by Scilla James
Princess
Phoebe
Swift Publishing Ltd,
145-157, St John Street,
London,
EC1V 4PW
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
© Copyright Scilla James. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by Swift Publishing in July 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9568148-4-5
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9568148-5-2
Contents
1 Queenie
2 Frank Skally
3 New Homes
4 Princess
5 Big Lennie
6 Hare Coursing
7 Mrs Henderson
8 Nick
9 Money Troubles
10 Granddad
11 Calling 999
12 The Twins
13 Mum
1
Queenie
Finding a pair of socks without holes in the toes is impossible in our house. Sometimes I feel like phoning ChildLine. The school bus leaves at half past eight, there’s no breakfast on the table, Mum’s yelling at me to hurry up, and there are no socks. That’s how it is every day, and it’s no different the morning that our greyhound, Queenie, has her puppies.
‘Four of them!’ shouts my brother, David, up the stairs. ‘And one’s really scrawny.’
Only four. That’ll cause trouble, I think. Frank will be coming to see them later in the day and he will not be pleased. I want to see those puppies though; I’ll be late for the bus but I don’t care. I run out to the shed where Queenie’s lying on the old sacking Dad has put out for her.
‘Clever girl!’ I tell her. ‘Four beautiful puppies! But is that really all? You know Frank likes you to have at least six.’
Frank Skally’s horrible. We’ve had Queenie for years, but Dad has this agreement with Frank, where he always gets her puppies. I can’t remember how many she’s had altogether, but Frank gets to come round and take them away as and when he wants. It’s not fair, and I know it upsets poor old Queenie.
She looks at me mournfully and shivers a little. It’s cold in the shed, but Dad says you can’t make greyhounds too comfortable, or they get soft. And Frank doesn’t want soft dogs; he wants six tough ones every time.
‘I’ll come and have a proper look after school,’ I tell Queenie, and give her a kiss.
Mum’s shouting, ‘Ellie, come on! You’ve missed the bus now, and I’ll be late for work having to walk round by the school with you. I can do without this!’
Mum’s always telling me the things she can do without.
She’s got baby Jack in the pram and little Patrick with his coat on, ready to go. Patrick’s only 2. My older brothers have gone already. David and Sam, the twins, are 13, and my half-brother Nick, my favourite person in the world, has gone early to his new job as a van driver.
There are too many of us in our family. Six kids in a three-bedroom house with my parents, Charlie and Pearl. As the only girl I get a room to myself, but it’s so small it’s more like a cupboard. I run up there quickly to get my bag for school. The twins have nicked my pens again, so I shoot into their room.
‘Yuck!’ I kick my way through a pile of dirty clothes, looking for something to write with. I wish I could get those two to stay out of my bedroom. Dad won’t put a lock on my door, though I’m always asking him to. How would he like it? They used to put spiders in my bed but now it’s just general burglary. I’ve been meaning to invent a hand-trapping box to keep my stuff in. Trip wires, electrified door-knobs, some of that paint that never comes off your hands. Mum says they’ll get bored if I ignore them, but so far she’s been wrong. They stick together but they fight each other all the time too, not like most twins I’ve read about, and have no time for me unless it’s to be irritating.
‘Ellie!’ Mum’s going mental as I come downstairs. I take Patrick’s hand and we set off.
My best friend is called Jan. We go everywhere together and we look a bit alike, as it happens. Both skinny with brown hair, only she has pink cheeks and is a bit taller. Her clothes are cleaner than mine, too, which is simply due to her not having any brothers who put their smelly socks in with the white washing. And her dad’s a great cook. He nearly got on Masterchef once.
What’s more, Jan’s got a gran with an allotment, and that’s about as lucky as you can get, in my opinion. Her gran’s called Margaret and she’s always pleased to see us. She has a tall hedge round her allotment that makes it like a secret place, and an old stone outbuilding where she lights fires in winter when it’s snowy outside. She makes us hot chocolate and we curl up on two big old sofas with stuffing hanging out, and listen to her stories about when she was small and the bombs were dropping on Liverpool. She never gets cross or threatens to tear her hair out like my mum, and she always asks how Queenie’s getting along. I wish I had a gran, but mine both died before I could get to know them.
Today, Jan comes home with me after school. We’re in the shed admiring the puppies when the door flies open and Frank Skally’s standing there.
‘What’s this?’ he shouts, glaring down at us. He’s got a long white scar down one side of his face where a dog scratched him, and it goes red when he gets in a temper.
‘I hear your greyhound’s only had four puppies. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Uncle Frank,’ I say. Though he’s not my real uncle.
‘Right, well you can tell your dad that the bitch is finished. I can’t keep giving your family money to raise greyhounds for me if I’m going to get a pathetic bunch like this every time. Tell him I’ll get him a new dog or, if he doesn’t like the idea of that, can start getting more dogs from Big Lennie. You tell him that.’ And he slams the shed door and goes off into the dark.
Jan and I look at poor Queenie lying flat amongst the sacks as if she’s been trying to press herself down through the floor out of Frank’s view. She’s trembling.
I hate Frank, and swear that one day I’ll pay him out for his bullying. Just because he lives in a flat with no garden he gets to order my dad around. Dad provides greyhounds for him and his mates to bet on and they go out chasing hares, even though it’s illegal. It’s called hare coursing and it’s really cruel. And sometimes they get the dogs to race: anything that makes Frank Skally money.
Frank and Dad come from the same village but I wouldn’t call them friends. Then they both moved to this same town, which Dad wasn’t too pleased about. We got here first by a year or two and Dad says he could have done without Frank pitching up as well. But Frank’s a ‘Big Noise’ around the place. That’s what my brother Nick calls him. It means that everyone’s scared of him. He walks about the estate as if he owns it, and people say, ‘All right Frank?’ when they meet him, and then cross to the other side of the street.
Jan and I kiss the puppies goodnight. There are two bitches and two dogs. One of the bitches is tiny, and I have to agree she does look a bit pathetic. But she’s Jan’s favourite. My favourite is her brown-and-white sister. She’s a gorgeous wriggly pup with a beautiful face. I’m longing for her eyes to open so I can see whether they’re a soft brown like her mum’s. I name her Princess.
We go back to the house in search of food.
‘I think there’s a tin of beans,’ I say hopefully, rummaging in the kitchen cupboard. ‘Oh, but it looks like the top’s gone wrong. There’s no metal bit to pull off.’
‘Tin opener?’ asks Jan. She’s really practical and she learns a lot from her dad.
/> ‘No chance,’ I say. ‘Let’s just have toast, shall we? And there’s some milk. We could make a shake with Patrick’s juice.’
I hear the twins come in so I shout that I’ll make them a drink too. Remembering my stolen pens, I put some soap in theirs. It looks great; really frothy.
‘They’ll love this,’ I say to Jan, who’s leaning against the fridge giggling her head off.
‘You’re mad,’ she says.
Later, I go back out to the shed to check the greyhounds. I stroke Queenie’s head and whisper to her: ‘I’ll see you’re safe. I’m sure they won’t take your babies till they’ve grown. I’ll try and bring some food to you early in the morning before the others get up.’
Dad comes in just as I’m going up to bed.
‘Frank’s been round,’ I tell him, ‘he says four puppies are no good.’
‘Well, four’s what we’ve got,’ says Dad, ‘so he’ll have to live with it. Dad looks tired as usual. I don’t tell him what Frank said about Queenie being finished.
‘Did you catch anything tonight?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ he replies, and goes to hang up his gun in the cupboard. So it looks like he’ll be staying home, if he hasn’t got anything to sell to his mates in the pub. Dad shoots rabbits or pheasants, or whatever he can catch. He says he’s a gamekeeper-turned-poacher, when it should be the other way round, whatever that means. He’s been unemployed since the Country Park closed.
I can’t bear to think of the poor animals being shot. I often say to Jan, ‘If only Dad would take me out with him I might be able to warn them then they could get away.’
‘And what would you do?’ she always asks, ‘send the rabbits a text telling them to stay down their holes?’
‘Burrows,’ I correct her, to show that I know what I’m talking about.
2
Frank Skally
The puppies grow fast. Jan and I love to take them out in the garden after school to play as the nights get lighter. We throw sticks for them and chase them around, though there isn’t much space.
‘This one’s mine!’ Jan always says. She snuggles the smallest one, her favourite. ‘I’d call her Jade if she belonged to me.’
‘And this is my Princess,’ I say, catching hold of the brown-and-white bitch and giving her a kiss on the nose. She has a way of leaning on my legs as if she’s trying to say I’m cold and I would like more to eat.
Queenie’s puppies never look very good. They’re always thin and their hair doesn’t grow so well with just old sacking to lie on over the shed floor. Sometimes Mum saves better scraps for them, but mainly they live on cheap food specially made for greyhounds. It comes in a sack and they have the same thing every day.
The puppies are about eight weeks old when Frank comes again. Jan and I are outside as usual when we hear his van. We try to get back into the shed before he notices us, but when he comes in the back gate, he doesn’t seem that interested.
‘Is your Nick here?’ he asks.
Before I can answer, Dad appears and takes Frank indoors. Five minutes later, they come out again.
‘Tell Nick I was asking for him, will you?’ Frank’s saying. ‘I wouldn’t like to think he’s avoiding me. A big mistake, when people do that.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ says Dad, ‘but what about these dogs, Frank? I can’t see what the fuss is about. There may only be four of them, and I admit one looks more like a whippet, but they could be good dogs. Why don’t we wait and see? And while you’re here, d’you want to settle up? I could do with some cash. You owe me for the last lot, and one of those turned out to be good if you remember? It costs a bit to feed them you know.’
‘You’re not getting it, are you Charlie?’ says Frank. ‘I don’t want to settle up and I reckon I’m done with you as my breeder. Big Lennie’s bitch has had seven puppies and they put this lot in the shade. Let me know if you want a replacement for Queenie but for now, you’re off my list. Tell Nick to call me.’
With that, he leaves and we hear him start up his van and drive off. I’m not worried, in fact I’m pleased. Life without Frank Skally can only be better, and Dad doesn’t look that bothered either.
‘Well, that’s charming,’ he says, ‘Frank comes round looking for Nick and while he’s here he drops that on me.’
I say, ‘Can we keep the dogs Dad, if Frank doesn’t want them?’
‘Course not,’ he says, ‘don’t be silly Ellie. He’ll change his mind, you’ll see.’
‘Are Big Lennie’s dogs better than ours?’
‘Course not,’ he says again. ‘It’s just Frank being Frank. He doesn’t want to pay me, that’s all.’
‘Who’s Big Lennie?’ Jan asks when Dad’s gone back in.
‘You know,’ I tell her, ‘he’s that tiny little bloke we’ve seen hanging out with Frank. Long greasy hair and tight jeans with holes in. He trains his skinny greyhounds to chase hares. Dad says he’s got no brains and Nick says he’s a rat. He lives near the park.’
‘Oh,’ says Jan, as we follow Dad indoors, ‘he sounds lovely.’
Frank doesn’t change his mind though, and Dad doesn’t mention the subject again. So Jan and I get more and more fond of the puppies as we get nearer to the summer holidays.
About a week before school breaks up, I’m with Mum at her friend Val’s house. I hate going there. Val looks after Jack and Patrick while Mum’s working part-time at the hotel in town. Even though it’s time to go home, Val puts the kettle on for the third time and my heart sinks. The two of them talk like this:
Val: ‘Tea?’
Mum: ‘Ta.’
Val: ‘Ciggy?’
Mum: ‘Ta.’
Val: ‘How’s your throat?’
Mum: ‘Worse.’ Then,
‘I wish Charlie would get a proper job. How am I supposed to manage on what he gets from Job Seekers with all these kids to look after? Even if he does make a bit on the rabbits.’
Val: ‘At least he doesn’t drink, Pearl, and he’s good tempered. You want to try being married to my Pete.’
I’m bored brainless. And anyway, I love my dad and I don’t want to hear about how it must have been his fault for losing his job. How could he help it if the Country Park closed? I know we haven’t got enough money but it can’t all be down to him. I’ve seen him bring money in and give it to Mum. But she always says we were better off when we lived in Granddad’s village, and how she wishes we’d never moved.
Their smoke makes me cough.
‘Mum, when the holidays start, can we go over to see Granddad?’ I ask hopefully.
Mum sighs. ‘You must have asked me that twenty times Ellie, and I keep telling you: your father and Granddad had a quarrel and they don’t speak to each other anymore.’
‘But I love it there!’ I insist.
Granddad’s place is in Staffordshire, and was once part of a farm. There are fields and woods where we used to play, and a river to swim in. It’s where Dad grew up and where he learnt about guns and catching rabbits. Granddad’s mad keen on gardening and he grows rows of vegetables he’s really proud of.
‘What d’you think of the spuds, Ellie?’ he used to ask me. ‘Perfect, eh? With a bit of mint and butter?’
I’d say, ‘Perfect Granddad’. Though they tasted the same as any other spuds to me. Then about three years ago we stopped going to visit. Nobody explained why. There was some big argument but Dad won’t talk about it.
‘You’d like to go too, though, wouldn’t you Mum?’ I ask her now.
‘Of course I would,’ says Mum, ‘but you know how stubborn your father is, and Granddad’s just the same. And unless they make friends, the rest of us can’t go.’
It’s late when we set off for home and it has started raining. Mum gets more and more bad tempered as we hurry through the cold wet streets. I push Jack in the pram while she carries Patrick; they’re both crying for their tea.
‘Get Jack’s bottle, will you Ellie?’ she asks me as we finally get into the hous
e.
Patrick stops crying and toddles over to the twins who are watching telly. His nappy’s hanging off and I know that any minute I’ll be asked to sort that out, too. The twins hardly ever get asked to do anything. They sit on the sofa shoving each other or changing channels and fighting. Patrick starts crying again, and I’m waiting for Mum to freak.
In other words, it’s a normal Monday evening, with no warning of what’s coming next.
When Dad finishes his tea he gets his coat and lifts down his gun from the cupboard in the corner. His Jack Russell terrier, who’s called Tag, stretches his bandy little legs ready to go to work on the rabbits. They’re waiting to see if Nick can give them a lift.
Then, out of the blue, as if he’s talking about some cheese that’s gone mouldy, Dad says, ‘Queenie’s going to have to go. Frank’s not interested in her and he’s stopped paying me. I’ll have to take her down to the animal rescue and leave her on their doorstep. They’ll take her in.’
Mum looks as if she hasn’t heard. She’s putting chips in the oven. I stare at Dad.
‘No!’ I shout, making baby Jack jump. ‘You can’t do that! We’ve had Queenie for years, you can’t just dump her!’
‘We may have had her for years but she’s not really our dog,’ says Dad. ‘Frank brought her here and she’s supposed to provide him with puppies. She’s stopped doing that so she’ll have to go. He doesn’t want her and I can’t afford to feed her. It’s as simple as that. Don’t worry Ellie,’ he adds, ‘the rescue will see they all get homes.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
‘How can you just say that?’ I shout at him. ‘Mum! Tell him he can’t get rid of Queenie. I’ve always had her and she’s my friend. It’s not her fault she’s getting old!’
‘Ellie’s right Charlie,’ says Mum, looking up from the cooker. ‘Why should we always have to do what Frank says?’
‘This is business Pearl,’ says Dad. ‘It’s not like they’re pets. They stay in the shed because they’re supposed to make money for us. But you know we’re short and they’re costing us an arm and a leg. The rescue people are set up to deal with stuff like this.’ He looks at me and says, ‘Sorry love, I know you’re fond of them but they’re going.’
