Greyhound George

by Cleaver, Tony

  The last time George had gone to sleep he woke up a different animal so this time, as soon as he opened his eyes, he quickly looked down and checked himself. No change. He was still Greyhound George. Great! He was amused to find that he was actually glad about his continued dogginess. Accountancy could wait – for how long he did not know. What he did know, looking up at the sun and calculating its path across the sky, was that he must have been sleeping for about an hour, so now it was time he resumed his journey to St Bartholomew’s College where he hoped to enjoy himself spreading a little chaos. He remembered a couple of times, many years ago now when he was a secondary schoolboy, that a dog had got into his school playground and scores of children had followed it around as if it was the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. No end of fun could be had like that, and he wondered if university students would react the same way. Nothing for it but to put his hypothesis to the test. He could not wait to become such a piper and put a similar plan into action. George stood up, stretched every leg in turn and then trotted out of the garden and into the main street leading down to the village centre. St Bart’s, here I come!

  Chapter 5

  St Bartholomew’s was one of Durham University’s newer colleges, which is to say that for such a traditional and historic institution it was built in the 1960s – much later than many of the other buildings and departments – when the post-war surge in student numbers needed to be accommodated. Rather than stone, slate and a sombre, classical appearance like some of the older edifices, St Bart’s was a brick-walled, pitched-tiled roof establishment constructed to form three quadrangles that bordered the university woodlands on the south-eastern edge of the city, on the hill that overlooked the spectacular Norman cathedral – one of Britain’s finest architectural treasures. George approached the college from the east, leaving his own village, traversing across the River Wear, past a number of rugby and football pitches that led up to woodlands and thence, despite a myriad of fascinating scents en route, to the university property.

  It was gone nine o’clock, George reckoned, but still there were some sleepy students dragging themselves out of their rooms, looking to catch a late breakfast. He followed a train of them into the main dining hall, located across a quadrangle from the residential quarters, to where numbers of students, kitchen staff and one or two college porters were milling about, going in and out. Upon entering the long, high-windowed hall, a table of young men was first to notice the inquisitive black greyhound and they called over in decidedly high spirits to see if it wanted to share their repast. That was exceedingly generous of them, George noted, and although he wasn’t now that hungry he did not want to offend their hospitality. However, a member of the college domestic staff, a porter, alerted by the students’ cries, tried to stop George trotting over to the table that had invited him. A chorus of objections issued forth.

  “Shame, sir!”

  “Leave off!”

  “Let the poor dog through!”

  “It looks like it needs a feed!”

  Now George was a bit put out by this. A greyhound in form is not fat and, to be sure, its lower limbs are quite slim and its flanks and abdomen, to the untrained eye, are positively slender. But its chest, shoulders and back haunches are solid muscle and George’s engine room, so to speak, was ready to explode into action at the slightest twitch. The implication that he was a poor creature in much need of sustenance could not go unchallenged. The attempt by some overweight college porter to try and stop his advance was all the excuse George needed. Zing! Like an arrow from a bow he flew past a flailing arm and was away down the hall, determined to impress his onlookers.

  Unfortunately, a highly polished wooden floor set about with dining tables, chairs and various personnel moving around is not the ideal arena for a bit of Olympian racing. And it is far too slippery to show off your abilities at slalom. Crash! George gave an empty chair a glancing blow. Over-compensating, he skidded next into someone’s legs – at the speed he was going he noticed only denim jeans and had no idea of gender – except that they were well-padded and he bounced off them into a nearby table. Krump! Ouch! That hurt! The table didn’t move much but George’s right shoulder had taken a fierce blow and now, what was this white cloth wrapped around his head as he slewed to a halt? A tablecloth? The crashing and smashing of crockery and the spilling of cereals, juice and other items of food and drink all over the floor confirmed that, yes, a tablecloth was indeed what it was. From a table stacked full of breakfast provisions.

  Pandemonium ensued. People were laughing, shouting, trying to get out of the way; trying to tidy up what had fallen; someone was calling for a mop; someone else was trying to get hold of George; George meanwhile was limping with a bruised shoulder towards another table and trying to avoid capture.

  One of the kitchen ladies was carrying a tray full of used plates and breakfast bowls, piloting a path as best she could between the carnage, and she suddenly jumped in surprise as George popped out from behind a couple of chairs that barred his passage. The poor woman stepped quickly back but slipped on a puddle of spilt water behind her. Crash! Down went the tray of crockery, some plates wheeling off to all quarters.

  A great cheer went up. George quickly ducked out of sight again. Another tablecloth obstructed his passage and there was nothing for it now but to keep ploughing on in the attempt to put distance between him and his pursuers. There was a slipping and sliding noise behind him as the tablecloth was pulled and then Sper-lash! – several jugs of orange juice and packets of cereals came toppling down, spilling their contents all over the place.

  The college porter hurried forward, swearing at the scene of disaster. He caught sight of George at first, but George was not staying put and waiting for retribution. He scampered off from one table to another across the hall. The students, of course, loved it.

  “Hooray!”

  “There it goes!”

  “Tally Ho!”

  “Where’s that damned dog gone?” swore the college porter, trying not to tread on any of the mess scattered about.

  Rather belatedly, George regretted what he had started. But more than regret, he felt it was time to, er, disappear. He needed to put as much distance as he could between him and someone who wanted to get hold of him and make him pay for the turmoil he had inflicted upon the college. There were around twenty or so students in various locations about the dining hall and George reckoned his chances of escape were better if he plotted a zigzag route around them – trusting that none would want to grab hold of him with such determination as the porter he was trying to evade. Adrenalin was putting a hold on the pain from his shoulder so he skipped out from behind the table he was under, trotted quickly behind a couple seated a few yards away, turned past another student, under another table and drew a bead on some open double doors at the opposite end of the hall from where he had entered. The porter saw him, lunged across but with another surge of excitement George dashed away, heading for freedom. A cheer sounded out behind him as he made the doors. The young men who had first called out to George were now applauding his supercharged exit from their company.

  More careful this time, George put the anchor down as soon as he passed out of the dining hall and into the passageway outside. It was just as well he did because there – coming towards him, summoned by the chaos that he had caused and, spread across, blocking the way he wanted to go – was his wife Annabel, armed with a mop and accompanied by a couple of other cleaning ladies.

  Aaargh! What to do? A quick about-turn would have wrenched George’s injured shoulder too much so there was no alternative now but to go plunging straight ahead into the three women.

  George had on occasions thought about visiting his wife at work but had always resisted the impulse. It wasn’t too difficult. He knew that as senior housekeeper in the college, Annabel was in charge of cleaning student rooms and communal areas and she had a team of mostly ladies who were armed with mops, brooms and a variety of other materials to help them in their task. A
nnabel wielded a mop like she wielded a whip and no disorderly environment could survive her onslaught. George knew only too well the impact of her influence at home where she exercised only a fraction of her considerable potential; he had no interest whatsoever in seeing her at work in college where her talents could be given full rein. But now, confronted by this all-powerful Amazon, this enemy of all-known germs, this human Domestos, George the unstoppable force of chaos, confusion and spilt breakfasts was running full tilt into the most immovable of all objects.

  One of the three women squealed. Then whoosh! The mop came hissing down in a vicious arc, aimed at and just missing George’s head. George barked angrily, showing his teeth, and darted for the gap between his wife and the woman next to her. It was all show on his part – there was no way he wanted to bite anyone, let alone his own nearest and dearest, but the moment of hesitation and apprehension on the part of those in front of him was all he needed. With another burst of acceleration he barged his way through and was away, down the passageway, round the corner at the end, and now thankfully out of sight.

  But he was not yet free. George was still inside a large, rectangular college building, where one passage led into another and there was no outer door open that he could find to let him into the college grounds and back into the woodlands. The first door he encountered was shut and it was the sort with a round doorknob you needed to turn to open. No good to a creature without hands. George kept going, hoping that the passage he was following would not lead to locked doors at the end. And he was limping badly now; his shoulder was beginning to hurt.

  In the distance behind he could hear noises: people were coming after him. It sounded like the porter, the cleaning ladies and several laughing students. Annabel would be sure to be with them, undoubtedly angry and wielding her mop or some other weapon. George really did not relish another confrontation. He hurried on…but where to? He emitted a small howl of concern.

  Round the next corner he could see a succession of offices and two large, heavy oaken doors at the end which undoubtedly led outside and to freedom. Except that they were shut and, again, featured round, brass doorknobs. Useless. Where could he go? Discarding all other possible escape routes as inaccessible, he found one door immediately to his left that sported a handle. The plaque in the centre of this door read: Student Welfare Officer. George wondered if this officer would welcome a doggy visitor. He pawed the handle – it moved down and opened. He limped gratefully inside and, wonder of wonders, the office was empty. If he could now just shut the door behind him he should evade detection. George pressed his backside into reverse, the door yielded and he heard it click shut. Safe! He’d found this bolt-hole just as a number of people could be heard moving outside down the corridor he had just vacated. The buzz of noise that moved with them went past his door. Various sounds of surprise could then be heard when the dog-hunters reached the end of the passageway, opened the outside doors and found neither sight nor sound of their canine quarry anywhere.

  George relaxed at last. There was a desk, two chairs on either side, and a sofa beside a filing cabinet in this small office. The air was undisturbed, quiet and peaceful – just what he was looking for. He climbed onto the sofa for a rest.

  Greyhounds are the sort of predators who, like cheetahs, rely on sudden acceleration to catch their prey, and although capable of immense speeds they quickly tire. Once they’ve caught and eaten their dinner they will then settle down and sleep for long periods. Not for no reason are they known as 40mph couch potatoes. George had earlier not known much about this remarkable breed of animal, but he was learning about them in a very personal way now. The excitement of the chase was over, he was comfortable in his new surroundings, his bruised body was supported by foam rubber and his long legs were happy, dangling a little over the edge of the sofa. Within a few moments, he was fast asleep.

  Time passed. George had absolutely no idea how long he had been out, but he was raised back into consciousness by a wet tongue licking his face.

  George blinked. His head was a bit foggy but he recognised that tongue.

  “Hello, Rosie,” he muttered sleepily.

  “Well, goodness, George, this is a surprise!”

  George came-to very quickly. He looked up. There was Rosie the greyhound inches away from his face; there was her owner, tracksuited Carol, looking down upon him in what could only be described as amused fascination bordering upon hilarity, and there he was stretched out in all his gangling splendour over a rather confining sofa. In his pyjamas.

  George looked at himself. He had returned to human form.

  “I know I asked you to come and meet me after work some day this week, George, but I didn’t quite expect to find you so soon and here, in my office, like this. What’s this? Some sort of invitation? A girl could get quite the wrong idea from your style of dress.”

  George blustered. He swung his legs round and clutched his pyjamas alarmingly about him as he sat up. No way he wanted his rather loose and unbuttoned night attire to reveal anything of his anatomy beneath.

  “Er, excuse me…I was fast asleep…”

  “I gathered that, George. But why here? This is a little forward of you, don’t you think? I mean we don’t know each other that well as yet, do we? Or do we?” Carol smiled teasingly.

  “No, no, sorry. Sssh! I’m not supposed to be here…I dunno how this happened!” George was mortified to find himself in this state of affairs closeted away with this highly attractive female explosive and with his own spouse and goodness knows how many other witnesses nearby in the immediate proximity.

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know how this happened either. But I am pleased to see you coming out of your shell, George. And I suppose I should be quite flattered by your advances…though expressed in a somewhat idiosyncratic manner, I have to say.”

  “Nothing of the sort…er…I was sleepwalking.” George was searching his brain for something to explain his sudden appearance in this office. Anything, except for the bizarre truth.

  Carol looked at him with amused scepticism: she clearly didn’t believe a word of it. Rosie the greyhound resumed licking his face, however. She needed no explanation.

  “Now, now, George, you live miles away. We both know that. You can’t have walked all the way from there in your sleep. Good try but you’ll have to do better than that.”

  George waved Rosie back. “No, really. I was, er, spending the night in one of the student rooms, I mean the guest rooms, above here and the next thing I know…here I am.”

  This was a bit more plausible. The college’s residential quarters always kept a number of rooms available for invited speakers, foreign visitors and honoured guests. Carol peered at George quizzically. Was this the truth?

  “Oh yes? I’ll just call the housekeeper and check which room…” She reached for the phone on the desk.

  “No!” George clambered to his feet in alarm. “Don’t phone my wife! Please!”

  Carol’s eyes opened wide. “The housekeeper? Of course – Annabel Potts. So she’s your wife! Well I would never have guessed. Oh, George, whatever are you doing? Married to the Dragon of all people!”

  “The Dragon?”

  “That’s what the students call her. The fiercest individual on the campus – and you are married to her. Well, well, well, that just about explains everything. No wonder you don’t sleep at home!”

  “I do! Of course I do! Well, that is, I was here last night of course. But that was just a one-off. Now I really need to get back home.” George stopped. There was a problem there – how on earth was he going to get back to his village in his present pyjamaed appearance?

  George Potts, second accountant to Durham City Council and a conservative, respectable and trustworthy member of the community pulled himself together and tried to strike a pose of upstanding solemnity and esteem in the room of the Student Welfare Officer of St Bartholomew’s College – admittedly a trifle difficult in a crumpled, blue-striped sleep-suit with a greyhou
nd nosing his private parts. But he made a decent attempt of it.

  “Ahem, young lady, I wonder if you would be so good as to offer me a lift home in your motor? It seems I have got myself lost here and it would not do to be seen strolling about in this establishment in my current state of, er, undress. I am indeed very sorry to trouble you but I fear that neither mine own reputation, nor that of this of this distinguished university institution, would be enhanced by the sight of me, like this, in this place…” George dropped a hand to stop Rosie invading his pyjama bottoms.

  Carol smiled at him. She was absolutely sure she had not garnered the correct explanation for the appearance of this man in her office, dressed as he was for bed, but she was certain also that she could not drag any more out of him without offending his dignity. She would not yet prick the bubble of self-esteem that he was struggling to create in her presence. Instead, she reached for the phone.

  “Don’t!” George pleaded, his face a masque of horror.

  “It’s not the Dragon, don’t worry! I’m calling for the car,” Carol whispered back.

  “Hello, Sally? Can you talk? Yes? Great. Can you come over in the car and pick me up? Yes, and pick up a rather unexpected visitor of mine, too. Who? None other than George Potts. Yes. But he looks a bit different from when we saw him last…Mmm…”

  George grimaced and turned away. He couldn’t leave the room but he didn’t want to hear any more. He could see this was going to be a major topic of conversation between these two irrepressible female friends for ages to come. He was never going to be able to forget this, ever, he could see that. Meanwhile the phone conversation was continuing, whether he liked it or not. He fondled Rosie’s head while he waited for the interminable and embarrassing telephonic interchange to come to an end.