by Chris Dolley
oOo
We limped into the next service area, frightened to try any speed above a fast walk in case the rest of the roof tore away. We also closed the remaining skylight – the horses didn’t need any extra ventilation at that point, and it was probably an open skylight that had allowed the wind to rip the roof off.
We found a screen of tall trees and parked to the leeward.
And then phoned England.
They didn’t believe us.
It’s often like that, I’ve found – purveyors of bad news met with incredulity. Of course your roof hasn’t blown off, take another look.
So Sue’s boss asked to speak to me. Though I couldn’t think why – if he wanted someone practical to converse with, there were at last three better candidates in the back.
“Are you sure you can’t put the roof back on?” he pressed.
“Not unless we go to Belgium first and pick up the remains.”
There was a pause. Perhaps he was going to take me up on my suggestion.
“You’ll have to come back to England then.”
What! We’d sweated blood waiting for a window to appear in this storm, and as soon as we hit France, we have to turn round and start again? The weather forecast was horrendous. It might be Saturday, Sunday or Easter before we’d get another chance. And more lairage and forms to fill in and...
The dog and cats!
I could have kissed Gypsy. Thank God for quarantine. We couldn’t go back or the dog and cats would be impounded for six months!
We were saved!
“Ah.” He wasn’t pleased, I could tell. “I’ll ring back.” The phone went dead and Gypsy got a hug.
But what could we do? We couldn’t continue very far as we were. One more gust of wind and we’d be a hazard to every other road user.
The answer came very quickly. Sue’s boss had arranged for another lorry to come out and meet us but it might take twelve hours or so to arrive. Which meant the horses would have broken their allotted number of hours in transit and...
“Lairage?”
“Yes, Lairage.”
I should have known. But we were not sleeping in the darts room again.
oOo
We set off for Boulogne where the lairage was located. Leaving the motorway at the next exit and tracing a circuitous route through every back road and utilising every hillock and piece of shelter we could find. The sky above us was streaked with scudding clouds and getting darker by the minute.
The mobile phone rang again. We were booked into a hotel at Wimereux, just outside Boulogne.
“And they’ll take the dog and cats?”
“Yes, no problem.”
The fools! But thank God for the relaxed attitude of the French towards pets. We’d noticed this before on previous visits; how supermarket and restaurant doors would be opened for a lone dog to walk in and browse around. Unlike England, where lone dogs were seen as the biggest single threat to the nation’s health; children’s hands snatched away from them by anxious mothers, shopkeepers shooing them off doorsteps. But France was the country of égalité for all – even the hairy ones – and we were booked into a hotel!
But first, we had to find the lairage. We were told to look for a riding school on the cliff road between Boulogne and Wimereux. Which was just what we wanted – a nice exposed cliff road to drive up and down. We crawled even slower. We couldn’t have been more exposed if we tried. Fate had opened a hurricane training academy out in the Atlantic and every gust of wind was lined up and racing down the channel straight towards us. The sea below was more white than blue and it was a long, open road to drive down.
And where was the riding school? We couldn’t see any fields of horses or anything that looked like a stable block. We doubled back and tried again. Was that it? I noticed a small homemade road sign flapping in the wind up ahead.
We stopped. And squinted. Was that a picture of a horse? And did that say turn left up the track and then right after one hundred metres? I was convinced it did, but by then I’d perfected a method of translating every other word and filling in the rest with what I wanted to hear. It might not be accurate but it kept me happy.
And I must have been right for two turns and a hundred or so metres later we found the stables. Which couldn’t have looked more unlike the lairage at Dover. While one had been purpose built and new, this one was old and still recognisable as a farm. And it had character. The old courtyard was surrounded by a brick-built farmhouse and outbuildings and beyond that were small paddocks and further buildings – all long and low with the familiar undulating roofline of age and bowed timbers.
And they were expecting us. We didn’t have to explain our plight or throw ourselves upon their mercy in halting French. They knew our story and seemed unconcerned that we couldn’t tell them exactly when we’d return – the fact that it might be in the middle of the night was dismissed with a Gallic shrug. C’est la vie. It certainly was.
The horses were a bit wary of the buildings at first. The entrance to the stables was low, narrow and dark. And only the Great Horse God knew what dwelt beyond.
But we pushed them through, the pony leading the way. And once inside they were out of the wind. And into another age. It looked superb – to lovers of the authentic – low beamed ceilings, uneven dirt floor, lots of wood and leather.
And the horses seemed to like it. Once their eyes had acclimatised to the darkness and they could verify the total dearth of demons dwelling in any of the shadows.
The rugs were next to be unloaded; along with hay nets and lunge ropes and reins and buckets. Horses never travel light.
And then off to the hotel. Following another set of directions – right at the first roundabout, then a left…
Wimereux was a traditional seaside resort – row upon row of small hotels stretched like a ribbon along the coast, all brightly painted in their summer colours, the bars and the pizzerias and the cafes now mostly deserted. And there, close to the promenade was our hotel. It really did exist.
We thanked Sue for all she’d done. The trip hadn’t been easy for any of us and hers wasn’t over yet – she had to drive the horsebox back to England. We made use of her mobile for one last call – Shelagh wanted to make sure we hadn’t been abandoned and someone had noted down both the name of the hotel and its telephone number. Plus, was there an update on the relief horsebox? There wasn’t, but not to worry, someone would contact us soon.
By this time we were a sorry sight. Stood on the pavement with assorted bags and animals, we looked like refugees from some Eastern European conflagration. Yugoslavia, most likely. Shelagh’s often mistaken for a Slav. At least, when she worked in Germany, she was; her long dark hair and lack of German, being taken as proof positive of her Slavic roots. Whereas I had the dubious pleasure of once being mistaken for a Transylvanian. I was walking through the streets of York one night, in the days when I had a great profusion of long ginger hair and a big bushy beard, when I overheard a passer-by whisper to her friend, “and you said you never believed in werewolves?”
So, there we were, standing outside the hotel, a balding werewolf fallen upon hard times and forced to migrate west with Elvira, his gypsy violinist wife. Not to mention the Transylvanian menagerie of were-pets.
But we did have a hotel room. And a bath.
The room was even paid for. All part of the relocation service. The hotel rooms, the lairage fees – everything except for breakfast on the ferry – which I had still not forgiven Shelagh for. How these companies made any money during the winter I did not know. It must be a nightmare of cancelled ferries, diverted horseboxes, last-minute bookings and alterations. And Sue had been contracted to collect other horses after us for a return journey so presumably someone else would have to be diverted to fulfil that obligation.
All that was left before we said goodbye was one final walk round the interior of the horsebox to check we hadn’t left anything behind – the odd horse or two that might have snuck back on. But
no horses – just a Hoover.
We were still arguing over who should have left the vacuum cleaner at the stables when the receptionist arrived to book us in. We filled in the usual cards and presented our passports and did our best to make ourselves understood.
Which was difficult as neither of us was fluent. Shelagh had a grade ‘E’ French ’O’ level, one step up from the failure grade of ‘F’, and I had a grade ‘X’. Not many people have a grade ‘X’. I’d secured mine by holidaying in the Lake District when I should have been attending the orals. Whether there are different grades for other holiday resorts, I don’t know. But I’d like to think there were.
Anyway, most of our efforts were directed to making sure they understood we might not stay the night. But the receptionist didn’t seem to mind how long we stayed for. After all, the room had been paid for. She was more interested in whether we’d be staying for dinner. I said yes, Shelagh said no.
Another argument ensued. Shelagh was adamant we couldn’t leave Gypsy in the room by herself and equally that we couldn’t inflict her on other guests. Why not? You know why not. No, I don’t. Yes, you do.
The receptionist left to fetch the keys while Shelagh made up my mind. I looked longingly past the lobby into the dining room. People were eating. Normal people unshackled by animals. I was about to start drooling when our keys arrived. We were on the second floor.
I picked up the Hoover and had just started to mount the stairs when a woman burst out of the dining room and ran up to me.
“Non! Non! Pas nécessaire,” cried the landlady, and various other words to the effect that the room was already clean.
I looked at the Hoover in my hand and the dog and the cats and the assorted luggage strewn over the lobby and tried to think of a short and concise way to explain everything. I couldn’t. My schoolboy French had deserted me – probably for the Lake District.
“Er,” I babbled. “Er ... nous sommes Anglais.”
“Ah,” she replied and I could see a look of comprehension glide across her face. No other words were necessary. We were English. Everything was explained.
We smiled and started for the stairs again but Gypsy took one look at the polished wood and froze. Danger. No carpets. And look at those banisters, gaps where a puppy could be sucked through and eaten.
She looked up at Shelagh, appealing for help. Make the stairs go away.
We remonstrated with her. How could a dog with legs as long as hers have trouble walking up stairs? She whimpered a reply. Something about banisters. She’d never seen them before.
There was nothing else for it. I left the Hoover and the bags at the foot of the stairs and picked her up. She was a big dog. Already the size of an adult greyhound and growing heavier by the minute. Two flights of stairs later, we staggered into our room.
Thank God! I set Gypsy down on the floor and had a look around. The room was perfect – large and airy with an en suite bathroom. And a real bed – one where humans could lie in comfort. There was even a TV.
But we still had the bulk of our menagerie waiting downstairs in the lobby. So we turned to fetch them. And remembered Gypsy. Could she be trusted to stay by herself in a nice clean room? Shelagh and I exchanged knowing looks. No, she could not.
I grabbed the lead again and off we went. At the top of the stairs, Gypsy dug in her heels and slid to a halt. She was not going down the stairs either.
“Perhaps if we’re firmer with her,” Shelagh suggested, but with little conviction. I tried pulling on the lead, words of encouragement, scarcely veiled threats.
“Why don’t we try picking up her feet and offering her polo mints?” I said, dripping sarcasm, before bending down once more to wrestle Gypsy into my arms and stagger downstairs. Approaching the lobby, I realised how stupid this situation was becoming. Why was I carrying Gypsy down the stairs when once at the bottom I would have to turn round and carry her back up again?
A similar thought was obviously passing through the assembled diners, who couldn’t help notice a man carrying a very large black dog back down the stairs. Wasn’t that the same man who just carried the big doggy up the stairs, mummy? Yes dear, the man with the Hoover.
oOo
Once installed in the room, it wasn’t much better. Minnie, the kitten, started yowling and Guinny took exception. Even though we’d separated them from line of sight, Guinny could hear Minnie and that was more than enough provocation. She started making spitting noises. Which was viewed by Gypsy as an invitation to play. And bark. And worry my leg.
And they’d been so well-behaved in the horsebox! It was as though they’d waited until they’d got us alone.
I tried to quieten Gypsy, while Shelagh took Guinny off into the bathroom. Perhaps if we separated the cats for a while it might help. And besides, the cats’ crates could do with a thorough clean and the bathroom was the only place we could safely let a cat out.
Quietening Gypsy was never easy. The easiest way was to let her do whatever she wanted. Which usually meant allowing myself to be chewed or dragged across the floor. Neither game was among my favourites.
I tried interesting her in some of her toys – her Womble, her chews and various rubber animals. She preferred my leg.
“Why don’t you take Gypsy for a walk,” a disembodied voice called out from the bathroom.
I could think of many reasons. But my ankles outvoted me. It might be safer outside.
I walked nonchalantly past the dining room carrying my dog. Trying to blend in with the background as much as possible and present Gypsy as more fashion accessory than pet.
I don’t think it worked. I could still feel a large number of eyes lift from their dinner plates and bore into the back of my neck.
Outside, the wind had found an occasional shower and was in the process of throwing it against the Wimereux coastline. I turned to walk Gypsy towards the promenade and was immediately peppered with hail stones. I turned and looked longingly at the hotel door. Could I go back in? Which was worse – to be battered and soaked for twenty minutes or walk back past the dining room carrying a dog?
It was a close call.
But not that close.
We moved out of the worst of the storm and tried a side street. At least, with the buildings shielding us from the wind we could walk in some degree of comfort. Above us, the wind had sculpted an arch of hail and rain which whipped off the roofs to seaward and smashed against the upper storey of the houses across the road. Gypsy looked up in amazement. And then refused to lift her eyes from the pavement for the rest of the walk. There were some things a puppy should never have to see.
At the next road junction we hit the wall of rain and ice and fought our way through it as best we could. Then we staggered another block or two before turning round. We’d had enough.
I checked my watch as we slipped in through the hotel door. Three o’clock. Surely the dining room had to empty soon. I looked in vain for signs of another staircase or at least another passage. But there were none. From the lobby you either went up the stairs or left into the dining room.
I felt so self-conscious. Perhaps if I tried speed? Slipped from behind the reception desk and shot up the stairs before anyone had a chance to look up? Swift and silent. It could work.
We burst out of the lobby, a blur of anorak and black fur. I flew over the first step, the second, where’s the third, trip, shit, grrrr, bark, bite.
oOo
The rest of the afternoon was taken up with dog-walking and worrying, sometimes both at the same time. Gypsy decided thirty minutes was tops when it came to lying quiet in a hotel room. And after that, the prospect of carrying her downstairs and being blown around Wimereux for twenty minutes became almost appealing.
But not for me. “I’m not taking her downstairs again.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just not, that’s all.”
I wasn’t going to say any more. I could still hear the waitress’s voice. As I lay framed in the banisters, a dog f
astened to my right ankle, an open-mouthed dining room silently waiting to see what we’d do next. “Anglais,” she’d said, just the one word, mentioned in passing to one of the guests, as she flitted between the tables, collecting plates. But it was enough. Conversation resumed, glasses clinked and eyes left the stair-well. What kind of reputation do we English have in Europe?
So, Shelagh escorted Gypsy about town, while I phoned my sister to give her the news. She didn’t believe it either but knew me better than to ask if I’d fixed the horsebox roof.
But we did have a house. The Acte had been signed, the furniture unloaded and the electric fence erected. I told her not to expect us until Friday or Saturday and to leave the front door key somewhere obvious in the outhouse.
And then I settled down to watch TV. I found all the English channels and was just starting to enjoy myself when Gypsy returned.
Which is when the real worrying started. Neither of us could remember seeing Gypsy relieve herself since we returned from the pub in Dover the night before. All the opportunities we’d given her since she’d spurned.
How long could a puppy remain bottled up? I didn’t want to think any further than that. But more dog-walking seemed to be the preferable proposition. Especially now the dining room was empty.
I don’t remember how many times we walked around Wimereux. Sometimes there were three of us, sometimes just Shelagh and Gypsy. We saw storms, we saw sunny periods, we saw everything except what we wanted to see.
She just wouldn’t relieve herself while on the lead. That had to be it. We’d never had to leash her on the farm before because our fields were well-fenced and we’d never taken her for walks anywhere else. But could we unleash her here?
And expect to see her again?
Which would be worse – to tramp the wet and wind-lashed streets of Wimereux searching for a lost puppy or tied to a constipated one? We voted for the former, narrowly. Consequently, we staggered for interminable hours through the various shades of a force ten gale, humans and puppy eyeing each other in embarrassed silence.
