Charlie's Gang

by Scilla James

  ‘Oh, you’ll clear those ones all right,’ said Spud, gesturing towards Dr Mulligan’s house, ‘but there’ll always be more. This trail leads straight from the garden across the fields to Rat Hall, over the back there, about half a mile away. Your man here doesn’t stand a chance!’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Rat Hall’s in the next village, but there’s a direct run from there to here, across two fields. Look!’ He waved a paw in the direction of a narrow, rat’s width path which Allie could see winding towards them across the adjoining field and dropping down through the ditch, rising again as it came out about two metres from Dr Mulligan’s garden.

  ‘This place has become a storehouse,’ Spud went on, ‘the rats come to stock up.’

  Allie kept looking at his ears.

  ‘Why haven’t you lot sorted them out then?’ she asked, ‘if you’re so clever?’

  ‘We’re expecting to get the job any day now,’ said Spud. ‘Rat Hall’s being sold at last, and Mr Trundle - he’s my boss – says we’re going to make our fortune.’

  ‘You think so do you?’ said Allie, ‘maybe you should wait and see.’

  6

  Beattie

  Beattie was sitting in the front of Brian Wilson’s van some weeks after she’d been re-homed with him by the Rescue Centre. The two of them were on their way back to his tiny ground floor flat on the edge of Birmingham. They’d dropped Darren at his house in the village of Ogden Wash and as usual, once Darren had gone, Beattie relaxed. Beattie loved Brian, but Darren scared her.

  Brian needed an assistant, because although his not very big van had Man & Van painted on the side, there was often a need for someone to lift the other end of a chest of drawers, sofa, or whatever object needed moving. But why Darren? Beattie couldn’t understand.

  Brian lived in circumstances which would not normally be suitable for a Jack Russell terrier. His flat had only one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a shower room and the smallest garden ever. Hardly space to swing a cat, as the expression goes. But Beattie didn’t mind. Brian had told the truth to the Rescue Centre when he’d said that she would be out with him every day and never left alone, and that they would have a busy and interesting life together. And indeed they did. Coming home exhausted in the evenings, Brian would put his ready-meal in the microwave, while Beattie tried to guess what kind of tinned food he would open for her - chicken, fish, meat loaf or gravy - she loved them all.

  On Sundays when there was no work they would go for long walks, usually ending up in Brian’s local pub where the landlord would make a fuss of Beattie and give her biscuits. Then in the evenings after supper Beattie would curl up on Brian’s knee and they’d watch a bit of telly. He was always kind to her, and later, after he’d washed his dinner plate, phoned his elderly mum and had a shower, Brian would call to Beattie to snuggle down on the end of his bed.

  How happy Beattie would have been if there hadn’t been Darren! Beattie couldn’t understand how Brian failed to notice his assistant’s behaviour. Often rude to the clients, Darren would lie to Brian if anyone complained, and say they’d made their story up. To Brian’s face he was always polite, and he even spoke to Beattie in a reasonable tone when Brian was nearby, but his true character was horrid with a capital H. Beattie knew this, and Darren knew that Beattie knew. Beattie had to sit next to Darren whenever they were working, squeezed in the front of the van. Although there was loads of room for two men and a dog, Darren made sure he squashed poor Beattie into the smallest space possible, pinching her if she strayed onto what he regarded as his seat.

  It was just about now, as Beattie was beginning to feel like an experienced Removal Dog, that disaster struck and her life turned upside down. She had been sitting in the van as usual while Brian and Darren carried out a sofa and some chairs for a pair of retired schoolteachers who were giving them to their daughter. They were fussing around, and watching everything the men were doing. Beattie sensed that even the mild mannered Brian was beginning to feel tense, as the wife in particular, kept suggesting better ways to carry the chairs or turn the sofa so it would go through the window. Brian and Darren had lifted a chest of drawers and were moving towards the stairs with it, when there was a shriek from the wife. ‘My necklace! My mother’s precious necklace! I’ve left it in the top drawer – stop, please, at once!’

  Brian turned to reassure her as Darren tripped and fell forwards, propelling Brian towards the stairs where he lost his balance and fell. Beattie, hearing the racket, jumped out of the van and ran into the hallway just as Brian landed groaning at her feet. He had broken his leg.

  The schoolteachers turned out to be no use whatsoever, being immediately more concerned with their small removal job than with poor Brian. They did however, ring for an ambulance and before she knew it, Beattie was being handed over to Darren to look after for the several weeks during which Brian would be unable to work, and certainly unable to take Beattie for walks.

  ‘You’ll look after her Mate, won’t you?’ Brain begged his assistant as the ambulance men carried him off. ‘Make sure she’s fed and walked, and comfortable won’t you? She’s a good little dog.’

  “Course I will,’ Darren said, ‘I’ll look after her.’ He turned and stared hard at Beattie. ‘And I’ll get in touch with Archie to help me finish this job and the others we’ve got booked. Don’t you worry Brian. And your van will be safe with me.’ Then Beattie knew that she was in big trouble.

  Darren had lived in Ogden Wash – the neighbouring village to East Foxmould - for a short time only. He shared a small cottage there with two other young men, called Andy and Mike. The businessman who owned the house cared not in the slightest about the state of his property, so long as he got his rent. This suited Darren, Andy and Mike, since none of them cared about the property either. Housework was an unknown world to them, as was cleanliness. They would come home from their various jobs, kick off their shoes with no fear of the smell from their hot socks, open cans of beer and maybe a shop-bought sandwich, and watch football on their enormous flat screen telly till they crawled off late to bed. They left empty food packets and cigarette ends all over the furniture and floor, and rarely communicated with each other, except by the occasional grunt.

  Into this unfortunate household came poor little Beattie. Ignored by all three men, she was hungry from the first day. Crusts from their shop sandwiches and water from the puddles outside were all that came her way, until Andy, slightly more thoughtful than the other two, came home on day three with a tin of dog food which he opened and gave to her along with a drink. By then she had become quite desperate.

  She missed Brian dreadfully. If she wasn’t going to be taken for walks, she didn’t see why she couldn’t be at home with him, keeping him company while his leg mended. She longed to be safely back on his knee. And of course Darren never bothered to take her to work, leaving her alone instead, shut up in the house with nothing to do and no company. She slept most of the time, willing the weeks to pass until Brian would be better. She was sure that Brian’s business would go badly with Darren running it.

  He’ll be rude to the clients and say it wasn’t him that broke whatever precious thing he’s bound to break, Beattie thought, and Brian will get the blame. I wish Brian would come, or Mum, or Allie or Meg.

  Beattie began to think about running away. She had made the journey from Brian’s flat to Ogden Wash many times, because Darren had no transport of his own and she and Brian picked him up and took him home on most days. But whether she could manage the journey alone on foot was a worry. There were several complicated roundabouts, a railway line, and a huge flyover on the way into Birmingham.

  Far from being grateful for the lifts, Darren resented being dependent on them, and envied a smart motorbike owned by Andy. Whenever he could, Darren would take the motorbike, saying Andy wouldn’t mind. But of course Andy did mind, and there were noisy quarrels about this which Beattie hated, since during them, Darren would often aim a kick at her.

&
nbsp; One Sunday some three or four weeks after Beattie had arrived in Ogden Wash, Darren, Andy and Mike were sitting around waiting for the football to start on TV. Beattie was lying uncomfortably behind the sofa, when she heard Darren say,

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve got this stupid dog here that I’m supposed to be looking after, and I reckon she should be making me some money, not lounging around all day doing nothing, lazy little object that she is.’

  Andy and Mike looked only half interested.

  ‘I reckon I could rent her out for ratting,’ Darren went on. ‘My dad used to do a bit of pest control, and you can earn good money. People will pay anything to get rid of rats. Or mice even.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Mike, and Andy asked, ‘What d’you know about rats then?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Darren, ‘but I won’t be doing the job. She will.’

  Beattie listened carefully. Ratting eh? She drew herself up as she remembered her membership, through her mother, of the SSJRT. Mum never managed to teach me much, but she said ratting was in my blood, so it must be.

  Beattie had never met a real rat, but she’d seen them on Youtube. How hard can it be? Just grab ‘em by the neck and shake. She was sure that was what Dora had said.

  The following Wednesday Darren took her down to the local pub. He’d run off some adverts on Andy’s computer and he handed them round to the customers sitting with their drinks.

  Darren’s Pest Control

  (Established 1862)

  Plagued by Rats? Mice? Weasels?

  Phone Darren and his expert ratting dog.

  Darren’s mobile number was printed underneath.

  ‘Now, you horrible dog,’ he said to Beattie, ‘you can start some real work! Make sure you’re good at it, or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘Evening,’ Beattie heard a croaky voice as Darren downed his pint and wiped his mouth with a grubby sleeve. ‘This your advert is it?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Darren at once. ‘D’you need some rats clearing?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Archibald Trundle, who just happened to be enjoying a quiet beer in the pub over in Ogden Wash on his way home from visiting his even-older sister. ‘You new to the area are you? Don’t know much about the locality?’

  ‘I know enough,’ said Darren irritably, ‘what’s it to you Old Man?’

  ‘Nothing to me,’ croaked Mr Trundle, ‘that your bitch is it? The ‘expert ratter’ mentioned in your advertisement?’ He gestured towards Beattie.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Darren. ‘Ratted all over, she has.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mr Trundle smiled. ‘Well, as it happens I do know of a good ratting job that’s coming up locally. Have you heard of Snares Farm? That’s just been sold and it’s going to be turned into holiday flats. I hear they’re looking for someone to go in and clear the rats before the builders start. Builders can be scared of rats you know, contrary to expectations. I’ve seen grown men crying at the sight of a few mice, never mind rats, but that wouldn’t worry you of course.’

  ‘’Course not,’ said Darren, as, under the table, Beattie began to feel anxious.

  ‘There’s a good price offered. Why don’t you go and give it a look?’

  ‘What sort of good price?’ Darren sat up.

  ‘As I understand it,’ said Mr Trundle, lowering his voice confidentially, ‘they’re offering £20.00 an hour. So you might like to go and look at it, and work out your fee.’

  ‘Who’s the bloke then? How can I get in touch with him?’

  ‘The name’s Featherstone,’ said Mr Trundle, lowering his voice as if this was a secret. ‘Ask at the post office in East Foxmould. They’ll tell you where to find him.’

  ‘You know a lot for an old geezer,’ said Darren rudely. ‘But ta for that. I’ll take a look at the place.’

  Darren stood up to go, and as he opened the pub door and pulled Beattie roughly through it, she heard the old man mutter to himself, I’ll teach him to advertise himself on my patch. If that poor little dog’s ever caught a rat in her life I’ll eat my hat.

  ‘Hope Brian breaks his other leg,’ Darren said as they walked back to the van. ‘20 quid an hour! You can make my fortune for me round here. We’ll go on Saturday and look, then I’ll put in a price. So you’d better know your stuff you horrible little dog.’

  Later Charlie was surprised when Mr Trundle came in chuckling to himself. ‘Charlie boy,’ he said, ‘the world’s gone mad. Too many people are trying to steal our trade! Everyone thinks they’ve got a ratter. First that appalling driving woman. Now some scruffy youth in the pub. I’ve sent him to Rat Hall to have the life scared out of him. That poor little terrier. I wouldn’t be in her shoes, if she had shoes indeed.’

  7

  Charlie meets Dora

  Charlie didn’t usually go to the village shop with Mr Trundle, and Mr Trundle didn’t usually go to the shop on foot. Indeed there were people living in the locality who might have been forgiven for assuming that Archibald Trundle was welded to his van seat, so rarely did he leave it unless actually on a job. But times were hard, and the brakes needed fixing. Mr Trundle had resolved to save his available brake power until he had something more important to do than buying bread.

  ‘Come on Charlie Boy!’ he called, ‘let’s take a walk.’

  Horrified at the possible threat to his dignity should he be seen, Charlie flatly refused to wear a lead, but grumpily followed the old man the few hundred yards to the village store.

  On the same day Dora was delighted when Mrs Featherstone decided to try and make herself fitter in time for Christmas, and taking a bright red lead from the peg in the kitchen, invited Dora to leave her two daughters and go with her while she jogged along to collect the papers from the shop.

  Dora, Meg and Allie were not used to going for walks. Mrs Featherstone knew nothing about dogs, and whilst Emily tried to convince her of the importance of exercise for the Jack Russells, her mother refused to let her daughter go any distance on her own.

  ‘It’s not safe out there darling,’ Mrs Featherstone would say.

  Emily was cross. ‘But Dora would bite anybody we didn’t like the look of,’ she said, ‘if I asked her to.’

  But Mrs Featherstone stood firm. Emily told Dora that she couldn’t wait to grow up and leave home, when she planned to set up her own pest control business, paid for by her father. It was to be called Emily’s Expert Rodent Removal, or EERR for short.

  The village shop operated at a slow pace, as all the customers needed time to gossip, so Dora was tied to a post at the side of the building - something she hadn’t expected and didn’t like. And trust that tall handsome dog to turn up and witness her humiliation. She pretended not to see Charlie coming, just as his spirits rose at the chance of having a laugh at her expense.

  But it wasn’t to be Charlie’s morning. As he stuck his head round the corner of the shop building, ready to make a rude remark, a sudden movement on the grass verge only two metres away caught his eye, as did the large rat who had been about to come and check for scraps around the shop’s dustbin, but reversed in alarm when it saw the two terriers standing so close. Charlie jumped back at the same instant that Dora jumped forward, straining at her lead.

  ‘Get him, quick!’ she called to Charlie, who tried to gather his courage and look as if that was what he wanted to do.

  ‘Not big enough for me to bother with,’ he said then in an offhand way. But he knew that Dora had seen his fear, and she knew that he knew that she’d seen it too. Charlie felt himself flush with shame and frustration.

  Where was Mr Trundle? Charlie returned to the shop door and tried to peep between the stickers, adverts, and old tape that covered the glass. But Mr Trundle was deep in conversation with Mrs Featherstone. Charlie could hear them.

  ‘Snares Farm eh?’ Mr Trundle was saying, ‘that’s a big job that is, indeed it is you know. You’ll need some very experienced terriers for that! Two or three females just won’t do it.’


  ‘D’you really think not?’ Mrs Featherstone was looking concerned. ‘But my girls seem to be very good. I’m getting lots of requests to lend them out round the village. And I even got a call from the Mayor of Uffington, who just recently came to supper with us you know, and he wants my dogs to help out round the housing estates.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mr Trundle’s croak became even croakier as he stared in amazement at this woman who appeared quite unaware that she was taking away his livelihood.

  Charlie wondered whether Mr Trundle was about to lose his temper. ‘Have you ever been to Snares Farm?’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Mrs Featherstone. ‘Rats are not my thing at all. Now my daughter Emily, she’s interested. Perhaps she should go and take a look. I could give her a lift and wait in the car.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think a child should go in there!’ Mr Trundle’s kind nature got the better of him. He wouldn’t wish any child that experience.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mrs Featherstone breezily. ‘I’d better get off. Thanks for the advice but I’m sure we’ll be fine!’

  Mr Trundle collected his bread and came out of the door as Mrs Featherstone jogged off up the street with Dora trotting beside her. Depressed and downhearted for their own different reasons, he and Charlie trudged home.

  Although Charlie sympathised with Mr Trundle’s problems, and hoped that soon the Featherstone terriers would make a mistake and the tide would turn against them, he was far more concerned with his own private grief. How could he be the head of a gang of professional pest control terriers, and not able to deal with a single pest himself? He knew he had to face his fears. The problem was beginning to keep him awake at night, and the arrival of Dora and her family in the village made it more likely that soon, everyone would know that Charlie, handsome and intelligent as he was, was in fact a scaredy-cat dog.

  He also knew that Dora had guessed that he had a problem, and that made everything worse.