by Scilla James
‘Nonsense!’ Mr Featherstone said again, raising his voice. ‘They need a decent shop here. That farm shop Mavis Barnsley sits gossiping in all day is hopeless. Have you seen the prices in there?’
‘That’s not the point,’ said his wife, ‘but I’ve come to one decision anyway. Those dogs will have to go. It’s the only way to stop Emily practically turning into a rat. I’m going to ring up the rescue people we got them from and see if they’ve got a nice poodle or something else for a pet. Anything that doesn’t like chasing rats.’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Mr Featherstone was angry, ‘those terriers have got a job to do for me. It’s going to save me a fortune, and also, have you forgotten what it was like with the loft full of rats? What good’s a poodle going be for that?’
‘I don’t care!’ said Mrs Featherstone. ‘We can get that old man to come and clear the rats for us. If I’d known about him I’d never have got Dora in the first place.’
Dora was horrified. Back to the Rescue? No! She must try and get Emily interested in something else at once. But what? Swimming was out, because Dora hated it. Walking was out, because Mrs Featherstone wouldn’t let them go. Climbing was just plain unlikely.
What about Terrier Racing? Dora couldn’t read of course but she’d seen a sign in the village shop window with a picture of a Border Terrier charging down a track to advertise the Annual Terrier Race. The same picture, only smaller, was on the back page of the newspaper Mrs Featherstone brought home with her shopping. And Dora had heard Meg and Allie talking about it, as she knew Allie was hoping Emily would take them and that the black-eared terrier might be there. But how to get Emily interested?
Dora hurried into the sitting room, and, jumping up onto the low coffee table near the fireplace, she pulled the newspaper towards her and twisted it with her teeth so that it fell onto its front on the carpet, clearly showing the terrier racing picture on the back.
She had to repeat this exercise several times as Mrs Featherstone kept picking up the paper to tidy it whenever she came into the room. ‘Something’s moving this paper,’ Dora heard her muttering.
As soon as Emily got home from school Dora took a firm hold of her skirt with her teeth, and dragged her towards the picture.
‘Dora! Let go! What on earth’s the matter?’
But on the third attempt, Emily, who was better than most people at listening to what animals tried to say to her, finally looked at the advert.
‘Annual Terrier Race? Wow! Yes, you clever dog. If we could win that I might get some money towards starting up my business! What a brilliant idea!’ She called to her mother, ‘Mum! Dora wants us to enter the terrier racing at Saturday’s village fete. Can we go? I reckon we could easily win it.’
Mrs Featherstone looked doubtful. ‘Are any rats involved?’ she asked.
‘No, ‘course not! It’s just racing. But we’ll have to practise. I’ll take the dogs out after tea and start training them.’
Mrs Featherstone looked at the newspaper. ‘Maybe the village would be a bit more friendly towards us if we take an interest in their show. All right Emily, as long as there are no rats.’
Dora sighed with relief. She explained her scheme to her daughters.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask professional ratters to run in a terrier race, and certainly not to chase a ball, but unless we can make Mrs Featherstone change her mind about us, we’ll be back in the Rescue pen by next week.’ She told her girls what she’d overheard.
‘What?’ Allie was horrified. She thought of Spud, and his lovely ears. ‘We’ll help, won’t we Meg? We don’t want to be sent away!’
Emily got going straight after tea. The Featherstone house had a long garden and she searched around to find a couple of tennis balls for the dogs to chase. Hoping not to be seen by any passing dogs, Dora, Meg and Allie did their best to run flat out and grab the ball. It was boring, but they coped.
‘You’re not nearly fast enough!’ Emily told them. ‘Listen, we’ve only got three days. I’ll get up early tomorrow and we’ll have a go before school. Dad’s squash balls might be better as I could throw them further. I’ll see if I can nick a couple. I have to get you fit.’
They stayed outside until nearly dark, then came back in and Dora Allie and Meg collapsed in a heap.
For the next three days Emily worked her dogs. They ran and ran. She gave each of them a sports massage after half an hour, which they hated as she was hopeless at it, but they kept on doing their best, and gradually they knew they were speeding up.
Mrs Featherstone came out onto the patio and looked at her daughter with relief. Dora overheard her say to her husband. ‘Thank goodness for that John! Emily hasn’t mentioned a rat in days.’
Whilst Dora and her daughters charged up and down the Featherstone lawns, collecting a mixture of tennis, squash, and even cricket balls thrown for them by Emily, Charlie and his gang were planning their assault on Rat Hall.
15
Beattie
Beattie lay with her head on her paws, watching gloomily through the bars of her pen. Alison had kindly moved her to the front of the kennel building, so that she could watch people coming and going, and feel less lonely. The other staff went out of their way to be kind to her, as they had all heard about the terrible Brian Wilson who had posed as a kind re-homer but turned out to be nothing of the sort. Beattie felt so upset when she heard them talking about him, and wished she was able to tell them that the horrible man who had tried to collect her had been Darren and not Brian. As the days passed she began to give up hope of ever seeing Brian again.
She heard some news of her own family however, just by chance. Like all good rescue centres the staff would call on their re-homers after a few months, to check that all was well and offer advice. Beattie woke from a sad little doze one afternoon to hear Albert, one of the home visit people, telling Alison about his visit that morning to Mrs Featherstone.
‘D’you remember Dora?’ he began, ‘that pretty little Jack Russell and her two pups that went to the property developer somewhere near Uffington?’
‘I do,’ said Alison, ‘bossy woman with rats. One daughter.’
‘That’s it!’ Albert looked pleased. ‘Well, they’ve certainly been doing some ratting work. Mrs Featherstone had a great deal to say on the subject. Apparently her daughter got into pest control in a big way. Began running a business almost, only without any money, helping people clear their mice and rats. She’s only about 10 years old! Then one day Mrs F. got a personal request from the Mayor, asking her to volunteer her dogs to help with pests on the local housing estates. She said at first she was flattered but then realised that things had gone too far. So she put her foot down.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Alison.
‘I almost felt it was our fault,’ Albert went on. Mrs F. said she was on the point of giving all the dogs back to us.’
‘What a cheek! She asked for a ratter in the first place!’
‘Well, then the daughter changed her mind and now they’re all into terrier racing. Mrs F. seems happy with that, though they’re a funny lot, if you ask me.’
Beattie wondered what terrier racing was, and hoped her sisters liked doing it. It didn’t sound very interesting. Why would terriers want to race? Still, she thought, if they’re happy, that’s good. But oh dear! How she missed them.’
It was on a Friday morning that it happened. The sun was up, and Beattie was looking forward to being taken out of her pen for a walk. Sometimes people who liked dogs, and felt sorry for the strays that were kept at the Rescue Centre, would come and take dogs out walking, to give them a change of scene. It wasn’t perfect, as no dogs were allowed off the lead for a proper run, but it was better than nothing. So Beattie was pleased to see the elderly couple who took her out on Fridays, come up the drive in their car. As usual, Mr and Mrs Worthington parked in the wrong place, reversing badly so that nobody could get into the main office building without squeezing. A van coming u
p the drive behind them stopped and a young man got out.
‘Hello Beattie!’ Mr Worthington took a lead from his car boot and handed it to his wife. She was coming towards Beattie’s pen when the young man called to them.
‘Sorry but would you mind moving your car? I need to unload something into that building.’ A familiar voice that made Beattie nearly jump out of her skin, ‘I’ve got a large picture here that I need to carry through that door.’
Beattie leapt to her feet and started barking wildly. ‘Brian!’
‘Shush!’ said Mrs Worthington, ‘no need to make all that noise little dog. Mr Worthington’s just going to move the car for this young man and we’ll get you out. I’m so glad you’re looking forward to your walk today.’
But Beattie was going crazy. What was Brian doing here? She watched as Mr Worthington’s car reversed slowly back so that the office door was cleared and Beattie saw Brain draw up and unload a large object from the back of his van. She barely noticed that it was the same picture of herself and her family that the ambulance men had moved all those months ago for Mr Gibbons. But Mr Worthington, getting out of his car and noticing the painting, said to Brian, ‘Well I never! That little one’s got exactly the same markings as this Jack Russell here that we take out walking.’
‘Me, me!’ shouted Beattie, but of course her words came out as a bark.
Mrs Worthington opened the door to Beattie’s pen. She was holding the lead in her hand.
‘Heavens above Beattie,’ she said, ‘what a fuss! Come on out then, and we’ll go for our walk.’
But Beattie had gone already. As the door opened she charged through and jumped right up at Brian, heedless of the painting, and landed somewhere in the middle of his chest, so that he had to catch her as the painting nearly fell to the ground.
‘Hey little dog!’ he exclaimed, as he steadied the painting and leaned it against the wall. Then he looked to see who it was he was holding under one arm.
Mrs Worthington hurried towards them in alarm. She held the lead out to clip onto Beattie and she looked a little irritated too. ‘We’re just about to take that dog out for a walk,’ she said, ‘can you hold her while I put her lead on? I don’t think Alison will be very pleased with us if we let her go. She was found wandering the streets you know.’ But by then Brian had recognised his own dog.
‘Beattie, is this really you?’ He laughed with pleasure as Beattie licked his face, snuggling up against his chest as she always used to do.
At this point Alison came out of the office. ‘What on earth’s going on?’
‘This dog seems to have taken to your delivery man,’ said Mrs Worthington, ‘when we were just about to take her for a walk.’
‘It’s Beattie!’ said Brian. ‘I re-homed her months ago and I was told she’d run away while someone else was looking after her. I can’t believe she’s been here all the time!’
Alison took control of the situation. ‘You’d better come into the office,’ she said, ‘and Mr and Mrs Worthington, I’m sorry but it looks as if we’ll need to find you another dog to walk today. I’ll call Laura and we’ll sort something out.’
It was lucky for everyone that Alison had met Brian Wilson before. Had she not, the note on the computer, warning the staff at the Rescue Centre not to return Beattie to him, might have made for a sad ending. But as soon as Alison talked to Brian, and their stories were told, it became clear what had happened. Brian was very angry indeed. ‘I’ll have a few things to say to Darren,’ he said grimly, ‘he doesn’t work for me any more but I do know where he lives. I understand now why he said he wanted a new job. But that won’t be the end of it, you can be sure of that. Beattie and I will go and call on him, very soon.’
Both of us? Beattie shivered.
‘And what about this painting?’ Alison asked.
‘Oh, I got a call from the Plough’s Rest Home for the Elderly,’ said Brian. ‘They said the painting had been donated to your place and asked me to move it. A Mr Gibbons, they said, was so grateful to you for taking in his Jack Russell family, and thought you might like the painting for your entrance hall. He was very fond of his Jack Russells apparently.’
Alison made Brian a cup of coffee and Beattie, happy for the first time since Brian had fallen downstairs weeks ago, snuggled down on his knee and waited to be taken home. She only hoped that Brian would leave her behind when he went to see Darren.
16
East Foxmould
The day of the village fete dawned fine and bright.
‘A bit too bright, Charlie boy,’ said Mr Trundle as he munched his toast. ‘Indeed. Too bright too early – means anything can happen, weatherwise. Now what time’s the terrier racing? I know you enjoy it so much and we don’t want to miss it do we? I’ll give Mabel a call and we’ll all go together as usual.’
As he went to pick up the phone Charlie signalled to Snip and the two dogs trotted quietly out of the open back door and away. They’d arranged to meet the others at Rat Hall as early as possible, so they cut past Andrew Mulligan’s house and across the fields in that direction. They soon caught up with Spud and Herbie and the four dogs approached the gloomy farmhouse from the front.
Somehow the brightness of the morning made the building appear even more forbidding than when they’d seen it last. They noticed tyre tracks near the front door and remembered the van that had turned up when they’d been there last time, and then of course, the poor little girl terrier they had failed to help. Charlie felt the worst about her, because he knew he’d taken the lead in not helping.
‘Ready boys?’ Charlie was determined to be brave today, and to play his part in saving Mr Trundle’s business. He and his gang would show the village who were the real rat catchers round here, and just maybe, he would see some small dog in trouble, and this time, help him or her, to make up for his failure last time.
‘Herbie,’ he said, ‘go to your look out post please!’
Herbie trotted over to a tall heap of ancient rubbish and climbed to the top of it. ‘All clear!’ The other three dogs squeezed through the gap Spud had found at the side of the farmhouse, and they set to. The rats were not expecting them. Unlike Beattie’s frightened entrance on the end of Darren’s foot, these three terriers broke in with energy and determination. They carried themselves like the professional ratters they were. Their bodies were taut and ready to fight. They were up the stairs in no time, snarling and snapping at the rats on the top floor, driving them towards the stairs and down. Charlie too, was looking as fierce as he needed to, and although still scared inside, it didn’t show.
They drove the rats to the ground floor, collecting countless numbers as they chased. The alarm had gone out and every rat in the building was aiming to leave. They scurried and jumped, tails flying, knocking into one another. They knew other ways from the farmhouse than just the gap where Charlie and Spud had got in, so they came out all over the place. Waiting in the bright sunshine Herbie did his best to make sure they ran in the East Foxmould direction. This was difficult, and he was relieved when the other three squeezed back outside to help him.
Because Andrew Mulligan’s house was so well known to the rats, most of them automatically headed that way. Perhaps they could also smell the delicious burgers frying outside the refreshment tent on the Green.
‘Come on Gang!’ called Charlie, and the four dogs raced after the rats, driving them ever nearer to the East Foxmould fete. Poor Andrew Mulligan, careful these days with his leftover food, was out filling his dustbin when the rats charged past. He was more than horrified.
At this point Charlie and the boys were still chasing, but, seeing the doctor standing there, Charlie decided it was time they left for home, in case they were seen.
‘DUCK!’ he called. ‘Lie down at once.’ The gang did as they were told. ‘We have to be careful from here,’ whispered Charlie. ‘The village people mustn’t see us driving the rats towards the Green. If they think we brought them they’ll smell a rat, so to sp
eak. Ha ha. I reckon that from now on they’ll go on their own. The smell of the food will draw them there.’
‘D’you think Mr Trundle might get us a burger?’ asked Herbie.
‘No,’ said Charlie.
The terriers began to walk casually in the direction of their two homes, Charlie and Snip arriving to find Mr Trundle red faced from calling and whistling.
‘But Charlie boy! Where have you been?’ he said, ‘I thought you’d gone without me. I know you’re keen but we need to go together in the van. Good advertising you know!’ He looked at his dogs, who were panting and hot. ‘You’ve been up to something. And Mabel was missing her dogs this morning. Am I right in thinking they’ll be back too?’ Mr Trundle looked suspiciously at Charlie. ‘We’ll call and pick them up on the way.’
It was customary on the day of the show in East Foxmould for most local residents to arrive on foot, while others living further away would drive in and park at the far end of the Green, leaving space for horse boxes, demonstration people and the like. Mr Trundle, having picked up Mabel Nockerty and her dogs, drove to the fete and placed his van where it could best be seen.
It was clear at once that something was wrong. The dogs tried to look surprised. As well as cars arriving, they appeared to be reversing as fast as they came, pushing their way out of the village instead of into it. Children could be seen running screaming all over the place, their parents after them, some holding up their skirts and others trying to hold down the bottoms of their jeans so nothing could run up them. Mr Trundle looked at his dogs.
‘Rats everywhere Charlie,’ he said. ‘Is this anything to do with you? And who’s this?’
It was the Mayor. He was rushing towards them, waving his arms around and shouting to Mr Trundle. The gold chain around his shoulders had drooped to one side as he forgot his mayoral dignity in the emergency.
