Corduroy Mansions

69. Freddie de la Hay in Peril

‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Marcia.

‘Nor do I,’ muttered William. He wondered how well he knew his own son. Not very well, it appeared, what with the discovery of stolen property in his wardrobe and now finding him consorting in the pub with somebody who owned something called Diesel.

They walked swiftly and in silence a short distance up the road to the small lane that the man in the pub had indicated. It was a narrow one-way street, barely large enough to allow the passage of a vehicle, and not a very wide vehicle at that. On either side were shop windows - a barber’s, a cramped newsagent, an Indian restaurant from which an enticing smell of spices drifted.

‘No sign of them,’ said William, peering through the window of the restaurant to see if he could see Eddie and his friends within. ‘Is this the right place, do you think?’

Marcia had spotted an entrance further up to the right - the mouth of a close or a small courtyard, she thought. ‘Let’s take a look up there,’ she said.

The entrance, a gangway between two buildings, was little more than a passage, dark even on this summer evening and slightly malodorous in an indefinable way. But as they entered it they heard sounds coming from the far end, and William stopped when he recognised Eddie’s laugh. He caught Marcia by the sleeve and pointed ahead.

‘That’s them,’ he whispered. ‘That was Eddie’s laugh.’

‘Right,’ Marcia whispered back. ‘Let’s go and see what they’re up to.’ She had an idea already but hardly dared utter it. Now a barking sound drifted up the passage and she knew that she was right.

At the end of the passage, tucked away to one side, was something midway between a courtyard and a postage stamp of waste ground. As they came upon it, they saw Eddie to one side of the space, next to Stevie and Poosie, and on the other side was a thick-set man with a shaved head and a tattooed neck. And there was Freddie de la Hay, held at the collar by Stevie and facing a large white bull terrier that was, like its owner, extensively tattooed. As they came upon this scene, the bull terrier had just been released by his owner and was glaring at Freddie de la Hay, his teeth exposed in hostile rictus, emitting a low growling sound.

It was what Marcia had suspected - an organised dog fight.

‘Eddie!’ shouted William. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

Eddie spun round to face his father, staring at him speechlessly.

‘What does it look like, mate?’ shouted the thick-set man. ‘This is private business, innit? Get lost.’

The bull terrier looked briefly at William and snarled. This was Diesel.

‘I said get lost!’ shouted Diesel’s owner again. ‘Or shut up and watch.’

Stevie was busy with Freddie’s leash and collar, while Freddie stared in dread at Diesel and growled defensively.

‘Eddie!’ cried William again.

‘Go back to the pub,’ Eddie said. ‘We’ll come and see you later. We’re having some private fun.’

‘Fun!’ exclaimed William.

Stevie chose to intervene. ‘Yeah, fun, Mr French,’ he said. ‘A bit of innocent fun.’

‘This is preposterous,’ said William. ‘That’s my dog, for a start.’

‘Listen, mate,’ shouted the other man, ‘Diesel here is getting very irritated with you. So just shut your cake-hole . . .’

‘Come on, Dad,’ said Eddie. ‘This is just a bit of fun. Where’s your sense of humour?’

Poosie now looked at William. ‘Yes, don’t be so old!’

‘Old!’ exploded William. ‘Who’s old?’

‘You,’ said Poosie. ‘You’re acting seriously old.’

‘Tart,’ said Marcia.

Diesel now took a few steps forward. He was an extremely muscular dog and he walked a little as a drunken sailor might walk - swaying slightly from side to side. William looked in alarm at Freddie de la Hay, who had now been released by Stevie. ‘Chew him up, Freddie boy,’ said Stevie. ‘Go for the jugular.’

In a moment of great clarity, William realised that anybody who got between the dogs would be in danger of being badly mauled - not by Freddie, of course, but by the mesomorphic Diesel. Yet he was in no doubt that if he did not intervene, this would be the end of Freddie de la Hay. Valiant though Freddie undoubtedly was, he would be no match for the steroid-fed Diesel, the worst sort of dog in terms of attitude.

William took a deep breath. Then, directing himself towards Diesel, he shouted in as stern a voice as he could manage, ‘Diesel!’

Diesel hesitated and looked towards William.

‘Diesel!’ William continued in stentorian tones. ‘Diesel, sit! Sit!’

For a moment Diesel looked confused, and then sat down firmly. He was well trained, like a Royal Marine, and when told to sit, he sat.

Diesel’s owner looked on in astonishment while William stepped firmly forward and snatched Freddie de la Hay’s leash from Stevie’s hand. Attaching it quickly to Freddie’s collar, he led the relieved dog back to Marcia, took her by the arm and walked at a fast pace down the passage.

Eddie shouted out something, as did Diesel’s owner, but neither William nor Marcia heard what it was, nor bothered to listen.

‘Chutzpah!’ said Marcia as they turned onto the lane. ‘William, you’re brilliant!’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said William. ‘It seemed the obvious thing to do.’ He spoke casually but inside he was shaking with a mixture of relief, fear and sheer astonishment at his own performance. It could have ended quite differently, he thought. What if Diesel had ignored him or possibly not understood the way he spoke? Freddie could be dead by now if that had happened.

They went back to the van and Freddie de la Hay hopped into the back while William sat in the passenger seat, wiped his brow with his handkerchief and closed his eyes. Marcia could detect a state of shock when she saw it, and she held William’s hand gently before she started the engine.

‘We’ll go home and have a nice dinner,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some scallops. And we’ll give Freddie de la Hay a steak.’

William opened his eyes. ‘He’s a vegetarian,’ he said. ‘Remember?’

‘Was,’ said Marcia.