by Lizzie Lane
Meg was horrified – and angry. How dare the RAF dump a dog on her after they’d given her such awful news about her husband! ‘I don’t want a dog. I have a sick child to contend with and that, Mrs Dando, is quite enough.’
Now it was Mrs Dando who looked horrified. ‘But I can’t give him a home.’
‘Why not? You live alone, don’t you?’
‘Yes … I mean, no. I have a son. He’ll be home soon and he doesn’t like dogs. I can’t have him.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want him.’
‘But seeing as he’s your husband’s dog, he’s your responsibility.’
‘As I have already intimated, Mrs Dando, I have quite enough responsibility at the moment. I do not want a dog!’
Mrs Dando tutted. ‘Oh, dear, oh dear. What’s to be done? I can’t possibly keep him. Surely you could take him in seeing as he was your husband’s dog, I mean, out of the goodness of your heart …’
‘Who said I had a heart? At this moment in time I seem to have misplaced my heart. It’s the war. The war took my husband. I have to blame the war. Everyone does, don’t they!’
The woman at the door adopted a pained expression and sighed in exasperation. ‘Look, Mrs Malin, it’s your husband’s dog after all, and you know what the alternative is.’
‘Mrs Dando,’ Meg responded, ‘thanks to this bloody war, my Ray’s gone. Shot from the sky. And anyway, I didn’t know the dog was his. I understood it belonged to the airbase and is their mascot. That’s where it should be. I’ve got problems of my own without taking on a dog!’
Mrs Dando, a pillar of the village church, pursed her lips as her face reddened with embarrassment. ‘The young man who brought him said it was your husband’s wish that the dog live out his days with his family. If you don’t take the dog, I’ll have no alternative but to arrange for him to be put down.’
Meg winced before directing a hateful glare at the Alsatian, as though it were the one who had shot her husband down. She reminded herself of the other name for an Alsatian: a German Shepherd. His origins were based in enemy territory.
The dog wagged its tail hesitantly, gazing at her with pleading in his brown limpid eyes as though he understood everything being said.
A plaintive expression on her pink face, Mrs Dando stroked the animal’s head. ‘He’s such a lovely dog. It would be such a shame to have to put him down. Such a waste.’ Her voice was sweet but it grated on Meg, who was in no mood to be placated.
‘It’s no good playing the sympathy card with me, Mrs Dando. If you don’t want to put him down, you give him a home.’
Mrs Dando looked taken aback. For a moment she stammered to find a suitable excuse for not taking him.
‘I can’t. My son … he won’t … and I … I can’t really have him because …’ There followed a big pause. ‘I’m thinking of moving to London to my daughter’s. She only has a flat. There’s no room for a dog. Anyway, he’s an extra mouth to feed. I have to put my own family first.’
Meg pointed an accusing finger. ‘Yes! So do I. And there you have it!’
The door slammed shut.
Left standing on the doorstep, Ivy Dando’s generous breast heaved in an almighty sigh. ‘Oh well,’ she said, looking down into the dog’s soulful eyes. ‘I suppose I’d better take you back home – at least for now.’ She couldn’t be sure but she fancied the dog looked quite disappointed at not being able to live at Bluebell Cottage. ‘I know it’s disappointing, but you never know, she might change her mind. Let’s hope she does, shall we?’
As though in agreement, the dog gave a little whine.
Heaving another heartfelt sigh, she bustled back across the village green to her cottage, the warm little room and the kettle hanging from its trivet, waiting for her firm hand to swing it back on to the range. The dog kept pace with her, every so often glancing up as though awaiting any better idea she might have.
In Ivy Dando’s opinion, taking tea was best done in company and the sight of one teacup and saucer sitting on the table never failed to sadden her. She’d done quite a lot of social tea drinking in the days when her husband was still alive, in the full knowledge that somebody was sure to come in at the exact moment she put the kettle on. She’d got out the biscuits or a home-made cake and they’d sit down with a cuppa and discuss the events of the day, and gossip about whatever was going on in the village.
Ivy sighed at the memory. Things were so different since Alf had passed over. It wasn’t often now that she had somebody to talk to, and even though her current companion was only a dog, she began talking to him.
‘Rudy,’ she said, for that was the dog’s name according to the young man who’d brought him, ‘I’ve a confession to make. Today I told a lie. That was very bad of me. My father used to say better a thief than a liar. He was a vicar and held that telling lies was the devil’s work. I never used to lie, but today I did. The fact is, Rudy, I don’t have a daughter.’ Her expression saddened, the corners of her eyes and mouth downturned. ‘I wish I did.’ She almost sobbed but held back. ‘Someone to care for. Someone to care for me.’
A floorboard creaked overhead. Ivy’s teacup rattled in its saucer. She looked up at the ceiling, fear squeezing her chest. ‘God give me strength,’ she whispered in a faltering voice.
The dog sat upright, his head held high, ears erect. He was looking up at the ceiling too and growling. Ivy tried to draw his attention with a biscuit. ‘Take no notice, Rudy. It’s my son, Bert. He’s probably wanting some food.’ She frowned worriedly. ‘I suppose I’d better take something up to him. We certainly don’t want him coming downstairs and discovering you, do we?’
Ivy’s face was tight with concern. Upstairs was trouble. Her son, Bert, had reappeared a few days ago climbing through the back window and hiding up in the attic when she was out with the dog. So far she’d kept the dog and her son apart. He’d come home so unexpectedly – in trouble again. As usual he’d bullied her into doing what he wanted.
‘I’m hiding out here, right? And don’t go telling anyone I’m here. Get it?’
She shivered at the thought of his bony fingers tightening on her arm as he shook her. Alf had also had bony fingers, but his had been sensitive and he’d never shook her or done her harm. Her son’s fingers were cruel and she was sure he enjoyed hurting her. Bruises already dotted her upper arms and he’d only been back a few days.
Her own fault to some extent; as a child she’d spoiled him. Alf had remonstrated with her that the lad would turn out bad. He had always been firm with Bert but once he was gone there was no one to curb her son’s selfish violence. She’d been powerless to stop him.
Closing her eyes, she fantasised about packing her bag and not telling him where she was going, simply leaving him to find himself all alone. But there, it was only a fantasy. She was too old to run. She had to face him.
Ivy looked at the dog. She was no expert but could see he had a lovely nature. Bert wouldn’t like the dog being here. What was she to do? Initially the young RAF officer had taken the dog round to Mrs Malin’s cottage, but when nobody answered he happened to see her trimming her hedge and came over to introduce himself and his business. Ivy had shaken her head in bewilderment. She should have been firm and told the young man to take the dog back to wherever he’d come from, but when he’d told her that Meg’s husband had been killed in action, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Oh well, she thought. Better sort something out for his supper.
Her hands trembled. Flexing her fingers didn’t help. Rudy could sense fear. She hoped he couldn’t see how nervous she was, how often she glanced over her shoulder at the narrow stairs winding upwards to the first floor and the other set that led up into the loft.
Bert had always hated dogs. He’d told her to get rid of Chum, her pet terrier. He’d called it a mangy, flea-ridden mongrel. Luckily for them both, Chum had died of old age before Bert could insist she had him put down. The last thing he would want was for her to take in a dog
belonging to somebody else. He won’t be here for long, she told herself. Given time, Mrs Malin would reconsider and be pleased to have a memento of her missing husband.
She recalled the RAF officer standing there looking too young to even have left school, let alone fly around in aircraft. He’d seemed such a happy chap, the sort she would have welcomed as a son and totally at odds with the one she had.
Oh well. There it was. The deed was done. She’d always been a soft touch. Bert knew that, hence his sudden return home. She had no doubt he was hiding from whatever trouble he’d made for himself in London but hadn’t dared asked what it was. Anyway, he’d only lie.
She thought again of the young airman and smiled. If only she’d had a son like that, so polite as he told her about Ray being killed and how the dog had come into his ownership in the first place. ‘Ray found him in France,’ the young man told her once he was in the house with a cup of tea and a slice of home-made cake in front of him. ‘The name’s Rudy.’
‘Your name’s Rudy?’ she’d asked, her round face bright with innocence, which seemed so funny now. She’d been rewarded with a fresh-faced smile.
‘No. I’m Stan Crawford. I was one of Ray’s crew.’ His smile had cracked suddenly. ‘I wasn’t with him on the last mission. Lucky for me. Bad luck for Ray.’
Hearing him speak of Mrs Malin’s husband, Ivy had been convinced that Meg would welcome the animal and so it would be gone before her son Bert found out and went into one of his rages. He didn’t often come down from the attic, but when he did there was usually hell to pay. Ivy had crumbled. I expect the poor woman will appreciate something that used to belong to her husband, she had told herself. Reaching for the socks she was darning, Ivy sighed. ‘The trouble is, you’ve always been a romantic, Ivy Dando.’
At six on the dot, a thudding sounded from upstairs. Bert wanted his supper. Placing the darning to one side, Ivy went into the kitchen to prepare his meal. The contents of her larder looked in dire need of replenishing. There was cheese, some liver, two pigs’ trotters and some brawn she’d pressed from a pig’s head. The trotters were already cooked and mired in jelly. A few potatoes and that would serve for Bert’s supper. For herself it would have to be bread and cheese. The supplies in her cupboard had to last a few more days because she didn’t have Bert’s ration card. Her ration card had to serve them both. On top of that she had Rudy to consider. The dog had to be fed.
Placing everything in a large pudding bowl, she placed it on a tray and took the lot upstairs, leaving it on a small table on the landing. The hatch leading into the attic opened and the ladder came down, barely missing her head. Bert’s face appeared, jaw slack, his hair slick with Brylcreem and a hard, bearlike look in his small eyes. ‘About bloody time!’
He slid down the ladder without using the rungs, bouncing on to the landing beside the table where she’d placed his supper tray. Bert’s bottom lip curled with distaste as he eyed the meal she’d brought him. He poked his finger into the jelly that still clung to the heel of the pig.
‘What … the … bloody … hell’s … that?’ Each word was accompanied by a poke at the food.
Ivy trembled. ‘I can’t afford much with just my rations, Bert,’ she said apologetically. ‘I can’t very well go along with your ration card as well now, can I?’
Bert’s jaw stiffened and a savage darkness came to his eyes. ‘Ain’t much of a meal. Not enough to feed a bleedin’ sparrow. Was that the best you could do? A couple of pigs’ trotters?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
Ivy braced herself for a pinch or a punch – it could be either.
‘Never mind. If I’m still hungry I’ll be down for a bit of bread and cheese. You ’ave got that, ’ave ya?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, reluctantly accepting that tonight she would have to go without, though she might chance a sliver of brawn. There was still the dog to consider.
‘Have you emptied the jerry?’
She nodded and placed a clean chamber pot in front of him. Three times a day she had to do that.
‘Can’t chance going down to the lavvy can I?’
‘Right. If you’re all right there, I’ll go and get myself a piece of toast,’ she said, just about keeping the fear from her voice. She turned as quickly as her old pins would allow, leaving him sitting there on the landing gobbling down his food.
Upset by his uncaring attitude, her hunger passed so she didn’t bother with toast and the bread and cheese remained in the pantry. At first she went back to darning his socks and, after that was done, stood at the kitchen door, opening it a fraction so she could hear the cutlery rattling on to his plate accompanied by a loud burp. Once she was certain he’d finished, she crept back up to fetch what he’d left – mostly bones except for a tougher bit of fat and skin.
That night, after she’d fed the dog on the bony remains of the trotters and the head from which she’d made the brawn, she spread out an old eiderdown for Rudy to sleep on, then made a cup of cocoa for herself and went thankfully to bed. Time enough to deal with the dog in the morning. Everything would look better in the morning.
The dog would have to go back to where he came from, though his prospects filled her with trepidation. She’d heard rumours that old war dogs, once they’d served their time, were put down, a terrible waste in her opinion. In this case it seemed inevitable. Despite his breeding, which at one time might have scared her, he seemed a well-behaved, intelligent animal who obeyed every command she had given him.
The only thing that unnerved her was the way he kept looking up at the ceiling. Even though Bert’s tread was light without shoes on, the dog was aware that somebody was up there. She’d warned him not to make a sound. Bert mustn’t know he was here. So far the dog had obeyed.
‘Oh well,’ she murmured. ‘There’s nothing more you can do.’
Since the dog’s arrival she’d made a habit of firmly shutting the door to her living room, which she fondly called her front parlour, when she went up to bed at night. Tonight, however, because she was suffering from a pain in her chest, she didn’t close it as firmly as she usually did. Without her noticing, it sprung open, leaving a gap big enough for Rudy to squeeze through.
The pain in her chest had started just after lunchtime and was still with her, though more intense. Indigestion! And nerves, of course. That’s all it was; she’d always suffered from it. A good night’s rest would see her all right.
Settling herself comfortably in bed and drinking her cocoa, she reached for a book with her left hand. She’d been looking forward to getting to bed and reading this book all day. Reading helped her escape the reality of her life. In a book she was a lady in distress and there was always a white knight on the horizon to rescue her. In real life there was not.
As she opened the book, a spasm of pain speared through her chest. She cried out, retracting her arm, the book falling to the floor along with the mug of cocoa, its dregs staining the bedside rug.
Even before she heard the creaking of the attic stairs, she knew her son was on his way down. He’d complained about his supper; said it wasn’t enough to feed a sparrow. He’d be after his bread and cheese and she’d have to go downstairs to get it for him. He mustn’t go down. He mustn’t see Rudy.
Ivy sat very still, hands folded one on top of the other over her pounding heart. The doctor had told her that her heart was not as strong as it used to be. She’d always suffered palpitations. That’s what she told herself this was, except she’d never experienced such pain before.
Bert ducked beneath the lintel as he pushed the door open. He had the same black hair and eyes of his father, a sallow complexion and narrow shoulders. He wore a grim expression, the corners of his mouth downturned, his bottom lip pouting in the same way it had as a boy.
‘Put that bloody book down and go and get me some bread and cheese. Or is it me got to do it? Eh? Sat there reading trashy novels …’
Ivy attempted to push back the covers but couldn’t, her
hand grasping at her heart. He used to shout at her in the past, but now kept his voice down in case somebody might hear him. The angry shouting had scared her, but this low menacing tone was more frightening. Ivy gasped as she tried to get out of bed, the pain in her chest worsening, every breath feeling as though a knife was stabbing her heart.
‘I’ve got a pain,’ she said, laying her hand on her chest.
Bert was unmoved.
‘Never mind lying there as though yer dying, go and get me more food. Get out of that bed and down into that bloody kitchen! Come on. At the double! Get me some grub.’
Seeing that she still hadn’t thrown back the bedclothes, Bert did it for her, dragging them roughly away. Ivy winced and cried out. ‘No, Bert! Don’t do that! I’m in pain. Terrible pain!’
A movement close to the bedroom door caught her eye. Bert turned round. The dog stood four square between the bedroom door and him. A deep growl rumbled from his throat. Its jaws stayed closed. Taken totally by surprise, Bert looked from the dog to his mother. Surprise, fear and anger took it in turns to mould his expression. Once he’d gathered his wits, he pointed a nicotine-stained finger. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’
Panic surfed madly around Ivy’s chest as she groped for excuses. The pain subsided long enough for her to speak, though she fought for each breath and each word pained her.
‘He’s not staying … He belongs to a neighbour …’
Her son’s daunting presence loomed over her. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done, you stupid cow? He’s got my scent now. He knows I’m here. Dogs don’t forget and they’re good at tracking people.’
‘But who would … ?’
‘I don’t care who might come after me. Could be from a number of quarters,’ he said, his gaze nervously fixed on the dog. ‘Get rid of him! Now!’
Ivy cringed and adopted her most pleading voice, which always came out as a pitiful whine in her son’s presence. ‘I can’t get rid of him now. People will notice.’
