Trouble on the Heath: A Comedy of Russian Gangsters, Town Planners and a Dog Called Nigel

Chapter Eight

Nigel was the first there. He was closely followed by the Great Dane with only one eye called Faustus, then the Doberman called Midge. A lot of peeing went on, followed by a lot of sniffing. By the time the owners had caught up with their dogs, the dogs were busy exploring the fascinating world of bottoms. Any bottom would do, whether it was the bottom of another dog or the bottom of a hedge, fence or lamp post.

Malcolm looked at his watch. It was

10.25 a.m. “Well, it’s not quite the mass turn-out I’d hoped for,” he said.

“Actually I can’t stay,” said Major Riddington. “I was just walking the dog. Faustus! Here boy! Can’t stop. Sorry.” And he continued on his way.

Malcolm turned to Midge’s owner, whose name he could never remember, although he’d asked her several times. “I can’t see the paper running a photo with a caption ‘Angry Residents Protest’ with just the two of us.”

“Oh.” What’s Her Name? sounded crestfallen. “Do you think anyone else will turn up?”

“I told the photographer to be here at

10.30. It’s 10.26 now.”

“Wait for me!” Patrick Simpson, the lawyer, came running up. “Has it all happened? Where are the others?”

“I think we are ‘the others’,” said Malcolm. “Not exactly a record turn-out.”

“We’ll just have to space ourselves out,” said Patrick.

“Won’t that look worse?” asked Midge’s owner.

“There’s the photographer!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Oh, no it isn’t,” he added under his breath. “It’s Hitler.”

“Is it really?” asked Midge’s owner excitedly. She was secretly a fan of Nazi regalia.

“Mr Kendrick!” said Malcolm. “I’m glad you were able to make it. As you see we’re short on numbers.”

Mr Kendrick looked at them with a blank expression.

“Short on numbers for what?” he asked.

“For the mass demonstration against the development here opposite your house!” said Malcolm. He was already irritated by Mr Kendrick’s presence, although he knew he shouldn’t be. He had been hoping to hide Mr Kendrick behind some of the other residents. He imagined having a Hitler look-alike amongst the protesters might not win them much sympathy amongst the readers of the local paper.

“Mass demonstration?” muttered Mr Kendrick blankly.

“We voted for it at the last Residents’ Association meeting,” said Malcolm.

“Did we?” asked Midge’s owner excitedly.

“Yes of course we did!” Malcolm could feel himself getting ruffled.

“I didn’t vote for a mass demonstration,” said Mr Kendrick.

“But… but… Anyway you’re here.” Malcolm was trying to control himself. “That’s what matters.”

“I was just going inside,” said Mr Kendrick.

“But please stay!” put in Patrick Simpson. “As you can see we need everyone we can get.”

“But what’s in it for me?” asked Mr Kendrick.

“You live opposite the proposed development!” exploded Malcolm. “You’re the one most affected by it!”

“Look! Here’s the photographer!” said Patrick.

A friendly girl in a brown bomber jacket ambled up to the group. She had a fancy SLR camera hanging from her neck.

“Hi!” she said.

“Hello, I’m Malcolm Thomas. I’m the Chairman of the Residents’ Association,” said Malcolm. “I’m sorry there aren’t more of us.”

“That’s OK,” replied the girl. “My name’s Martha. I’m from New Zealand.”

“I’ve got an aunt in New Zealand!” exclaimed Midge’s owner. “Her name’s Dancey Willis. I’m Isobel Soper.”

“Isobel! Of course!” Malcolm kicked himself.

“I know Dancey Willis!” smiled Martha from New Zealand.

“You do!” cried Midge’s owner. “Well isn’t that a coincidence?”

“Not really. We live next door to each other. It would be difficult not to know her.”

“No, I mean isn’t it a coincidence that you should live next door to my aunt?”

“But we’ve been neighbours for years so it isn’t really a…”

“Perhaps we should get on with the photograph?” suggested Malcolm, exercising his authority as chairman.

“Are you taking a photograph?” asked Martha from New Zealand.

“Well… er… isn’t that what you’ve come for?” replied Malcolm.

“Absolutely!” said Martha. “I’m going to take lots of photos. I specialise in vegetarian close-ups.”

“What are they?” put in Midge’s owner.

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” suggested Malcolm.

“Is this all there are?” said another voice. It belonged to a tall man in a raincoat with greased-down hair. In fact he was the newspaper’s photographer. “Not much of a protest, is it?”

“I’ve got to get home,” said Mr Kendrick.

“Please! Please! Please stay!” cried Malcolm holding on to Mr Kendrick’s sleeve. Nigel started barking at this. “Shut up! Nigel!”

“I mean, how many are there of you?”

“Five!” said Malcolm. “That’s quite enough.”

“Well it’s not going to get on the front page,” said the photographer.

“I’ve got things to do at home,” complained Mr Kendrick.

“Please stay!” whimpered Malcolm. “Just one minute!”

“All right,” said the photographer. “Try to look angry.” He pulled a small Sony digital camera from his pocket.

“Is that all you’re using?” said Malcolm.

“It’ll do for this,” said the photographer. “There! Done it!”

“We weren’t posed!” exclaimed Malcolm.

“And you’ve got to get the site of the proposed development in the shot!” said Patrick. “It’s behind you.”

“Can Midge be in the shot?” asked Midge’s owner.

“Yes of course! The more the merrier. Come on, Nigel!” said Malcolm.

“Wave your fists in the air!” said the photographer. “Like the girl in the bomber jacket’s doing.”

“What are we protesting about?” asked Martha from New Zealand.

“Got it!” said the photographer, who slipped his camera back into his pocket and wandered off.

“Don’t you want our names?” Malcolm shouted after him.

That lunchtime, as Malcolm was telling the story of the disastrous protest rally and photo-shoot, the phone rang. Their six-year-old, Freddie, was the first one there. He listened and then put the phone back on the receiver.

“Who was it?” asked Angela.

“Don’t know,” said Freddie.

“What did they say?” asked Malcolm.

“Stop, or your kid gets it,” said Freddie.