Nobody's Dog Read online

  Frank described everything that had happened, including his rejection of Chip.

  Norman looked pensive. ‘I’m very glad for you,’ he said. ‘But I wish the dog could have been spared that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frank said miserably. ‘You can see how it was. I – I had to, Norman.’

  ‘Yes. All right, my boy. D’you think the scamp will come looking for me when I’m out of here?’

  ‘He’ll be around. You know Chip. He’ll survive.’

  Norman nodded. ‘Yes. We’ll find each other. You did what you could for him, and I’m grateful. You’re not to feel bad about losing him. I’d have done the same, I’m sure.’

  Frank didn’t linger. He had some purchases to make. ‘I’ll look out for you,’ he told Norman. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  Towards the end of the day Frank found himself wandering into the park. He was curious to see how the rockery was developing. The place was deserted. He sat down on a boulder and took out his mouth-organ. Miss Crisp’s holdall was by his side. ‘I won’t be carrying you around much longer, like a snail with its shell,’ he said to it. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be in my new home.’ And he launched into a jaunty tune to celebrate.

  13

  Digby and Streak were making slow progress. Digby hadn’t yet completely recovered from his ordeal and tired quickly. It was in the greyhound’s nature to run at speed and he found it difficult to adjust his pace to the other dog’s requirements. The food they managed to pick up didn’t help Digby’s return to health. It. was meagre and irregular. But as they continued along first Streak, and then Digby, began to recognize certain features of the townscape.

  ‘I wish I could go faster,’ Digby sighed as they paused for a rest behind a bus shelter. He could think of nothing except Frank’s gentle voice and shining face. ‘I shall be so excited when we finally see each other!’ He flopped down, quite exhausted.

  ‘We should eat something,’ Streak said. ‘My stomach’s growling at me again. And it’s raining. We need shelter.’

  ‘You’re very sensible, aren’t you?’ Digby murmured. ‘You never lose your dignity.’

  Streak was amused. ‘It’s not dignity,’ he answered, ‘only old age.’

  When Digby was ready they moved on. Streak had found nothing edible in the bus shelter but as they neared another street, a busier one, they both caught the smell of cooked meat. They trotted forward eagerly, noses working at a great rate. Digby was so occupied with locating the source of the delicious scent that he didn’t immediately take note of the place they had reached. It was the same street where the horrible Ken had grabbed him. A youth was squatting in a doorway, munching a beefburger, a bag of hot food at his side. The two dogs, overcome by hunger, approached closer, licking their chops and looking at the youngster for the slightest sign of sympathy. There was none.

  ‘Clear off!’ he shouted. ‘Ken! Two dogs here!’

  The big man suddenly appeared from another doorway. Digby and Streak, frightened by the boy’s shouts, actually ran in the most dangerous direction: towards Ken. The man had no idea that Digby was the dog he had captured earlier. He had no reason to suspect. He had been paid for his work and had forgotten about it. But Digby remembered at once. As soon as he smelt the man he barked in fright and at the same moment Ken lunged for him, catching him by one leg. Digby struggled to free himself, terrified of the torment he had only just managed to escape.

  ‘Come and help, Denis,’ Ken roared to the young man. ‘I don’t think I can hold him. Ow!’ The man cried out as Streak’s teeth sank into his other arm. He let go of Digby, who raced off in such terror that he forgot all about his friend. Denis and Ken between them wrestled Streak to the ground. The greyhound was too old to be of any use as a means of making money, but Ken intended to punish him for the hurt he had inflicted. Streak began to yap in alarm and distress. It was such an unexpected sound that Digby skidded to a halt and looked round. Never had he heard Streak bark like that before. He hesitated. The impulse to flee was still uppermost. But a cry of real pain from Streak made his own fright vanish, to be replaced by a bitter hatred. Barking loudly himself, Digby rushed back to the scene and snapped at the two vicious humans in a fury.

  ‘Look out!’ Ken cried. ‘It might be rabid!’

  That last word was sufficient to secure Streak’s release. Denis let go of the greyhound and leapt away at the same time as Ken unfastened his grip. Streak was on his feet in a second and the two dogs galloped off through the relentless rain.

  Streak had received a real shock. He had never been struck by a human before and the blow delivered by Ken had really unnerved him. Oblivious of his surroundings, weather, hunger or companionship, he bounded forward on his long legs. Digby was left far behind, and eventually the collie gave up the chase. He accepted that they were now separated. After a while he slowed down and finally stopped running altogether. He knew where he was: the park where he had met Chip lay before him. He lay down, panting heavily, under a thick bush. Raindrops cascaded through the leaves but Digby was too tired to care. He soon fell asleep.

  Later in the night, Digby woke, roused by an all-pervading hunger. He left his shelter, shook his coat vigorously and began to search for scraps. He found some bread crusts someone had dropped for the birds and, soggy though they were, he wolfed them down in a twinkling. He wandered here and there, his nose working hard to pick up the faintest scent of food. He came to the spot where Frank’s workmates had eaten their lunches. There were various bits and pieces in a litter bin which was easily turned over, but he found nothing at all satisfying. However, Digby’s unappeased hunger was forgotten as he detected, albeit faintly, a more familiar scent. With mounting excitement he snuffled the air, then bent his nose to the ground. The heavy rain hadn’t quite obscured all trace of Frank.

  ‘Now I’ll find him,’ Digby barked in sheer joy. Without a further thought about eating he bent his muzzle to the trail. As he followed its broken course back to the park gate, it grew light. It promised to be a splendid day. Outside the park, however, the wet pavements, trodden by so many more pairs of feet, yielded no trace of Frank. Digby didn’t lose heart. He thought he knew the way to their old home, but when he reached Keserly Street, early in the morning, he saw only the vacant plot where the squat had once stood. There was no sign of Frank. In fact, at that moment, the young man was collecting his wages from the staff manager in the park Digby had just left; man and dog had missed each other by minutes.

  Digby wondered where he should go next. He wished Streak were still with him. He felt that the greyhound would have had some ideas. ‘But I mustn’t be selfish,’ he thought to himself. ‘I hope Streak is back with his master by now.’ Digby trotted off down the road, expecting Chip to suddenly show up and guide him. As the day wore on he realized he was truly on his own and must rely entirely on himself.

  By early evening Digby’s anxiety was at its height. He was at his wits’ end. Frank had eluded him all day. A discarded sandwich had been his only meal and now he was very weary. He remembered that Frank’s scent had been strongest in the park and, since it still seemed to be his best hope, he headed once more in that direction.

  As Digby neared the entrance his ears picked up a well-loved sound. Frank was sitting by the rockery, blowing a lively tune in solitude. Digby stopped, lifted up his head and howled. A park keeper peered round the corner of his hut, saw the unaccompanied collie and quickly moved towards him, but Digby had had quite enough of human interference. He dodged the keeper expertly and ran into the park, already beginning to bark an exultant welcome. As Frank continued to play his music, lost in his dreams of the wilderness, Digby burst through the shrubbery and leapt on top of him, whimpering with relief and licking his face, hands, neck and everything else he could reach in a kind of frenzy.

  Frank dropped his mouth-organ. ‘Digby! Oh, Digby! It’s all right, it’s all right!’ He hugged his dog and tears sprang to his eyes. The park keeper arrived, saw the joy of the man and his dog, a
nd left them with a smile and a wave.

  ‘Oh, Digby, however did you escape?’ Frank cried. ‘You clever dog! I thought we were parted for ever. And now – what are we going to do?’

  Digby spun round blissfully, his happy face showing exactly what he thought they were going to do: stay together for ever. Frank came down to earth first.

  ‘But you’re so thin, you poor old chap,’ he said. ‘Has someone been starving you? I shall never know what you’ve been through.’ He tried to put the thought aside. ‘Come on, you need feeding. And I’ve the money now for a feast.’ He slung his holdall over his arm. Digby whirled round and round, catching his tail in his teeth and giving it a tug. He was so full of delight he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  At the last moment Frank reached for his mouth-organ where it had fallen amid the rockery. ‘Mustn’t leave this behind,’ he said to Digby with a beaming smile. ‘It brought us together again.’

  Frank bought a food bowl and two tins of dog food. He sat on a bench and watched Digby devouring his meat. ‘Now I’m really in a fix,’ he thought, as the full force of his predicament struck him. ‘It’s Digby or the gardening job.’ As he watched the collie enjoying his food, he noticed a little habit of Digby’s that he thought he’d forgotten. Every time the dog caught Frank’s eyes on him he gave a little answering wag of his tail before turning back to the bowl. This endearing characteristic was sufficient in itself to bring Frank to a decision.

  ‘How could I do anything but keep you?’ he said softly. ‘I’m ashamed that I hesitated even for one second. We’re a team, you and I, and we’re going to beat the system. We need this job, both of us, and you’re coming with me.’

  Digby gave a little wag.

  ‘Yes. I’ll find a way. There’s room for two in that little summerhouse and you’ll have to learn to be as quiet as a little mouse.’

  Digby wagged again.

  ‘Tonight we’ll sleep under the stars. And tomorrow you must spend one more day on your own. Miss Crisp is keeping your broken lead – I’m sure she’ll be willing to keep you too.’

  14

  A final night under the railway arch passed without incident. Frank and Digby curled up together under the blankets, and at first light they went back to Keserly Street. Miss Crisp opened her door in her dressing-gown.

  ‘Frank! What’s this? Digby too! You found him! How wonderful.’

  ‘He found me,’ Frank explained. ‘I don’t know where he was taken or anything. But he’s back, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Come in, do. I was just going to make some coffee. And Frank – I got your note. Thank you, but you didn’t have to pay that money back. Really.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Frank insisted. ‘It was a loan.’

  ‘Well, tell me all about your new job. You wrote that it was gardening in a wilderness. Whatever did you mean?’

  Frank described Rothesay House, the untended garden and the cabin.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ the kind woman cried. ‘Everything’s working out for you. And Digby. I’d given up hope, you know. Nobody seemed to know anything about him. My poster did no good at all.’

  ‘Not quite everything’s working out,’ Frank said as he sipped his coffee. ‘My new boss has banned the dog. He has one of his own.’

  Miss Crisp was excited. ‘But – what about Digby?’ she stammered. ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘No, I don’t mean you to take him,’ Frank assured her. ‘I’m going to smuggle him into my cabin. But I can’t do that until tonight. So just for today, could you—’

  ‘Of course!’ she cried, muffling her disappointment. ‘Though you could get into trouble, couldn’t you? How ever will you manage about feeding and exercising him?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. No, I am about feeding. That’s easy. As for exercise – well, there’s always night-time.’

  ‘But the other dog?’

  ‘That’s my main worry. I’ll have to be careful they don’t get introduced!’ He laughed.

  Miss Crisp shook her head. ‘Doesn’t seem feasible to me. But it’s your business, so I can only wish you the best of luck.’

  ‘I shall need it. Yet Mr Odling seems decent enough. You never know; if I do all that’s asked of me and make a good job of it, he might change his mind.’

  Coffee over, Frank prepared to leave, and Miss Crisp had to get ready for work, too. Digby was shut in the kitchen with some food and water. They closed their ears to his objections.

  ‘He can come out when I get home,’ said Miss Crisp. ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘As soon as I can after dark,’ Frank replied. ‘And please – can I ask you not to risk letting him outside? I don’t want him bolting again. He’ll have to hold on somehow.’

  At Rothesay House Mrs Odling answered the door. She made Frank welcome and helped install him in the cabin. He was still clutching the holdall and its contents, which Miss Crisp had refused to take back.

  ‘I think you’ve everything you need here,’ Mrs Odling said. ‘There’s bed linen and blankets in the locker above the bed. I’ve bought you some tea and coffee and bread to start you off. And a few tins of odds and ends. If there’s anything else you want, please ask.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Frank murmured. He could hardly believe what was happening. He felt like a hotel guest, the comparison with his former existence was so marked.

  Mrs Odling smiled. ‘Then don’t say anything,’ she said kindly. ‘My husband has told me what he wants you to do first. So, once you’ve sorted yourself out a bit, come round to the house. Mr Odling’s at work now, so I’ll show you where to begin.’

  Frank could hardly bear to leave the cabin. He looked at everything over and over again, from the mats on the floor to the kettle to the bar of soap in the tiny bathroom, and had to keep reminding himself it was all for him. At length he realized he must look ready and eager to work, or it might be taken away again.

  A surprise was waiting inside the house. Mrs Odling was in the kitchen with her dog, and Frank had to do a quick double take. The dog was a border collie just like Digby and for a fleeting second Frank thought Digby had somehow escaped and followed him. The likeness was uncanny. Mrs Odling noticed his preoccupation.

  ‘Do you like border collies?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very much. They’re wonderful dogs.’

  ‘Aren’t they? This one’s very friendly really, but he’s a bit wary of strangers.’

  Frank reacted suitably, his brain racing. Here was a bonus! If the family were fond of collies, maybe the objections to another one around the place would disappear. But he must be very cautious.

  Mrs Odling took him to a particularly overgrown corner of the garden, where some azaleas were battling to bloom among a dense new growth of stinging nettles which threatened eventually to engulf them.

  ‘This is the area my husband is most concerned about,’ she said. ‘The nettles are just dreadful. They’ll choke everything if they aren’t eliminated. I suppose you know all about weed and pest control, being a professional gardener?’

  Frank gulped and nodded dumbly.

  ‘Every preparation that can be sold must be in that shed over there,’ Mrs Odling went on and laughed. ‘You’ll know what’s best to use. We never got round to trying most of them.’

  ‘Where do I put the rubbish?’ Frank asked, hoping it was the right question. ‘There will be a lot to dispose of.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ Mrs Odling admitted. ‘I honestly don’t know, Frank. Why don’t you start your own compost heap in a suitable place? We’re in your hands now.’ She laughed again and left Frank to work things out for himself.

  Inside the shed a multitude of boxes, jars and bottles met his eyes. He groaned. ‘Where on earth do I begin?’ he muttered. ‘Ah well, I’ll just have to read all the labels.’ Besides the weedkillers, the shed contained a plethora of gardening tools. Frank selected what was most needed and drew on a pair of stout gardening gloves he found on a sh
elf. ‘Here goes,’ he told himself. ‘I hope the lady’s not watching.’

  It was warm work but he quite enjoyed it once he got going. It was the sort of task you could undertake without having to think too much about it. So he thought about Digby instead and how, under cover of night, he was going to slip him into the cabin. Frank knew it was a betrayal of trust, but he reckoned that with the Odlings’ good nature and love of dogs he could rely on Digby’s own irresistible appeal to do the rest.

  Taking no more than half an hour at midday to make himself a sandwich, Frank made great progress in his battle with the weeds. He wondered how long he was supposed to work, but since no one had said anything he simply stopped when he was tired. He sat in the cabin in the late afternoon, contemplating his new surroundings. There was a mass of work to be done, but it seemed he would be allowed to labour at his own pace. He knew very well Odling was taking full advantage of his vulnerability to underpay him. He began to wonder if the man knew something about his previous history of living rough. Why else had he suddenly appeared in the park to dangle the offer of a job with this unusual accommodation attached? But Frank didn’t care. He stretched himself luxuriously in his chair and revelled in the unusual feeling of ownership.

  When Odling returned home he came to inspect Frank’s handiwork. He appeared pleased enough. ‘You’ve made a reasonable start,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

  Frank made himself a pot of tea and drank it slowly. He was itching for darkness to fall, but there were some hours of daylight left yet. He wondered if he had to ask permission to leave the premises but decided it was unlikely. When he thought it was time to go to Miss Crisp’s, he left the cabin and locked the door. He loved the feeling of his own keys in his pocket. Odling was just leaving the house, and motioned to him.

  ‘Are you going out?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I was thinking of it, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Certainly. Would you be able to spare a few minutes to sort out some forms?’