.’

  Mrs Fudge smiled thinly and asked Pippa to show him out.

  Pippa’s freckled face was shining with delight as she shut the door on the man. ‘That’s another “no” then!’ she said. ‘What a shame.’

  A whole week went by and no one suitable presented themselves for the job. Mrs Fudge was as busy as ever and rushed from client to client, getting herself in more and more of a tizz. She gave a spaniel a perm one day instead of his owner and used his anti-flea treatment instead of conditioner on a very fussy lady who threatened to get the salon closed down if Mrs Fudge didn’t ‘pay compensation’ for the ‘appalling stench’ it left in her hair.

  ‘I don’t see what the problem was,’ Pippa remarked when Mrs Fudge told her about it after school one day. ‘At least she won’t get fleas.’

  ‘Oh, Pippa! I can’t cope, I really can’t!’ cried Mrs Fudge in despair. ‘There must be someone out there who is reliable enough to take on the job!’

  ‘Hello, darlin’s!’ Raphael had arrived unnoticed. ‘Mercy me, what a mess it is in here. What you been doin’, sweetness?’ He surveyed the chaotic salon with a frown. ‘It look like a herd o’ muddy elephants been a-rampagin’ through here, man!’

  It was true. That afternoon had been particularly trying, and the last customer of the day, a St Bernard, had been the trickiest to deal with. His owner had announced he was in ‘desperate need of a good wash and brush-up’. Unfortunately the giant dog did not seem to agree, for he had refused point blank to sit still. Pippa had chased him around the salon with a bag of extra-large doggy chocs until she had finally got him into a corner. She had then leaped on to his back to hold him down while his owner and Mrs Fudge swiftly
tied him to a table leg with a length of extra-strong rope. Thankfully the doggy chocs had kept him occupied while he had his shampoo, but the minute he had been rinsed he had shaken his thick wet coat all over Pippa, Mrs Fudge and his owner! As you can no doubt imagine, they had received a most unwelcome shower in the process.

  There were now huge muddy doggy paw-prints all over the usually pristine floor, and clumps of dog hair muddled up with wisps of human hair from previous clients. The work surfaces were littered with a mishmash of dog-grooming accessories and hair-care products and there were chaotic towers of used teacups and saucers and cake plates thrown into the muddle.

  Raphael surveyed the scene with a lot of tutting and teeth-sucking. ‘My, my. I see you has not had any luck with findin’ an assistant, darlin’!’ he said (rather unnecessarily).

  Pippa gave the postie a glare. ‘She doesn’t need an assistant—’

  But Raphael was not listening. ‘Cos d’you know who I tink would be de perfect person for de job?’ He paused, then threw his arms wide and said, ‘ME!’

  ‘What?’ chorused Mrs Fudge and Pippa.

  ‘Yours truly! Me, myself and I!’ said Raphael, pirouetting on his rollerblades. ‘I has always known there be more to life than being a postie. This is my chance to branch out! Go on, Mrs Fudge darlin’. You know you want to give me a go.’

  ‘Raphael wouldn’t be any good!’ protested Pippa. ‘He doesn’t know anything about pooch pampering. He doesn’t even have a dog! And think what a disaster he would be on his rollerblades when the salon is full. He would crash into everything. Besides, he would chitter-chatter to everyone so much, he’d never get anything done. And then there’s all the tea he would drink—’

  ‘That’s enough, Pippa,’ said Mrs Fudge. She looked at Raphael sadly. ‘More to the point, Raphael dear, who will be the postman in Crumbly-under-Edge if you come to work here?’