Charlie's Gang

by Scilla James

  Charlie stared at him. ‘Are you mad? Did I hear you right? Is this the attitude of the tough Scotsdog we’ve heard so much about?’ Charlie snarled a warning at Spud and looked round at the others. ‘Any sensible ideas?’

  ‘There’s the Terrier Racing next Saturday,’ said Herbie, who knew this because he was dreading the event. ‘We could win that for once, and show the whole village that we’re the best.’

  Charlie looked impatient. ‘But we’re not the best are we? Not the best racers. Trundle puts us in for it every year but we never win because we’re ratters not racers! Agile and fast, it’s true, but not in a straight line. Straight lines are for dogs whose owners take them out for walks but never give them any circles. They just go along footpaths without doing any proper work. That’s why we never win the terrier racing. We’re too good, that’s why.’ There were low growls of agreement from the gang members.

  Before summer ended every year the villages of Ogden Wash, East and West Foxmould, and Motley got together to hold a local show. Cake makers and riding schools, people with hawks and owls, lamas and tractors, came to show themselves off. Police horses jumped through burning hoops. There were hot burgers and teas and ice creams and a bouncy castle for the children.

  Although his dogs hated it, Mr Trundle entered them every year for the terrier racing, which, for the reasons Charlie had outlined, they never won. Herbie in particular resented the whole day as it meant him missing the horse racing on TV, but the rest of the gang hated it too. A ridiculous pretend furry thing (supposed to look like a rabbit) would be dragged on a string down a grassy bit of field and the dogs would be released to chase it. A contest obviously beneath the dignity of any professional ratter.

  ‘Other ideas?’ Charlie looked round the sofa. Mrs Nockerty had gone into the kitchen to fry up the rest of the bacon for Mr Trundle’s sandwich, so he knew they’d got time for a proper talk.

  ‘What about Rat Hall?’ said Snip suddenly. ‘We know how bad that is. It desperately needs clearing. Call me an optimist but I bet those girls will never manage that job on their own. Why don’t we go over there before they start work and give the rats a fright? Set them running all over the place. Scare the life out of everyone? And then show how quickly we can catch them.’

  ‘Clever!’ said Charlie, ‘now that’s more like it.’ He glared at Spud.

  We could even chase the rats towards the village,’ Snip went on, ‘and then everyone would see our superior skills.’

  ‘Sorted!’ said Charlie. ‘When Trundle snoozes after breakfast tomorrow we’ll shoot over to Rat Hall and give things a look.’

  And over in Rat Hall that same evening, as darkness fell, Beattie shivered on her window ledge waiting for Darren to come and collect her. When he failed to turn up, she knew he’d gone to the pub and forgotten all about her.

  10

  Beattie

  Beattie’s fear kept her awake all night. She hadn’t known how much livelier rats became in the evenings. They came and went, some bringing food in, some squabbling, others rushing about as if they had a train to catch. She was starving hungry but there was nothing to eat, and to drink she had to risk jumping from the window ledge to reach the frying pan. She took care not to look directly at a single rat because she did NOT want to look as if she was asking for a fight.

  Somehow the night passed, and she dozed off as the rats went to their nests to sleep. She dreamed of Brian coming to find her and taking her home to their cosy flat. When she woke again, she knew she would have to make a plan or starve.

  She was too high up to jump - that much was clear. Therefore she needed to get herself lower down in the building - probably as far down as the ground floor. Then she thought, she could search every inch of every room, in case there was even the smallest gap she could work on or make bigger, or squeeze through. The rats were obviously coming in and out with ease, so even if the space they needed was smaller, anything would be a start. She had spent hours feeling afraid of them. But perhaps by now they had become used to her. She’d done nothing to threaten them, after all. She hoped she was right.

  What she feared most was Darren. She didn’t trust him one bit. If he came for her at all it would only be because he’d agreed a price with the Feather man and she guessed that in that case he would simply shut her back in the house again, until the work he wanted to be paid for was done. He would certainly not care that she’d not eaten. She determined to escape from him, and somehow find her way back to Brian.

  It was raining still. The drips from the ceiling of the room she was in had become a steady stream. In patches the water was rotting the floorboards. Outside she could hear tiles falling in the wind, sliding down and landing with a thud on the ground.

  Taking a deep breath, Beattie slipped down from the window ledge. Looking as casual and unconcerned as she could, she strolled over to the frying pan to take a drink. Then without glancing at the possibly 50 or so rats that shared the top floor with her, she walked over to the staircase, and down. One floor, then the next. She stopped at the heavy old front door. She’d forgotten how gloomy everything was down there, with the boards on the windows keeping out the light.

  It was then that she heard the sound of doggy voices outside. There seemed to be some sort of a debate going on, and Beattie strained to hear, as her heart leapt up with hope. A rescue party? Who were these dogs? She yelped and growled a greeting, but the debate outside had become a hot dispute and she feared she couldn’t be heard. She listened again. How many were there? Enough to dig her out?

  The dogs were quarrelling. Snip, in deference to Charlie’s position as gang leader, had offered him the opportunity of being first to squeeze through a small gap Spud had discovered in the side wall of the farmhouse. Snip had meant well, assuming that if there were to be any heroics, Charlie would be the natural one to display them. But Charlie had taken offence.

  ‘I,’ he said, ‘I, Charlie, as leader of this outfit, as brains of this outfit what’s more, do not go first when a mere reconnoitre, is required. That’s French by the way.’

  ‘I know it’s French,’ said Snip, huffily, ‘I thought you’d want to be first, that’s all. Sorry if I got it wrong.’

  ‘Och, it should be me to go first,’ said Spud. ‘I am the most experienced dog, after Charlie, and I was the one to find the gap.’

  ‘But I’m the lookout dog,’ said Herbie, ‘and how can anyone squeeze through anywhere unless I’ve done a lookout first?’ The gang glared at each other.

  Then Herbie said, ‘And speaking of look-outs, there’s a van coming.’

  Charlie took control. ‘Hide!’

  Inside the farmhouse Beattie had dashed back to the top floor where windows were open and she could see, and also have more chance of being heard. She barked and called as loudly as she could.

  As she leaned out she saw four Jack Russell terriers moving towards the side of the house. One little dog at the back seemed for a moment to look up at her, but then he followed the others and they all disappeared from sight.

  Desperately disappointed, she looked out across the fields and the rain falling steadily now. It took her a moment to spot Darren’s van. Her heart gave a lurch, and she made a plan. Not brilliant, but the best she could do with no time to waste. Determined not to let Darren catch her, she gave one last desperate bark in case the dogs could hear, and ran back downstairs again. Flattening herself against the wall closest to the front door, she waited. She knew better than to expect Darren to come right into the building, since he would see at once that the place was still full of rats, but she thought he would kick open the door and shout for her. She was right. She heard the van park up, and Darren swearing his way through the damp grass towards the house. There was a loud bang, and then more swearing as the door held for a moment.

  ‘Dog?’ he called from outside. ‘Where are you Whatsyourstupid name? How many rats have you caught?’ Bang! The second kick came, and the door swung open just a little.

  �
��Where the devil are you?’ Darren called, and then, ‘and if those are rats I can see in there you’re in big trouble!’

  But before he got to the end of that sentence, Beattie had squeezed through the tiny space, and was gone. A flash of brown and white, and she shot off up the track and away.

  ‘Oi! Come back you!’ Darren shouted as she disappeared, then veered left through an open gate.

  As Beattie ran she heard Darren’s van start up. Tyres screeching - she could feel his rage. As he neared the top of the hill, she dived behind a tree, hearing the engine stop and Darren climb out to have a better look for her. He was only a few feet away. She heard him swearing, and muttering to himself about getting Andy’s motorbike so he could go across the fields. ‘I’ll find her and then I’ll strangle her,’ she heard him say. ‘I’ll run her over and throw her into a ditch. I’ll tell Brian she ran away.’

  Shaking, Beattie now knew for certain that she must never let Darren catch her. However little she could remember of the route from Ogden Wash to the edge of Birmingham where Brian lived, she would have to try her luck. At least she was free, but oh so hungry. With no food inside her, she already felt weak, and tired from her run up the track. And where had those terriers gone?

  Beattie kept as still as a statue. Her life depended on it. She sensed that Darren was standing still too. At last she heard the van door slam and with a screech of tyres he drove away.

  She could breathe again. And what’s more, coming up the track towards her she saw Charlie and his gang. Surely they would help her? She waited until they were almost level with her tree, then she stepped out in front of them. The tall one jumped in alarm, then said to her angrily, ‘And who might you be? You’re one of those girls that are trying to take our jobs away aren’t you? You’ve been doing a reconnoitre in Rat Hall haven’t you? That’s French by the way, for having a look.’

  Beattie knew it was French because all members of the SSJRT were advised to carry out a reconnoitre before tackling a job, but she thought it unwise to say so. But she was alarmed. What had she done to deserve this greeting?

  ‘Och, she’s not one of them,’ said Spud, who had made a much more careful study of Dora and her daughters, ‘though I agree there’s a likeness.’

  ‘I’m trying to find my way to Brian’s house in Birmingham,’ Beattie said. She didn’t feel inclined to tell these unfriendly dogs any more than that.

  ‘Well now, Birmingham,’ said Spud, ‘that’s no place for a Jack Russell terrier, though you may be interested to know that my own father came from those parts, before moving to Scotland you know, and meeting my dear mother.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said the other three other dogs in unison.

  Charlie took control for the second time that morning. ‘Well, I have no idea who you are or what you’re doing on our patch, but my friend is right about one thing, that Birmingham’s too big for a dog of your size. I advise you to go somewhere else instead. Come on gang! It’s time to go and find some breakfast.’

  Wondering what she’d done to offend dogs she’d never met before, and feeling even hungrier at the mention of breakfast, Beattie turned away and trotted off with her head held high. She went in the direction of Darren’s cottage, drawn even from this distance by the smell of socks, and guessing that by the time she reached there Darren would have taken Andy’s motorbike and gone looking for her. Then she would be free to try and remember the exact way Brian used to drive in his van, and somehow, somehow, find him again.

  Charlie’s gang had gone some way in the opposite direction before Spud challenged Charlie. ‘Why so unfriendly boss? She seemed a sad little dog. Not much of a threat surely?’

  Charlie turned and growled at him. ‘Not much of a threat? Everyone is a threat when you’re at war. And we are at war. I’ve told you that several times. I don’t know what’s happened to you Spud. You’ve gone soft in the head.’

  But inside Charlie was feeling terrible. He was actually a kind dog, and he knew that the way he had treated the lost little terrier was not good enough. He also knew that the reason he’d been horrid in the first place was because she had given him a fright when she’d appeared from behind the tree.

  When was he going to stop being a wimp? Being scared of something can ruin a whole life he said to himself. And he swore that if he ever saw that little terrier again, he would say that he was sorry.

  While Charlie and his gang were making their way home across the fields, and Beattie was setting off to try and find Brian in Birmingham, Dora and Emily were sitting on the wall outside the Featherstone house, studying the Ratcatcher’s Manual (Amateur Edition) together.

  ‘Dad’s been talking about the farm he’s bought,’ Emily told Dora, ‘and Mum met that old bloke in the village who told her it was a massive rat clearing job that we’d never manage on our own. I want to go there and look at it, but I’m having a problem persuading Mum to take me.’

  They were looking at Chapter 3 of the Manual. It was entitled Serious Rat Infestations in Large Buildings.

  ‘Here,’ said Emily, ‘it explains that we have to start at the top of the building and drive the rats down to a narrow place where we can get them as they come through. Bash them one I suppose it means. Sounds a bit scary.’

  Dora wondered just how many rats there would be.

  ‘It’s quite technical,’ Emily went on, ‘it talks about rats per square foot, and how long they’ve lived in wherever it is. Time of year, breeding seasons and so on. A bit complicated.’ She shut the book, ‘I’ll work on Mum.’

  Dora had mixed feelings. She’d never been good at diagrams, and the book had a great many. She did know however, that there was such a thing as too many rats for three terriers. She thought of Charlie and his gang, and wondered whether the other three dogs were any braver than him. He’d be no use whatsoever, handsome or not. She sighed. If only Emily could understand dog language, she could discuss it with her.

  After lunch Mr Featherstone, home for the day, was getting ready to visit his new property. Dora heard him talking to Mrs Featherstone.

  ‘Mayor Barnsley’s been on the phone,’ he told his wife. ‘Apparently the people in the village are up in arms about my holiday flats. Worried about strangers coming in, and traffic, and burglars and mess and litter and dogs. They can’t cope with change round here. It’s pathetic. What’s the matter with traffic? And I’d like to see some different faces. And maybe if I can get more people and traffic into the village I’ll be able to sell that other site to a nice big supermarket. We could do with a supermarket up against the park, don’t you think?’

  Mrs Featherstone wasn’t sure.

  ‘Emily! Take that rat book upstairs! I’m sick of the sight of it! Honestly, I wish I’d never got those terriers, and if you keep on thinking about rats all the time, I’ll have to take them back to the Rescue!’

  ‘Can Dora and I come with you to the farm?’ Emily asked her father.

  ‘If you like,’ he said.

  11

  Darren

  Beattie managed to find her way back to the cottage easily, ducking and diving to keep out of sight. The white in her coat stood out against the green and brown fields. Her stomach rumbled with a mixture of hunger and fear. She saw that the van was back and that Andy’s motorbike was missing, and within moments heard the sound of an engine whining, high pitched as Darren accelerated along the lanes. The fields would be safer, she thought, but she needed to keep alongside the lanes too, so she could remember the way. She set off as fast as she could, and soon her spirits began to rise as the sound of the motorbike faded and she guessed that Darren had gone back to the old farmhouse to search for her there.

  But she was wrong. As she rounded a sharp bend, he was waiting for her. He’d parked the motorbike and walked quietly back, hiding behind a bush waiting to pounce. He must have seen her coming.

  ‘Gottcha!’ he shouted, as he threw his jacket over her and pushed her down to the ground. ‘Thought you’d make a break
for it did you? Well, ha ha.’ He pinched her through the cloth, and she yelped in pain. But as she lay still waiting for him to take hold of her, she thought, Now what would Mother do? Bite! So, as Darren brought his arms underneath her to lift her up, she bit him hard just above the elbow. Snarling and baring her teeth for a second bite, she took him by surprise. The jacket he had thrown over her was thin, and she’d felt her teeth sink into his arm.

  ‘You little....’ But he loosened his hold for a second, and Beattie was away. She crossed the lane and pushed through a prickly hedge opposite, as Darren leapt to his feet and over a nearby gate to follow her, swearing horribly and making clear what he would do to her when he got his hands on her again. But she was far faster than him, and he soon gave up.

  Beattie ran, impressed by her success. The first time she’d bitten anyone!

  But which direction to take? She trotted on for several miles, until the light began to fade and she realised that she was lost. She came to a main road and knew she had to cross it, but the speed of the traffic frightened her. She took a breath and ran across. There was a squeal of brakes and a lorry swerved to avoid her. Dust flew and a long blast from a horn sounded. Beattie fled. She was aware of the lorry braking and a car swerving out of its way as it pulled in to the side of the road, but she didn’t stay to see what happened after that.

  She was too tired and hungry to run for long, but the houses and flats on this side of the road looked more like the sort of place where Brian lived. She also recognised the railway line, which she knew ran towards town. She decided to follow it, and settled into a slow walk on a pavement running alongside the line.

  More houses appeared to the right of her, and from one of them the smell of food was so overpowering that she gathered her energy and jumped over the garden wall in the hope of finding something to eat. For the second time that day she surprised herself, as she reached up high and grabbed something which was half hanging from the overfilled bin. Fish and chips! Or the cold remains of them, and within moments she had swallowed the lot. Who minded vinegar? Not her.