by Lizzie Lane
As expected, the dog was lying beneath the bench, the pond in front of it and a low wall and bushes to its back. It should be an easy task to sneak up along the front of the bench and slip the wire around its back legs. Yes, dogs heard sounds humans couldn’t hear, but Bert was an experienced hunter. He was good at treading softly. Only his scent might give him away. He was banking on the dog thinking it was somebody from the village wanting to feed it.
Thanks to the government-enforced blackout, the night was incredibly dark. Bert grinned to himself. He could cope with black nights. One of his old poaching mates had reckoned he had owl eyes. Perhaps he did. He was good at seeing in the dark.
The dog heard him coming, raised its head and growled.
‘Here,’ he said softly, extending his hand and the piece of corned beef. ‘Look what I’ve got for you.’
The dog’s nose twitched and it freely took the offering. Before it knew what was happening, the wire was being wound around its legs, though not quickly enough. The dog leapt to his feet, head low as it bounded out from beneath the questionable security of its bench. Bert only managed to get the wire around one back paw. The dog yelped, more surprised than hurt. Then it growled and hurtled towards him.
A trifle deterred, Bert stepped backwards, determined to stay away from the dog’s sharp teeth. The length of wire he’d chosen was very long. It trailed along the ground behind the dog, enough for Bert to step on. The dog yelped as it came to an abrupt halt, the wire tightening around its paw.
Grabbing the wire with both hands, Bert gave it a good pull. The dog spun round, its snapping jaws only inches from the front of Bert’s already injured leg. Swearing under his breath, his temper more foul than usual, he tried to drag the dog backwards.
‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,’ he muttered under his breath, spittle spotting the corners of his mouth, his eyes slits of anger. He tried to throw the other loop of wire over the dog’s head but kept missing, the dog lowering its head so that the wire slid harmlessly along its back and on to the ground. Bert wrapped the wire tightly around his hand in an effort to strengthen his grip, determined the dog would not get away. It had to pay. Anyone who upset his plans had to pay a price. For the dog, it was death.
Rudy was forced to leap on three legs, his trapped paw wrenched out behind him. He heard a noise he did not like. A stick, as thin as a whip, swished through the air, landing on his back just once before he turned in a tight circle, his jaws open, growling as he attempted to bite the front of his assailant’s leg.
Recalling another black night, another cruel man raising a stick to him, sent Rudy into a frenzy. He remembered what had happened, the little girl he’d tried to protect, the dark nights when he’d had to hunt for food, the times he’d dug up potatoes for the little girl, on one occasion stealing a farm labourer’s lunch from an empty barn.
The man who had trapped his paw did not know his history and so did not realise he had awoken a deep-seated anger. This man was ignorant, a bully who enjoyed picking on the weak, those who could not fight back.
Gleefully triumphant, Bert dragged the dog backwards, meaning to take it back to the cottage, down to the garden shed where all manner of tools were stored. His cruel imagination visualised the lower branches of the apple tree, strong enough to accommodate the hanging of a dog while he skinned it. After that he would take what remained and dump it on the village green. The villagers would not know who was to blame. He chuckled at the prospect of watching them run round like headless chickens from his attic window.
His grip tightened, the wire now around his wrist as he dragged the dog backwards, slipping on the wet grass, the reeds of the pond close behind him. Two paths crossing the green merged at this point, a favoured vantage point for people walking across the green to stop and feed the ducks en route. Constant footsteps had worn the path into a muddy stew. The dog struggled but kept on his feet.
He brought the stick down again, connecting with the dog’s back. It yelped, spinning round on its back legs. Then it was Bert who yelped as the wire tightened around his wrist, trapping his skin, digging in until the wire drew blood.
Bursting with fury, he raised the stick again. ‘I’ll teach you …’
The dog tugged backwards, tightening the wire around Bert’s hand. He gritted his teeth to stifle his cry of pain. He dropped the birch switch, gripping his wrist, keeping his voice low as he swore even worse punishments for the dog as he sought to free his trapped flesh. Concentrating on his grip rather than his feet, he loosened the wire. As he did so, the dog leapt to one side, yanking the end from his hand, then leapt backwards.
Behind him was the duck pond. There was a splashing sound as his back legs hit the water. Fuelled by temper and his determination to catch and punish the dog, Bert spun too quickly on the wet, muddy ground. ‘I’ll get you, you mangy cur,’ he muttered, biting his bottom lip so that he didn’t shout. In doing so he tasted blood. Another reason for lunging towards the animal he blamed for his pain.
Reeds from beside the pond whipped at his legs. He was close to the water, closer than he’d judged himself to be. Unbalanced and hurting, he began to topple over the stones enclosing the pond water, reaching out for something to steady his balance but clutching only at reeds. His temper up, his ego deflated, his legs went this way and that, his feet slipping on the slimy mud beneath the surface.
The last sound Rudy heard as he limped away on three legs, his fourth paw dragging behind him, was a loud splash. He kept going until he’d made the edge of the village and a thick copse fringing the brook that fed the duck pond.
Hidden from view, he collapsed onto a cushion of tough grass where he began to lick the blood from his injured paw. He was panting and thirsty and would shortly drink and sleep, though not until he was sure he was safe.
Muttering all manner of retribution, back at the duck pond Bert clambered through the reeds, roosting ducks scattering and quacking as he made his sodden way to the bank. A torch flickered over the ground some way off and a voice shouted, ‘Anyone there?’ Bert kept his head down.
PC John Carter flashed the torch around the perimeter of the pond before assuming a fox was responsible for the disturbance. The beam from his torch flickered like a firefly then was gone.
Carefully, Bert pried the reeds apart. The torchlight was moving off. He waited until it was out of sight before he eased himself out of the smelly goo and on to the bank, keeping low to the ground all the way back to his mother’s cottage, though not before strangling the nearest duck to hand. Roast duck for supper, to be cooked in the wee hours while everyone was sleeping. Nobody would smell it and he would eat well. At least he had something for his trouble.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mrs Trinder, who owned the post office, tackled Meg about the dog three days after its escape from PC Carter’s clutches. ‘I hear it was your husband’s dog. Is that right?’
Mrs Trinder had a habit of holding on to whatever a customer wanted until they had answered her question, while her eyes fixed them with a hard stare over the top of her wire-rimmed spectacles.
Meg felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘As far as I know, the dog belonged to the RAF. I dare say they’ll come back and collect him.’
‘So they should, poor creature! He appears to have a wire around his back paw. He must be in great pain dragging it along behind him like that.’
Meg got her stamps but if she thought that would be the last mention of the matter, she was very much mistaken.
Waiting for her outside the school gates after dropping off her daughter, Alice brimmed with curiosity. ‘Have you seen your husband’s dog? In a right bad way, he is. Looks as though he’s got an injured paw. Probably got caught in a poacher’s snare. PC Carter has been trying to catch him again but he doesn’t seem to want to be caught.’
‘And when he does catch him?’
Alice sighed. ‘He’ll probably be put down.’
Meg hardened her emotions. She had to concentr
ate on Lily. The state had taken her husband; it was their responsibility to deal with the dog. ‘It’s probably for the best.’
‘Do you think so?’
Alice sounded surprised. Meg fixed her gaze on the school entrance, determined not to meet the look on Alice’s face.
‘I’ve been working on doing so much to make the cottage more comfortable. I’ve made new cushion covers, counterpanes and curtains. A dog would only mess things up.’ She threw Alice a reassuring smile. ‘I don’t think Aunt Lavender will recognise Bluebell Cottage by the time I’ve finished with it.’
‘I doubt she would notice.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘She likes dogs.’ The small statement seemed to linger in the air between them.
Meg fought down the feeling that she was being selfish. Ray would have tried to persuade her, but Ray wasn’t here. And if he was? Doubt nagged at her for the rest of that morning and was still there when she was outside the school gates again later waiting to collect Lily. Before the children came out en masse, she saw that Miss Pringle was waving to her from the main entrance. Recognising that she wanted a word, Meg walked over.
Miss Pringle peered at her through the pair of spectacles perched halfway down her nose. Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘I have no wish to cause you any undue concern, Mrs Malin, but I fear we are not getting very far with Lily. I think it’s time to consider other options.’
‘Options?’ Meg felt her heart beating faster. The school term had only just begun and Lily was already an object of concern. She knew very well what Miss Pringle was about to say. Doctors had trod the same path.
‘Perhaps it’s time you looked into sending her to a special school where her medical condition could be treated at the same time as she is educated.’
‘No!’ Meg’s snapped response hung like a knife in the air between them. ‘I will not allow that. If you are unable to do anything with her, then I shall teach her at home …’
‘The authorities may not allow that.’
Miss Pringle’s tone was even and amenable enough, but Meg was still outraged. ‘I don’t care what they will allow. The child deserves better. My goodness, she was airlifted from France by my husband. We cannot imagine what awful things she went through there. We have to try.’
Miss Pringle held her head to one side, her sharp eyes regarding Meg with a mixture of pity and resolve. ‘You have to try, Mrs Malin. I have the other pupils in her class to consider. Please give it some thought. I really do think it might be for the best.’
Over my dead body, thought Meg. Once Lily’s hand was in hers, she stalked off quickly. Only when she’d calmed down and they were passing the village green did she feel Lily’s weight dragging on her hand.
‘Come on, Lily. Don’t dawdle. Let’s get home …’
Lily seemed oblivious to the tug Meg gave her. Her gaze seemed fixed on something or someone over her shoulder. Meg had been mulling over what Miss Pringle had said but buried her irritation and switched her attention to Lily. ‘What is it, Lily? Do you want to see the ducks? I haven’t got any bread with me, but we could bring some later if you like.’
Lily blinked and slowly, very slowly pointed a finger. ‘Rudy!’
Meg swallowed. A word. A simple word but every word counted. Much more than that, she’d said the dog’s name. She remembered the dog’s name! Trembling, she got down so her face was level with that of the little girl. Suddenly the day seemed brighter. She took in Lily’s expression and was sure something had changed.
‘Rudy? How did you know his name is Rudy?’
Lily did not answer, but Meg was now certain that she did look brighter. Or was it coincidence? She racked her brain. Was this the first time Lily had seen the dog? She hadn’t seen it when Mrs Dando had brought it over or recently when the dog had escaped PC Carter’s clutches and hid out in the village. At least, she didn’t think she had. Yet she’d recognised him. She must have done to have said his name.
Meg turned and looked at the dog. He was drinking pond water, the ducks keeping a respectable distance. He was standing on three legs, his fourth paw lifted and a length of wire hanging from it.
‘Rudy,’ Lily repeated.
Meg swallowed. Dare she believe that Lily was beginning to remember? She licked the dryness from her lips and thought carefully about how to handle this.
‘Do you recognise him, sweetheart?’ she asked, the words hesitant and trembling.
Lily appeared not to hear, her gaze still on the dog.
Prejudices against the animal, which were mainly about hairs on cushions and doggy smells, fell into insignificance. Lily had said something. It was quite amazing. Meg made a snap decision. She stepped on to the wet grass of the village green and stretched out her hand.
‘Here,’ she called. ‘Come on, Rudy. Come here, there’s a good dog.’
Lily seemed to be eyeing the dog as though she were concentrating very hard.
‘Hold out your hand,’ Meg said to her, hardly believing she was encouraging the dog to come to them, she who had wanted nothing to do with him.
Lily stood stock-still.
Meg took hold of Lily’s hand, unfolding her fingers from her palm. ‘Ask him to come,’ she said, barely able to control the excitement in her voice. ‘Go on, Lily. Click your fingers. Like this,’ she said, clicking her own. ‘Call him over.’
To Meg’s great delight, Lily responded, clicking her fingers as best she could. Her fingers were just too soft.
‘Call him,’ Meg urged. ‘Go on, Lily. Call him.’
Lily opened her mouth. ‘Rudy,’ she said, her voice barely audible.
The dog’s ears were already perked with interest and he was gazing in their direction. At the sound of Lily’s voice, his tail began to scythe through the wet grass. He gave a loud bark.
‘Say hello,’ Meg further urged, expecting nothing but hoping for everything.
‘Hello,’ said Lily.
Meg was astounded.
At the sound of her voice, the dog ambled closer, sniffed at her outstretched hand, looked up at her and wagged his tail more vigorously, whining and brushing his head against Lily’s arm as though delighted to see her. Meg lay her hand on the dog’s head and heard Ray’s voice, saw the words in his letter: ‘if, after the war, we could give Rudy a home …’
Despite his injured paw, the dog seemed healthy enough, his eyes bright, his nose wet. She’d read somewhere that a healthy dog always had a wet nose. She wasn’t sure how true it was, but on this dog it glistened.
Lily was stroking Rudy’s head while the dog looked up at her adoringly. ‘Look, Lily. He’s a nice dog,’ said Meg. She couldn’t believe what was happening, couldn’t believe what she was contemplating. Ray had claimed the dog but she recalled its history. Ray had brought the dog and the child to safety. Dog and child had escaped from a war zone.
The little girl, traumatised by both her experiences before coming to England and the bombing raid, was finally beginning to communicate and all because of a dog. Such a small step but such a large one too. Meg pushed on, wanting Lily to speak again, to say more, to remember all of her past, even if some of it pained her.
‘And his name’s Rudy,’ said Meg, wanting to be sure she hadn’t imagined Lily speaking, desperate to hear her speak again. ‘Rudy. Say it Lily. Say his name.’
Lily pursed her lips. ‘Rudy.’
Closing her eyes, Meg threw her head back. Miracles did happen. The key to unlocking Lily’s mind had been here all along. Why hadn’t she seen that before? Ray had understood all about dogs. He’d grown up with them, had even tried telling her how they could help people get better. She’d found that difficult to believe. Yes, there were dogs for the blind. She could understand that. But other illnesses too? She didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered was helping Lily. She owed it to Ray. Her mind was made up. If there was any chance, any at all, she was going to take it.
‘I think Rudy should come ho
me with us,’ Meg whispered to Lily, her heart hammering against her ribs. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes,’ Lily whispered. Meg almost leapt into the air. She found herself wishing she’d brought a piece of rope to tie around his neck, perhaps borrowing the washing line if she couldn’t find anything else.
‘Come on, Rudy. Come with us.’
Her worries about not having brought a lead vanished. The dog trotted along beside them, his head pressed loyally to Lily’s side. Lily placed her hand on the dog’s head, patting him as they walked along and every so often the dog gazed lovingly up at her.
Meg was ecstatic, though one old niggle remained. She could hear her mother’s words tolling in her ears. ‘What about the dog hairs? I do think a child like Lily should live in a pristine environment. And the smell! That doggy smell!’ It struck Meg then that she’d inherited her fastidiousness from her mother. Her mother, too, had been house-proud and it had rubbed off.
So far her mother hadn’t visited Bluebell Cottage, but Meg was in no mind she’d find it lacking, especially when compared to her own house or even Andover Avenue. So far her superintending the WVS and other war work had kept her away. Let it stay that way.
Meg also recalled that she’d never been too keen on her and Ray fostering a child. ‘It’s up to you, but really, someone else’s child … And a foreigner at that.’
So far Meg was very pleased with the improvements she’d made to Bluebell Cottage. She’d made new curtains and her mother had sent her a rug from London. She’d also painted the walls white and festooned the place with flower displays. A church jumble sale had proved a worthy source of discarded ornaments, cast-off clothes and bits of material suitable for changing into useful and pretty things. Bluebell Cottage would never be Andover Avenue, but at least she could make it bearable for however long she had to live in it, possibly until the end of the war. Then she would return to London, or that’s what she’d always thought, but now she wasn’t so sure.
