They had reached the end of the line. The old man turned to limp away, when he stopped suddenly.
“I can hear growling,” he said, cupping his ear.
“Yes, I’m sorry, that’s Pepper in the last pen. He hates visiting time. Actually, he hates everything and everyone. He’s hiding in his kennel.”
“I want to see him.”
“Oh, Pepper wouldn’t make a suitable pet at all, I’m sorry. He has a deformed leg and a terrible temper. I’m afraid he bites.”
“I said I want to see him.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that just isn’t possible.”
The old man said no more but turned and stumped away.
Big Denise forgot all about him until she entered the kennel building a while later. Visitors viewing the animals could only do so from outside and were never allowed inside the building. A big sign - Staff Only, No Unauthorised Entry - was posted on the door. This door opened onto a long corridor from which each pen could be accessed, either on the left or the right.
To her astonishment, she could hear a man’s low voice at the end of the corridor. Quietly, she approached.
“So you’ve got a bad leg, too, have you, old fella?” she heard the man say. “Well, bad-tempered old chaps like us should stick together.”
And then Big Denise realised who the intruder was; the old man with the walking stick who she’d been talking to earlier.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’re not allowed…” she started to say, but the words died before she could finish the sentence.
Not only had the old man entered the building, but he was sitting on a stool inside Pepper’s enclosure. And what was Pepper doing? Pepper sat meekly in front of the old man, peering up into his face. One paw was on the old man’s knee, and his eyes were half shut with pleasure as the old man fondled his ears.
“Just for a second,” Big Denise told me, “I thought there was some mistake, that this wasn’t our Pepper at all.”
“So what happened next?” I asked, enchanted by the story.
“I watched them together for a while, and I had to admit, those two were made for each other. Pepper behaved like a different dog; gentle, patient and obedient. The old man told me he wanted to adopt Pepper, and I couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.”
“Right, old boy,” said the old man as he let himself out of Pepper’s pen. “I’m going to sign some papers and stuff, and then I’m going to arrange to take you home. You wait right there.”
Pepper’s stubby tail wagged so fast it was almost a blur.
So Pepper did find himself a new home after all. By the time the old man came to collect him the next weekend, the story had spread and all the staff came to wish the pair farewell. The old man removed Pepper’s old collar with the animal sanctuary’s tag on it, and placed a new blue collar round his neck, with a matching lead.
“There! Now you look very handsome!”
Pepper’s stubby tail wagged in a frenzy and he licked the old man’s hand.
“Right, old boy, that’s it then. Say goodbye, let’s take you home.”
With a brief wave to us, the old man stumped away, leaning on his stick. Pepper trotted beside him, proud head up, limping slightly but with a noticeable new spring in his step.
We shook our heads and smiled, amazed. This wasn’t the Pepper we knew and feared.
“Bye, and good luck,” we called as the pair limped out through the sanctuary gates to begin their new life together.
We never saw them again but I’m sure they enjoyed a happy life together. It really was a match made in heaven.
* * *
I should have studied for my coming exams, but there was always something more interesting to do. My schoolfriend, Jo, and I had started writing each other letters, which was ridiculous as we saw each other at school every day anyway. What was in those daily letters? I have no idea, I simply can’t remember. I asked Jo just a few weeks ago if she could remember what we wrote about.
“No, I don’t remember at all,” she replied, casting her mind back more than forty years. “I just remember writing them, and getting them every day, and I remember they made me laugh. And they were a lot more interesting than revising.”
Examination time arrived. Once again we sat in long silent rows in the gym.
“You may now turn your papers over and begin,” said the invigilator.
I stared at the questions and began writing. If I failed these exams, and couldn’t go to Teacher Training College, then what? I was furious with myself for not studying harder.
Straight after the exams came a time of relaxation, but also uncertainty. It was too late to study and nothing I did now could influence my ‘A’ Level results. Time would tell.
* * *
“Ach, that’s the postman.”
“I can’t look,” I said, a bag of nerves.
“I’ll see if the results have arrived.”
My mother scooped up the envelopes from the door mat and sifted through them.
“Yes, your ‘A’ Level results are here.”
“I can’t look.”
“Ach, shall I open the envelope for you?”
“Yes, please. I can’t look.”
I was sitting on the stairs, my hands covering my face. Now was the moment of truth. If I’d failed, as I deserved to, my dream of a teaching career was over.
“Well?”
I peeped through my fingers, trying to read my mother’s expression as she unfolded the letter.
“You passed them all!”
“I did? Are you sure?”
My future was mapped out. I would become a teacher.
* * *
Autumn was on the way. At school, we’d already said our goodbyes and signed our names on each other’s uniforms. We would be scattering to universities and training colleges the length and breadth of Britain.
It was my last day at the animal sanctuary. I’d given up pretending not to watch for Tony amongst the visitors. I always searched for him in the sea of faces when the sanctuary gates opened to let visitors in. I’d hold my breath, but Tony never came. He promised he’d come to say goodbye, but he couldn’t even be bothered to do that.
“Well, Nig-Nog, it’s just you and me today,” I said, leaning down and rubbing his cheek the way he loved.
“Puuurrp!”
A wave of sadness rippled over me.
“I’m really, really going to miss you, you know.”
“And I’m going to miss you, Vicky.”
I jumped. I knew that voice.
Has he come back to say goodbye after all?
Slowly, slowly, heart somersaulting, I turned to see who had spoken.
“I’m so sorry, Vicky, I just didn’t know how to tell you,” said Tony.
I stared at him, speechless. Was this my Tony? Where was the long, dirty blond hair and bushy moustache? Where were the beads? Where was the psychedelic shirt and bell-bottom jeans? Where was Tony the Hippy?
In front of me stood a clean-shaven lad with short, neat hair and Marks and Spencer clothes. He didn’t look unattractive, but this wasn’t the Tony I’d fallen for. In that instant, I was cured.
“I came to say goodbye,” said Tony.
“Goodbye?” I echoed. “You needn’t have bothered. Really.”
And I meant it.
Tony had done me a favour. Now I could look forward to my exciting future without regrets, without that ache in my heart that Tony had left. I was free.
I was upset, but not about Tony. I was upset about leaving Nig-Nog, and all the other animals, and Big Denise, and all the wonderful friends I had made at the animal sanctuary.
I cleared out my locker for the last time, and found a little folded note that had just been pushed through the crack in the locker door. I unfolded it.
Vicky, I hope you’ve forgiven me. I’ve missed you a lot these past weeks and you are always in my thoughts. I really hope we can get together during the holidays and pick up where we left
off. Please get in touch.
All my love,
T xxx
I screwed up the note in my hand and walked over to the wastepaper bin. I dropped the crumpled paper in.
No, I said to myself. No, that’s not going to happen.
* * *
“Ach, are you sure you’ve got everything?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“It’s going to be a long drive, you know.”
It was 1973, I was eighteen years old and we were heading to West Sussex. The journey would take most drivers a couple of hours, but this was my mother driving Ivy. It would most likely take four or five hours, and we’d packed a picnic.
“Right, off we go!” shouted my mother, turning the ignition key and crunching Ivy’s gears alarmingly.
My father had made sure that Ivy was facing the right way; my mother still hadn’t mastered the art of reversing. I took a last look at my childhood home over my shoulder and held tight as Ivy bucked away.
The future looked bright.
Epilogue
The next section of my life, covering college days, marriage and children, remains unrecorded as yet, a project for the future perhaps. Is it possible to write a sequel to a prequel?
My sister left university with a decent degree, but no real idea of what she wanted to do. Already bitten by the travel bug, she worked in an Israeli kibbutz for a while. The Yom Kippur War began with a surprise Arab attack on Israel on Saturday 6th October 1973 and my sister was airlifted out of the kibbutz. There was no time to pack possessions, she and her colleagues had to escape in just the clothes they were wearing.
Unperturbed, she then went to work in Cyprus until July 1974 when Turkish forces suddenly invaded the country. Once again, my sister was airlifted out. Once again, there was no time to pack possessions. She and her colleagues escaped in just the clothes they were wearing.
“Ach,” said my mother, looking over her shoulder as though expecting to spot troops amassing in the shadows behind the compost heap. “I’m a bit nervous of her coming back to Wareham. She seems to attract wars.”
My sister went on to carve out a career working all over the world for the Voluntary Services Overseas (VSO), the British equivalent to the Peace Corps, and language development projects. We blame her for starting the revolution in Iran two months after she began work there. She eventually married a fellow free spirit.
My brother followed in my father’s footsteps and joined the Army for a while, before working for himself. He is married and has three sons.
My mother and father both died in 1993, within three months of each other.
Auntie Jean and Uncle Frank passed away recently after some illness. Annabel, now the mother of two boys, returned to Wareham to nurse her parents and is still there.
My schoolfriend, Jo, married a screenwriter. The couple and their two young daughters moved to Los Angeles for a while. Disillusioned with La-La Land, they returned to Dorset and the girls attended Parkstone Grammar School, just like their mother had done.
I don’t know if Janice Parry ended up marrying my crush, Barry. Neither do I have any idea what happened to Tony the Hippy.
Mrs Cox and Jeannie passed away a long time ago, but not before they had raised a shedload more money for the charity, Guide Dogs for the Blind.
I thrived at Teacher Training College and enjoyed living in West Sussex. I married and had children. Living yards from the sea was wonderful, even though our local beach couldn’t be compared with beautiful Studland or Sandbanks, or the other fabulous Dorset beaches that were part of my childhood.
Fast forward thirty years or more. Life in West Sussex had been good. Our children had grown up and flown away, and Joe was on the verge of retirement.
But at the age when most people want to take on less, I decided to do the complete opposite and turn our lives upside down. I nagged poor long-suffering Joe into moving to a tiny, remote village in the Spanish mountains.
* * *
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Thank you!
* * *
See the next page for a preview of Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools.
Preview of Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools
1 The Five Year Plan
“Hello?”
“This is Kurt.”
“Oh! Hello, Kurt. How are you?”
“I am vell. The papers you vill sign now. I haf made an appointment vith the Notary for you May 23rd, 12 o’clock.”
“Right, I’ll check the flights and…” but he had already hung up.
Kurt, our German estate agent, was the type of person one obeyed without question. So, on May 23rd, we found ourselves back in Spain, seated round a huge polished table in the Notary’s office. Beside us sat our bank manager holding a briefcase stuffed with bank notes.
* * *
Nine months earlier, we had never met Kurt. Nine months earlier, Joe and I lived in an ordinary house, in an ordinary Sussex town. Nine months earlier we had ordinary jobs and expected an ordinary future.
Then, one dismal Sunday, I decided to change all that.
“…heavy showers are expected to last through the Bank Holiday weekend and into next week. Temperatures are struggling to reach 14 degrees…”
August, and the weather-girl was wearing a coat, sheltering under an umbrella. June had been wet, July wetter. I sighed, stabbing the ‘off’ button on the remote control before she could depress me further. Agh! Typical British weather.
My depression changed to frustration. The private thoughts that had been tormenting me so long returned. Why should we put up with it? Why not move? Why not live in my beloved Spain where the sun always shines?
I walked to the window. Raindrops like slug trails trickled down the windowpane. Steely clouds hung low, heavy with more rain, smothering the town. Sodden litter sat drowning in the gutter.
“Joe?” He was dozing, stretched out on the sofa, mouth slightly open. “Joe, I want to talk to you about something.”
Poor Joe, my long-suffering husband. His gangly frame was sprawled out, newspaper slipping from his fingers. He was utterly relaxed, blissfully unaware that our lives were about to change course.
How different he looked in scruffy jeans compared with his usual crisp uniform. But to me, whatever he wore, he was always the same, an officer and a gentleman. Nearing retirement from the Forces, I knew he was looking forward to a tension-free future, but the television weather-girl had galvanised me into action. The metaphorical bee in my bonnet would not be stilled. It buzzed and grew until it became a hornet demanding attention.
“Huh? What’s the matter?” His words were blurred with sleep, his eyes still closed. Rain beat a tattoo on the window pane.
“Joe? Are you listening?”
“Uhuh…”
“When you retire, I want us to sell up and buy a house in Spain.” Deep breath.
There. The bomb was dropped. I had finally admitted my longing. I wanted to abandon England with its ceaseless rain. I wanted to move permanently to Spain.
Sleep forgotten, Joe pulled himself upright, confusion in his blue eyes as he tried to read my expression.
“Vicky, what did you say just then?” he asked, squinting at me.
“I want to go and live in Spain.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I am.”
Of course it wasn’t just the rain. I had plenty of reasons, some vague, some more solid.
I presented my pitch carefully. Our children, adults now, were scattered round the world; Scotland, Australia and London. No grandchildren yet on the horizon and Joe only had a year before he retired. Then we would be free as birds to nest where we pleased.
And the cost of living in Spain would be so much lower. Council tax a fraction of what we usually paid, cheaper food, cheaper houses… The list went on.
Joe listened closely and I watched his reactions. Usually, he is
the impetuous one, not me. But I was well aware that his retirement fantasy was being threatened. His dream of lounging all day in his dressing-gown, writing his book and diverting himself with the odd mathematical problem was being exploded.
“Hang on, Vicky, I thought we had it all planned? I thought you would do a few days of supply teaching if you wanted, while I start writing my book.” Joe absentmindedly scratched his nether regions. For once I ignored his infuriating habit; I was in full flow.
“But imagine writing in Spain! Imagine sitting outside in the shade of a grapevine and writing your masterpiece.”
Outside, windscreen wipers slapped as cars swept past, tyres sending up plumes of filthy water. Joe glanced out of the window at the driving rain and I sensed I had scored an important point.
“Why don’t you write one of your famous lists?” he suggested, only half joking.
I am well known for my lists and records. Inheriting the record- keeping gene from my father, I can’t help myself. I make a note of the weather every day, the temperature, the first snowdrop, the day the ants fly, the exchange rate of the euro, everything. I make shopping lists, separate ones for each shop. I make To Do lists and ‘Joe, will you please’ lists. I make packing lists before holidays. I even make lists of lists. My nickname at work was Schindler.
So I set to work and composed what I considered to be a killer pitch:
Sunny weather
Cheap houses
Live in the country
Miniscule council tax
Friendly people
Less crime
No heating bills
Cheap petrol
Wonderful Spanish food
Cheap wine and beer
Could get satellite TV so you won’t miss English football
Much more laid-back life style
Could afford house big enough for family and visitors to stay
No TV licence
Only short flight to UK
Might live longer because Mediterranean diet is healthiest in the world
When I ran dry, I handed the list to Joe. He glanced at it and snorted.
“I’m going to make a coffee,” he said, but he took my list with him. He was in the kitchen a long time.
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