by Scilla James
Refreshed and relieved, she licked the greasy paper, took a drink from a nearby birdbath, and was off again.
The railway line stretched away into the distance, towards the lights of the city. Beattie decided to stay near to it. Surely by now Darren would be watching telly with Andy and Mike, and would have forgotten all about her. But she was wrong again, as she heard the sound of a motorbike and guessed that he too was following the railway line. She listened. What she urgently needed was a bridge, and one that motorbikes weren’t allowed to cross.
But as the sound of the engine came closer, she realised that it sounded different - lower and deeper - and that a blue light was flashing, lighting up the darkness. She paused and pressed herself against a garden wall, waiting for it to pass.
The motorbike stopped alongside her, and a man’s voice spoke into a radio, ‘Reference your earlier report, there’s a stray dog here on Pullman Street. Also white terrier. Could be the one that caused the near traffic accident. Can’t see an owner anywhere. Call the dog warden and I’ll hang on to it....over.’ He turned to look at Beattie, ‘Come on boy, or is it girl? Come!’
Although the blue light scared her, the man’s voice was kind, and the white helmet and leather gloves Beattie recognised as belonging to a policeman. She shuffled over and lay shivering in front of him. He picked her up and held her lightly under one arm while he spoke again into his radio. ‘Yes...I’ve got her...I’ll hold her till the warden gets here. About half way up Pullman Street.’
Beattie had met policemen before. They called from time to time to see Darren at home, who generally, when this happened, hid behind the sofa and pretended to be out. If he wasn’t quick enough the police would come in and talk to him, after which he would go off in a white car with them for a few hours, coming home even more irritable than usual.
Now Beattie was sure that if Darren didn’t like the police, they were probably OK, and so she determined to stay with this one if she could. Still her heart beat faster and she shivered as a second, familiar motorbike pulled up, and Darren dismounted.
He came boldly over and spoke to the policeman in a respectful but firm voice,
‘Oh thank you Officer! You’ve found my dog that I’ve been looking all over for.’
Darren held out his arms to take Beattie. Beattie trembled and the policeman seemed unimpressed.
‘Oh yes? Your dog eh? So why is it shivering and not wagging its tail in the welcoming way dogs usually have when they’ve been lost and their owners find them. Name?’
‘Darren Taylor.’ said Darren.
‘Not your name! The dog’s name please.’
‘Oh.’ There was a silence, during which Beattie realised that as usual Darren could only think of whatsyourstupidname.
‘Funny owner not knowing his own dog,’ said the policeman. ‘And why d’you think she’s so scared? For your information this animal has been reported as having been the cause of a potentially serious traffic accident. She’s to be taken to the Dog Shelter this evening. If she belongs to you, you’d better go there and claim her.’
Darren looked as if he might argue, but instead said, ‘I’ll do that,’ and went back to Andy’s motorbike and started it up. He drove off, as Beattie snuggled into the not-very-snuggly leather jacket the policeman was wearing, and sighed with relief.
A short time later a van pulled up on the street. It had Dog Warden painted on both sides of it.
‘Good luck little dog,’ said the policeman as he handed Beattie over to a woman wearing white overalls. ‘A skinny little one for you,’ he said. ‘Cold and hungry I reckon. It’s got a collar on but no nametag. The rescue place will be able to see if she’s been microchipped.’
And Beattie was driven away in the back of the Warden’s van.
12
Timba
Charlie was not himself at all. Snip tried everything he could think of to cheer him up, and often talked about the Rat Hall job which he was sure would be given to Mr Trundle in the end, because how could three girls manage a job like that alone? But this seemed, for some reason, to make Charlie even more depressed.
He had started going off alone, refusing to answer Snip’s anxious questions.
‘I’m the boss,’ he told Snip, ‘I have to plan.’
Charlie always went out with the intention of continuing with his home-made therapy. But he made no progress. He knew that there was no point in going out, looking at a rat and coming home again. Even some humans could cope with that. So he felt a failure, and began to lose his natural sparkle. He couldn’t sleep for worrying about what his gang would think of him. They would surely lose all respect.
Then one morning, on his way home from one of his unsuccessful trips to the back of Andrew Mulligan’s house, he bumped into his friend Timba.
Timba was a Border Terrier who lived in a house next to the pub in East Foxmould. His owners, Mr and Mrs Christie, had five children, hardly any money, and no time to spare. They were not unkind people, but they took little notice of their dog, what with the struggle to feed and wash all the small Christies, and Timba rarely got taken for walks. The children paid attention to him every now and again, but apart from entering him in the Annual Terrier Race, they didn’t do much else. He was therefore left to his own devices, which was a pity, as he was a clever dog, and, as it happened, an excellent ratter. Indeed it was he, rather than Sebastian the cat, who kept the local rats under control, but he got no credit for his work, and Sebastian, who got the credit instead, never let on.
Timba got on well with Charlie, whom he greatly admired. The two terriers, very different in appearance and temperament, would chat whenever Mr Trundle came down to the pub. Timba often hung about there in the hope of interesting company. He wished he could join Charlie’s gang and be one of the boys.
So it was that at the highest, or actually the lowest point, of Charlie’s despair, it was Timba who came to the rescue. On this particular morning, Charlie was trotting gloomily along past the pub, when Timba greeted him.
‘Mornin’,’ he said, ‘has something terrible happened Charlie? You look bad.’
Charlie made an effort to perk up.
‘Oh no, I’m fine.’
‘Wanna come and have some fun?’ Timba asked. ‘There are some rats in the pub shed, and there must be at least eight of them. I’ve been meaning to do something about them for a while, but you can share the job if you like. Might cheer you up.’
‘It’d take more than eight rats to cheer me up,’ said Charlie, barely raising his head to look at his friend, ‘or should I say less than eight.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Oh nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m not so fond of catching rats as you all think.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re a Border Terrier Timba, you wouldn’t understand.’
Timba wondered if Charlie was being rude. What was wrong with being a Border Terrier?
‘I thought you were the world’s best ratter,’ he said.
‘Used to be,’ said Charlie, which wasn’t true, but sounded better than the truth. ‘I just hate rats these days!’
‘Oh, that happened to my uncle Karl,’ said Timba airily. ‘Sudden Fear of Pests Syndrome. SFPS it’s known as. There’s a cure but I can’t remember what it is. I’ll have a think if it’ll help.’
‘Oh, I wish you would,’ said Charlie, ‘I’m getting so fed up.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Timba sympathetically. His little hairy forehead tensed in a frown, and he marched up and down on the pavement, thinking.
Charlie waited politely.
‘It’s no good,’ said Timba sadly, ‘my uncle did get some help but I can’t remember what it was. But come with me Charlie. The rats I’m talking about have been left to themselves for quite a while and they’ve become very relaxed. They won’t be as scary as the ones you’re used to, and that might make you feel better. Let’s go together.’
&n
bsp; Charlie was amazed that his friend should speak to him in this way. How come he wasn’t laughing? Or teasing him? He thought about Dora and the way she’d looked at him when she’d caught sight of his fear, and he remembered too, that his own gang members had very little time for dogs that were scared of pests. But Timba seemed so matter of fact, and wasn’t laughing at all. So he followed his friend to the back of the pub car park and behind a rackety old shed that had been standing there for years, without being much use to anyone. Until Charlie and Timba arrived, all was quiet.
Still Charlie hung back. ‘You make a start,’ he said, ‘I’ll watch and see how I get on.’
But Timba wouldn’t take no for an answer. He gave Charlie a friendly shove.
‘Come on Mate,’ he said, ‘I’ll stick with you.’
Of course Charlie had been on countless ratting jobs with his gang, and there was very little he didn’t know about pest control, but today for the first time it dawned on him that whilst he’d watched Snip, Spud and Herbie dashing around the place after the rats, he himself had been so busy feeling scared that he’d never got around to making himself look as scary as the rest of his gang. Suddenly, it all became clear. Why would rats run away from a dog that didn’t either look or act scary, but just stood there hoping for the best? And Yes! These rats Timba had taken him to were just as scared of him as he was of them! Now this might seem obvious to a person who’s never chased a rat, but it came as a shock and a surprise to Charlie. Now, he snarled and bared his teeth as he had seen the others do, and as Timba was doing. The rats fled. He chased after them. He began to feel brave. And as Timba caught a couple and the rest ran away, Charlie felt that at last he had made some progress. He was sure that he had touched the furry back of at least one rat, which meant that he could cross off stage 2 of his CCBS plan. He turned to Timba. ‘Thanks friend,’ he said, ‘thanks to you I’m feeling better.’ The dogs parted and Charlie trotted home.
‘Where on earth have you been Charlie boy?’ Mr Trundle asked him as he arrived, ‘I was beginning to worry.’
Snip looked at him expectantly too, but Charlie ignored them both and went to look for lunch. He knew that he’d made one step forward in his quest to cure his phobia, and vowed that from now on he would snarl and bite with the rest of them.
13
The Rescue Centre
It was several days before Beattie felt herself again. She was so exhausted, and remained so fearful of Darren turning up to claim her, that she couldn’t relax for one minute.
Would they really let Darren take her? Surely not! She couldn’t count the days but was certain that by now Brian must have come looking for her. She imagined the conversation the two men might have;
Brian: Hiya Mate! Where’s my little Beattie then?
Darren: Hiya. Better are you? Well, I’ve got a bit of bad news I’m afraid....
Darren to himself: So that’s her stupid name. Right! Now I can go and get the little monster and teach her a lesson or two. That bite she gave me still hurts!
Brian: What d’you mean bad news? Has something happened to her?
Darren: ‘Fraid so Mate. We were out for a nice long walk on Sunday when she just ran off! For no reason! Just disappeared! Maybe someone stole her. She looked so lovely after I’d been feeding her up and that, while you were resting your leg.
Brian: Why didn’t you call me? You didn’t did you? I could have gone looking for her. Sunday you say?
Darren: I tried loads Mate. Your phone was off. Or was it that mine was off? Someone’s phone was off....
By this stage in Beattie’s imaginary conversation she would lose track of what might be said next and would find herself in tears. Or what if Darren just said, ‘She’s had an accident Mate,’ and left it at that. Beattie couldn’t bear it.
When Darren did come Beattie was lying sadly at the back of her pen. Since she’d been here before with Dora and her sisters there were new staff, and Alison, whom she remembered well, had been promoted to boss and spent most of her time on a computer. Beattie couldn’t tell whether anyone there recognised her at all.
Seeing Darren, Beattie began to shake. He had on the jacket that she had bitten through, and there was a half smoked cigarette behind his ear. He looked even more unpleasant than her memory of him, although he seemed to be trying to smile.
He was with a new staff member called Laura, and Beattie soon realised, with a feeling of alarm, that he was pretending to be Brian, and using Brian’s name.
‘Well Mr Wilson, this is the terrier that was brought in the other evening. Is this your dog? We found her details, of course, through the microchip we put in before you took her home the first time. But we were concerned about her weight and decided we’d keep her for a few days to see if you turned up. Have you got any identification with you?’ Darren ignored this question.
‘That’s her! That’s my little Beattie. Oh, hello darling, precious dog!’
Laura came into the pen to pick Beattie up. Beattie shook, and pressed herself against the furthest wall.
‘She doesn’t seem very pleased to see you,’ said Laura.
‘Oh, she’s fine!’ Darren smiled. ‘She’s just upset that’s all. Probably blames me for losing sight of her and letting her get lost.’
Beattie stared at Darren and growled. She trembled as hard as she could. She didn’t have to pretend. As Laura came towards her there could be no doubt that she was a very frightened little dog. But instead of Laura handing her to Brian, she picked her up and kept hold of her and turned in the direction of the office.
‘If you’ll just come with me Mr Wilson, we’ll have to take some details and look at your ID. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Well, no, not really. What details d’you need?’ Darren’s smile faded and he began to look his usual shifty self. He glared at Beattie. ‘She’s my dog. I’m Brian Wilson and I got her from here. You can check your records.’ Impatiently, he gave Brian’s address. Beattie growled again, and shivered in Laura’s arms. Laura had to understand that going with Darren was NOT what she wanted.
‘I’m a little concerned at the dog’s reaction to you Mr Wilson,’ said Laura, ‘I should have expected her to give you more of a welcome.’
At this Darren began to lose his temper. ‘I’ve told you why she’s making that noise,’ he said, ‘she’s upset that I lost her that’s all. Now listen to me Missus. You’re wasting time here and I’ve got a living to make. Hand her over and you can get on with your work too. Or I’ll be talking to your boss whoever he is.’ This time he glared at Laura.
‘My boss is called Alison Cope,’ said Laura sharply, ‘and I’d be grateful if you’d wait there while I go and find her. She’s not far away.’
Laura kept hold of Beattie as she went in search of help. But before Alison could be found, there was a loud slam of the office block door, and Darren disappeared. From out in the street there came the sound of an engine starting up, and skidding as the van charged off down the road.
‘Well well,’ said Laura. ‘He wasn’t very nice.’ She stroked Beattie’s ears, and said kindly, ‘Don’t worry. We won’t give you to him. We’ll find a new home for you. Maybe someone with children who’ll make a fuss of you and take you for walks. How about that?’
But Beattie didn’t want a new home. She wanted her old one back. She wanted Brian.
Before settling her back in her pen Laura reported to Alison.
‘That’s odd,’ said Alison. ‘Brian Wilson seemed such a nice man. I remember him quite well. But I’ll make a note on the computer that it was an unsuccessful re-homing and that Beattie’s not to be given back to him. Poor little thing,’ she said to Beattie, ‘you seem to have had a bad time. That must be why you ran away.’
14
Dora
‘Let’s get out of the car Dad!’ Emily appealed to her father as rain hit the windscreen and Mr Featherstone, who hated getting wet, announced that they would come back another day, having just arrived at Snares Fa
rm to take a look.
‘Not likely!’ he said, answering a call on his mobile as he edged the car backwards and turned to set off for home again, ignoring Emily’s furious signals to him to stop.
Dora, who was sitting in the back, was worried. Any Jack Russell worth her sort could pick up the vibrations of thousands of ratty sounds in the old farmhouse, even with the car door shut, and Dora had done just that. She’d seen enough through the window, and heard enough with her sharp ears, to understand that Rat Hall, as she’d heard it called, would be a very big job indeed – too big for her and her girls.
What’s more, things at the Featherstone house were not going well. Dora and her daughters enjoyed living there, and Dora herself had become very attached to Emily. She liked their occasional ratting jobs, and although she longed to be taken for some proper walks, she knew that she and her family were lucky to be where they were. So she’d been alarmed to hear a conversation between Emily’s parents a couple of days earlier, while Emily was out at school.
‘I don’t like it John!’ said Mrs Featherstone to her husband, ‘Emily thinks about nothing but pest control. I was happy enough for her to take charge of the dogs and so on, but things are going too far! I’m sure she was talking about rats in her sleep the other night, and it’s not going to look good at school, with all her essays having ‘rodent’ in their titles. What will people think? We’re starting to be known as the Rat Family.’
‘Nonsense!’ replied her husband. ‘Emily’s got a good business head on her shoulders, that’s all. There’s probably money in pest control, and I’m proud of the girl for being able to see that.’
‘It’s not money she’s interested in. It’s rats!’ went on his wife, ‘and what’s more, I think you should stop talking about your plans for the village. I’m being stared at by the other mothers at the school gate as they’re convinced you’re going to ruin the place with your supermarket plans and holiday cottages and whatnot.’
