by Scilla James
Charlie’s gang
Charlie’s gang
SCILLA JAMES
For Ruby and Harry
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 March 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9927154-2-7
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9927154-3-4
Contents
1The Society of Superior Jack Russell Terriers (No Rat Too Big)
2No Pest Too Small (Incorporated) (Charlie’s Gang)
3Charlie’s Secret
4Mrs Featherstone’s Rats
5Dr Mulligan’s House
6Beattie
7Charlie meets Dora
8Rat Hall
9Charlie
10Beattie
11Darren
12Timba
13The Rescue Centre
14Dora
15Beattie
16East Foxmould
17East Foxmould Pest Control (Incorporated) (Any Pest Any Size)
1
The Society of Superior Jack Russell Terriers (No Rat Too Big)
Dora remembered the day she and her puppies arrived at the Dog Rescue Centre. The farm they’d lived at had been sold and Mr Gibbons, the farmer, had been moved into a special home for old farmers. She remembered the ambulance men who’d come to take him away, and how they’d laughed when he’d begged them to break the rules and take an enormous portrait in the ambulance with them – a portrait of Dora herself and her puppies.
‘If I can’t have my girls with me I must at least have my picture of them,’ Mr Gibbons said.
‘Most people want a picture of their grandchildren,’ said one of the drivers, ‘but all right. Budge up and we’ll try and fit it in the back. But don’t tell anyone! I’ll pop it up to your room when no-one’s looking.’
As Dora watched poor old Mr Gibbons being carried into the back of the ambulance, and before she had time to feel sad or to worry about what might happen next, a car arrived and a woman in yellow overalls came and picked her up and placed her carefully, with her young family, Allie, Meg and Beattie, into a cardboard box. The lid closed and Dora could feel them all being driven away.
The Dog Rescue Centre wasn’t a bad place. Once Dora and her family had been bathed with some funny smelling stuff, wormed, microchipped and fed, they were given a comfortable pen to sleep in.
‘Ah, they’re so sweet!’ said Alison, one of the Rescue Centre workers. ‘Fancy having to get rid of all four of them! Poor old Mr Gibbons. I told him we’ll do our best to find new homes for them and set his mind at rest, although Jack Russell terriers aren’t too popular at the moment.’
Dora didn’t like the sound of that. How many homes? Did that mean they’d be separated? She wanted a home for herself and her daughters. And what did the girl mean by saying that Jack Russell terriers weren’t too popular at the moment? When anyone with any sense would know they were the cleverest of dogs, and should be the most popular of all breeds?
But one Sunday two men came and took Beattie away. Brian Wilson was a removal man (Utterly Reliable Man & Van) who wanted a Jack Russell to keep him company as he travelled around shifting furniture. He seemed OK and had a kind face, but his assistant, who was called Darren, looked horrible. Darren stood outside Dora’s pen, making faces at her through the bars, while Brian was signing papers in the office. Dora had heard that all new owners were checked by the rescue people, who had visitors specially trained to do that job. But were people’s assistants checked too? Dora didn’t think so, and she growled a warning at Darren.
‘Shut up!’ he told her, ‘who asked you?’ He reached behind his ear for a cigarette.
Within an hour, Beattie was gone.
‘Don’t worry Mum,’ she whispered to Dora as Brian slipped a collar round her neck. ‘I’ll be all right. I expect I’ll like Small Removals, and the men look sort of friendly.’
Unable to do anything else, Dora put on a brave face for her daughter, and gave Beattie a last lick.
‘You are the prettiest of my girls,’ she said, ‘the one white ear you have reminds me so much of your dear father, and you carry yourself beautifully. Please do your best in your new job. And remember that the reputation of the SSJRT rests with you, as it does with all our family.’
As if Beattie could forget. She’d been taught about the Society of Superior Jack Russell Terriers (No Rat Too Big) or SSJRT for short, since early puppyhood. Members of this famous Society must have sharp teeth and be very brave and skilful, particularly when it came to catching rats. Membership was not open to just any old terrier.
Once Beattie had been driven away in Brian’s van, that left only Allie and Meg. Dora guessed that soon they would go too.
One morning Dora was lying with her nose on her paws, feeling depressed. So much talent, she said to herself, but the three of us are wasted without a proper home. What would be the point of teaching Allie and Meg how to catch a rat in the quickest and tidiest way possible, when nobody was interested in giving them a job?
It was visiting day at the Rescue Centre. A thin crowd of would-be dog owners was wandering around, asking as they always did for Cockapoos and Labradoodles, but not for Jack Russells. Families passing by would smile and cluck at Dora and her girls, and say things like Ah Bless! But nobody wanted to take them home.
Until at lunch time Mrs Featherstone arrived with her 10 year old daughter Emily.
‘I’m looking for the sort of dog that might be able to frighten away rats.’ Dora heard this person saying, in a bossy loud voice, a bit like a head teacher. ‘We’ve recently moved to the country and you’ve no idea how horrid it can be! The rats have started nesting in the loft above the garage, and my husband’s 4X4 gets covered in poo. It’s just dreadful!’
‘You need a Jack Russell terrier,’ Alison told her. Dora heard the visitors coming towards her pen.
‘Oh? And are they good with children?’ Mrs Featherstone asked.
Depends on the children, thought Dora, looking Emily up and down. Emily winked at her. Dora stood up on her hind legs and scratched at the bars of the pen.
Here I am, she wanted to shout. And catching rats is in my blood!
Mrs Featherstone looked at Dora.
‘It’s very small,’ she said in a disappointed voice, ‘are you sure it could stand up to rats?’
‘It’s a she,’ said Alison rather sharply, ‘and yes she could deal with rats, no guarantee of course. But if you want to take her away we’ll need to come and visit you at home, to make sure the place you have is suitable.’
Dora couldn’t help getting her hopes up, and a week later Mrs Featherstone came again.
In the meantime Dora was able to learn a little about the Featherstone family, since Alison always chatted to Dora as she cleaned out her pen, without realising, of course, that Dora understood everything she said.
‘They’re bossy but otherwise I think they’re OK,’ she said. ‘I can’t be sure to be honest, as I’ve only met the wife and then only a couple of times. Mr Featherstone goes around buying up old houses and farms that are falling down and building holiday homes instead, and it’s made the family very rich. I don’t know what Mrs Featherstone does all day but the house is terribly tidy and her little girl looks bored stiff. No toys or happy mess around the pla
ce, so I bet the girl’s glad to get to school in the mornings. She hasn’t any brothers or sisters, and would just love to have you three dogs to play with.’
What Dora wanted to know was, when could they go?
‘We’re trying to decide whether to let you go there,’ Alison went on, as Dora’s heart sank. ‘They haven’t got a clue about dogs, and I can’t see Mrs F. actually ever wanting to go for a muddy walk. On the other hand Emily looks like a girl who would take you out and about, and she’s already reading up about Jack Russell terriers. It could be just the thing.’
Dora’s heart rose again, just a little. And sure enough, a few days later, Mrs Featherstone and Emily came and picked her up, together with Allie and Meg, and drove them home in their big expensive car.
2
No Pest Too Small (Incorporated) (Charlie’s gang)
Two weeks later a rackety blue van was driving slowly up the lane in the midday heat as Mr Archibald Trundle (known to his friends as Trundle) and four Jack Russell terriers were returning home from their morning’s ratting job. Four pairs of ears flapped hopefully out of the passenger side window. The dogs needed Mr Trundle to drive faster so they could cool down, but the old man was singing a song to himself and wasn’t worried.
‘Forty rats!’ He sang in his croaky voice, ‘well done lads! What a team!’ The dogs panted in the heat.
The accident happened suddenly. Mr Trundle braked and swerved as a speeding 4X4 came round the bend towards them. Herbie, Snip and Spud flew out of the open window and landed in a heap on the grass verge. Dust flew in all directions as Mr Trundle swore.
‘What the ….?’ His van jerked and slid, coming to a halt high up on the verge. Luckily it stopped far enough away from the three dogs, all of whom had had the sense to duck as soon as they landed.
And the 4X4 didn’t even stop!!! Was that a cheery wave meaning the driver was sorry? Or was it a rude sign? Archibald Trundle didn’t care which, but he was furious. Leaning across to open the door for the dogs to climb back in, he checked they had no bumps and cuts, and drove home muttering.
‘It’s not good enough Charlie boy, is it?’ he said to his favourite Jack Russell. ‘Haven’t people got any sense these days? We might have been killed! He or she might have been killed! I think it must have been a she,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t catch a man driving like that.’
Charlie agreed, but he was busy feeling glad not to have been thrown out of the window with the others. He hated to lose his dignity.
Later on that steaming hot day, Mr Trundle snoozed in his tatty armchair. The black pudding sandwich he’d eaten for lunch sat comfortably in his stomach and he had calmed down.
Outside in the yard Charlie was sitting, as he always did when he wanted to chill, up to his neck in a bucket of cold water. He leaned back and looked at Snip with one eyebrow raised.
‘So you reckon that was the new woman? And that she’s got girl terriers working for her? You must have that wrong. Why would she want girls if, as you say, she’s got rats? What help would a gang of girls be?’
‘She’s called Mrs Featherstone,’ said Snip, ‘Sebastian told me. The Featherstones, being new, might not know any better.’
‘Humph,’ said Charlie. ‘Sebastian’s the biggest gossip in the village. And I’ve told you before not to go talking to cats. They tell lies.’
‘Yes boss,’ said Snip.
Charlie gave a strong push with his hind legs and tipped himself out of his bucket. Water gushed over the concrete yard as he shook himself. Snip was slow to move out of the way and growled as his feet got wet.
‘What’s that? You say something?’ Charlie bared his teeth.
‘No boss,’ said Snip.
‘If it was Timba who’d told you I might believe it,’ went on Charlie. Timba was a Border Terrier friend of his, who also liked to keep up to date with village matters.
‘Yes boss,’ said Snip.
All the same, Charlie didn’t like the sound of it. He and his gang were the professional rat catchers in the area and had been for years. Together with Mr Trundle they travelled from farm to farm in Trundle’s old van, clearing rats from hay barns and grain stores. It was their living. A most important job it was too, since every year the farmers complained that the rats stole their grain, or got into their stores of winter feed needed for their animals. Also, and far worse for most people, rats could find their way into sheds and outhouses in ordinary gardens. EVEN worse again if you think about it, they could get into people’s kitchens. And as anyone who has opened a cupboard door and come face to face with a rat will tell you, that’s not very nice at all.
Mr Trundle called his business No Pest Too Small (Incorporated). Charlie called it Charlie’s Gang.
Charlie ruled his gang with an iron paw. And his teeth. He was a little too tall for a perfect ratter, but his height, together with his white coat (with just a few brown markings) made him stand out amongst the others. He had powerful legs and sharp fangs. If any of his gang members stepped out of line, he nipped them.
He and Snip were the only dogs that Mr Trundle owned. The other two were borrowed whenever there was a job to be done. Herbie and Spud lived with Mrs Mabel Nockerty in her small cottage in the village. Mrs Nockerty’s son, a famous bank robber, had left the two terriers behind after his last robbery had gone wrong. He now lived somewhere hot and uncomfortable, but was believed to have loads of money.
When they were not working for Mr Trundle, Herbie and Spud spent their days lounging around on Mrs Nockerty’s sofa. As you can imagine, this bored them to death, so they looked forward to hearing Mrs Nockerty telling them that Trundle was on his way to pick them up.
Mr Trundle was very fond of Mrs Nockerty, and especially fond of her baking.
The whole thing worked well, and Charlie did not want to hear that some woman, new to the village and to the countryside as well if her driving was anything to go by, might take away Mr Trundle’s business.
A gang of girl terriers? It was unthinkable. Stupid. Something would have to be done.
3
Charlie’s Secret
It was generally agreed amongst absolutely everybody that Charlie was an extremely handsome dog. He had carriage. He had class. He held his head well and his balance was excellent. There was no haystack he couldn’t climb. His eyes were bright and his hair was sleek, with just the right amount of rough bits around his legs and stomach. Apart from his height, he was a perfect shape for a ratter.
But Charlie had a Terrible Secret. Although he looked like a ratter, he was actually terrified of rats. He always had been. He had what a vet might call a rat phobia. Out on a job, he would take up the highest position in any barn or loft so that he could bark orders to the rest of the gang without getting too close to a rat. Rats squeaked horribly and they could bite. They gave Charlie the creeps, and he shuddered whenever he thought of their pointed little pink noses and long teeth. Sometimes Charlie was afraid that he would faint at the sight of them.
‘You lot need supervising,’ he would say to his gang, ‘and someone has to work out TACTICS. STRATEGY, don’t you know.’ Since he would nip any of them who challenged him, the rest of the gang believed him, and were happy to let him take control.
Just occasionally something terrible would happen and the rats would run towards him instead of in the opposite direction. The memory of the two or three times this had happened gave him nightmares and he would squeak and shiver in his sleep.
‘Don’t worry old boy!’ Mr Trundle would stroke and comfort Charlie as he lay on the rug in front of the fire. ‘You’re just dreaming.’ And Charlie would feel embarrassed as well as relieved that it was just a dream he was having.
But apart from the rat phobia problem, Charlie loved the life of a respected rat catcher. So long as nobody guessed his secret he was a happy dog. He and his gang were admired by other dogs in the locality, and were envied by some. Timba, for instance, was proud to call Charlie his friend, and wished he too could be one
of the gang. If any of the village spaniels, or even collie dogs, bumped into Charlie, Snip or Spud, they would stand respectfully aside to let them pass.
And Charlie loved travelling around in Trundle’s old van, looking out of the back window as the lanes and fields stretched away from him. In farms and stables he was greeted by name, and he was proud to be a good gang leader. Clever and firm, but always fair. That’s how he saw himself.
But now he had a new worry. Girlie ratters? Oh please!
Charlie decided to send Spud to investigate.
‘You are the fastest and the bravest of my gang,’ he always said to Spud, ‘after me of course.’ Spud had black markings on his ears and bright brown eyes. He’d come down from Scotland, so he said, and Charlie believed his story that he’d ratted in some of the coldest and toughest corners of that cold tough country. Spud didn’t speak with a Scottish accent, but in case the others should forget his Scottishness he tended to start most of his sentences with ‘Och.’
If Charlie wanted to get a message to the rest of the gang, he had a method that worked every time. He tried it now.
Whining and whimpering pathetically, he pawed at Mr Trundle who was dozing in his chair.
‘What’s the matter Charlie boy?’
‘Whimper, whine, whine, squeak.’
‘Your leg hurting again? Hold on and I’ll ring Mrs Nockerty.’ Reaching for the phone Mr Trundle pressed the favourite button.
‘Mabel? I need your healing hands. Charlie’s hurt his leg again.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said. It never failed.
Some time ago Charlie had been gripped by excitement as he’d listened to Mr Trundle’s daughter reading 101 Dalmations to her children. He’d rushed outside to try twilight barking, but couldn’t make it work. Snip, who listened to Radio 4 whenever he could, said it wouldn’t work because of the phone mast on the hill, but Charlie was sure that the Dalmations had made the whole thing up.
