One Dog and His Boy

25 What Happened to the Carkers

Kayley sat in her little office at Easy Pets. She had been working since seven in the morning, making a register, alone and without pay in the deserted building, and she was absolutely exhausted.

Just a week after she brought Pippa back from Northumberland, Kayley had come to work as usual and found that the Carkers had disappeared. They had put in such a ridiculous insurance claim for the missing dogs that the accountants had started to look into their affairs, and it was found that they had been cheating on their income tax for years and years.

So the charming couple had fled to Spain, owing Kayley her wages and leaving only enough food for a couple of days for the dogs.

Fortunately, a charity which cared for animals in distress had stepped in to try and find homes for the abandoned dogs. Because the Easy Pets dogs were highly bred and had been well looked after, plenty of people had come forward to offer to have them, but Kayley had absolutely insisted on inspecting every single home to make sure that it was suitable for the dogs she had cared for and knew so well. Now she only had to check the list of new owners and the job was done.

Well, almost done. All the dogs were happily housed, except for one. No one had come forward offering to have Queen Tilly. She sat now on her hot water bottle, shrieking and twitching and shaking with ill temper, the only dog left in the huge building that only a week ago had been full of life.

“Oh, what on earth shall I do with you?” Kayley asked her.

She would have taken her home herself if it hadn’t been for her landlord, who forbade all pets. Kayley had pity even for this most unattractive dog.

It was as she was standing by Queen Tilly’s cage that the doorbell rang.

Outside on the steps stood a rather forlorn-looking young man.

“The name is Sprocket,” he said.

A lot had happened to Milton Sprocket since he had followed Darth and Terminator across the moors and been picked up in a police van.

The disgrace, for a detective, of falling into the hands of the force was overwhelming, but even worse was the terror he had felt at being cooped up with the two tracker dogs, slavering and frothing and showing their teeth only a few inches away from him. Darth and Terminator wanted to make it clear that though Otto had stopped them in their tracks, they were still killing machines, and whenever Sprocket tried to move his cramped limbs, their lips curled back over their incisors and they growled like the hounds of hell.

Though Sprocket had been released almost straightaway and been able to get back to his van and drive to London, he had been left with a serious trauma. It was a kind of mental illness: a terror not just of dangerous dogs but of all dogs. Even a dog walking along on the other side of the road brought on an attack, causing him to shake all over.

This was obviously very inconvenient for a detective. A man with a false moustache shaking like a leaf was apt to attract attention. Nothing could be done about the tragic block over his poetry, thought Sprocket, but surely he could find somebody who would help him to overcome his fear of dogs? So he had consulted a doctor, who had sent him to another doctor, who told him that the only way to be cured was to have a dog of his own.

Sprocket had never been a dog lover. There was too much chewing and slobbering involved for a neat and careful man like himself. On the other hand, his work was suffering. Then he had a brainwave. He would rent a dog from an agency, just for an hour or two. If it brought on an attack he could always bring it straight back. Perhaps he could start with half an hour, then an hour. And the dogs could gradually get bigger. It would be expensive, but he was no longer so hard up. His aunt had died and left him some money and he hoped one day to set up on his own.

And thinking about dog hire agencies, he remembered passing one on the way north, and drove to Easy Pets.

The girl who let him in was pretty and gentle and nice. Sprocket took to her at once, but she had sad news to give him.

“I’m afraid we’re closed down. The owners have left, and we’ve had to find homes for the dogs. I wish we could help you but you see…” She waved her arm at the empty cages, the bare floors, the bin bags waiting to be collected.

“Oh dear. Well, I’ll just have to try somewhere else.”

He was turning to go when a high-pitched and angry yapping broke the silence.

“She’s the last dog left,” said Kayley. “We can’t find a home for her, I’m afraid. I don’t know what will happen…”

She led Sprocket into Room A where the Mexican hairless in her cage was screaming and twitching and shivering with loneliness and rage.

“Goodness.” Sprocket had never seen such an unappealing dog.

“I’m afraid she gets the gripes from time to time,” said Kayley.

Sprocket stared at her and his mouth dropped open because an absolutely amazing thing had happened. The dreadful block that had stopped him from writing poetry had disappeared. It was the word gripes that did it. For what was gripes except the perfect rhyme for pipes. And, as if it had been lowered down from heaven, the completed couplet came to him.

It was pithy, it was exact, and there was nothing in it that his mother would think was rude.

In her cage, Queen Tilly was still twitching and shivering and screaming, and Sprocket, looking at her, wondered what she reminded him of. Then suddenly it came to him. Of course. Himself. He had been like that all through his school days, shivering and twitching and wanting to scream. Unwanted. Unloved.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t do it. It was impossible.

But in his mind he had already done it. After all, this revolting little creature had given him back his gift for poetry. Perhaps she would turn out to be his lucky charm.

The relief of having found a home for Queen Tilly kept Kayley going on the long journey on the underground, but when she got home she flopped down on the sofa, thoroughly miserable. She’d lost her job and the dogs who had been her friends, and the loss of her wages would make things really hard for the family.

“It’s all right, love,” said her mother. “I’ve got my sewing with Mrs Naryan, and you’ll find something else to do. A girl like you won’t be out of work for long.”

But jobs were hard to get, and Kayley didn’t have a lot of paper qualifications. When she’d phoned about a vacancy in a boarding kennel they’d asked her if she had a Diploma in Domestic Canine Management. Without it, the lady thought, she would find it hard to muck out the dogs’ cages or take them for a walk!

Pippa came in then from school, followed by the twins, and everybody did their best to cheer Kayley up, but what had happened at Easy Pets had shaken them all.

They were sitting down to their supper when a black car drew up outside the window. An expensive-looking car, out of which stepped a smartly dressed man with a briefcase.

“What does he want, I wonder?” said Mrs O’Brian, looking worried. “We’ve paid our rent.”

“They’ll be inspecting something,” said Pippa gloomily.

The doorbell rang.

“I’d like to speak to Miss Kayley O’Brian, please,” said the man with the briefcase. “Is this the right house?”

“Yes,” said Pippa, who had opened the door. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

Albina was shopping. It was her favourite occupation and she was entirely happy. The three G aunts were with her. Hal was coming home in a week’s time and she was getting ready.

The shop was called The Pampered Pooch and it sold everything that a well-turned-out dog might need. A famous dress designer had just produced a new range of tartan jackets and matching booties for afternoon wear, and for more athletic dogs there were jumpsuits of mink or ermine. Displays of jewelled collars were arranged on satin cushions. There were diamond studs for dogs to wear in their ears, and gold ribbons to plait into their moustaches, and inflatable ham bones which played “Silent Night” for dogs who found it difficult to sleep. Kennels shaped like paddle steamers or railway stations or giant boots stood on the floor, there was a stand of motoring goggles for dogs with sensitive eyes, and the shelves groaned with bubble baths and scents and deodorants for dogs who worried about their personal hygiene.

“Oh dear, I don’t know where to begin,” said Albina. “There’s so much. Do you think Fleck would like a pillow shaped like a frankfurter sausage?”

Georgina had found a cashmere bonnet for cold days with a ribbon to tie under the chin, and Gloria had fallen for a blanket which played “Hush-a-bye Poochie” when you picked it up.

The ladies ran hither and thither, getting more and more excited.

“Look, here’s a collar with real garnets,” said Glenda. “I think garnets would suit him, don’t you? And it would go with your bracelet, wouldn’t it?”

Albina took it from her hand.

“Yes, it would. Though there’s an even better one over there. Look! It’s in alligator skin with a double row of rhinestones and the clasp is sixteen-carat gold.”

They picked up a bottle of scent called “Doggy Delirium” and put it to their noses.

“It’s heavenly. He must have some of that,” said Georgina.

She looked at the price and gave a little shriek, but really the expense didn’t matter. Spending a lot of money was what it was all about.

“There’s some canine mascara here,” said Glenda. “I seem to remember his eyelashes were rather pale.”

They were piling up their purchases, ready to take them to the counter, when they saw an object that stopped them in their tracks. For a moment they could not even speak, it was so beautiful and wonderful and strange. A platinum pooper scooper set with opals and amethysts.

Albina reached for it with a shaking hand.

“It’s copied from a design that was used by the Russian royal family,” she said, reading the label. “Oh, I must have that, I absolutely must!”

But just as she was about to add it to the other objects they had chosen, something happened. Albina straightened herself. She stood stock-still and a kind of judder went through her. A sort of twitch… And then slowly, very slowly (because it was so difficult) she put back the bottle of “Doggy Delirium”, and the blanket which played “Hush-a-bye Poochie”, and the garnet collar, and last of all, with a stab of real pain, the pooper scooper made of platinum.

“No,” said Albina, being nobler than she had ever been in her life. “I’ve decided. I’m not going to buy anything till Hal comes home. I’m going to wait. It is for Hal to choose.”

And with the G aunts following, she marched out of the shop.

Hal was reading a letter. He sat on an upturned boat on the shore. The sun was shining and the North Sea was on its best behaviour, silver near the shore, shading to pale blue and then a deep azure. The tide was out and the sands stretched for miles, empty and golden, as they do on the Northumbrian coast.

Fleck sat at his feet, but the letter was a long one.

“All right, Fleck, you can go and explore,” said Hal – and Fleck looked up at him and then trotted off along the beach.

The letter was from Pippa, and as he read it, Hal smiled, for his father had done exactly what Hal had asked of him. And done it secretly.

Hal looked up. He’d go and phone his father and thank him.

But where was Fleck? There was no sign of him on the long, deserted beach. For a moment Hal was overcome by panic. Had he got lost, or drowned, or stolen? It wasn’t like him to go so far on his own.

He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled – and a white speck appeared, grew larger, and flopped down at Hal’s feet. Fleck’s tongue lolled, his tail thumped on the sand. He seemed to be smiling…

A dog who belongs to somebody forever is a dog who is free.