Paws and Whiskers (31 page)

‘I
didn’t
steal him,’ said William indignantly. ‘He
just came. He began following me. I didn’t want him to – not jus’ at first anyway, not much anyway. I suppose,’ a dreadful fear came to his heart, ‘I suppose you want him back?’

‘You can keep him for a bit if you want him, can’t he, Daddy? Daddy’s going to buy me a Pom – a dear little white Pom. When we lost Jumble, I thought I’d rather have a Pom. Jumble’s so rough and he’s not really a
good
dog. I mean he’s no pedigree.’

‘Then I can keep him jus’ for a bit?’ said William, his voice husky with eagerness.

‘Oh, yes. I’d much rather have a quieter sort of dog. Would you like to come and see our cottage? It’s just over here.’

William, slightly bewildered but greatly relieved, set off with her. Mr Jarrow followed slowly behind. It appeared that Miss Ninette Jarrow was rather a wonderful person. She was eleven years old. She had visited every capital in Europe, seen the best art and heard the best music in each. She had been to every play then on in London. She knew all the newest dances.

‘Do you like Paris?’ she asked William as they went towards Lavender Cottage.

‘Never been there,’ said William stolidly, glancing round surreptitiously to see that Jumble was following.

She shook her dark curly head from side to side – a little trick she had.

‘You funny boy.
Mais vous parlez français, n’est ce pas?
’

William disdained to answer. He whistled to Jumble, who was chasing an imaginary rabbit in a ditch.

‘Can you jazz?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’ve not tried. I expect I could.’

She took a few flying graceful steps with slim black silk-encased legs.

‘That’s it. I’ll teach you at home. We’ll dance it to a gramophone.’

William walked on in silence.

She stopped suddenly under a tree and held up her little vivacious, piquant face to him.

‘You can kiss me if you like,’ she said.

William looked at her dispassionately.

‘I don’t want to, thanks,’ he said politely.

‘Oh, you
are
a funny boy!’ she said with a ripple of laughter. ‘And you look so rough and untidy. You’re rather like Jumble. Do you like Jumble?’

‘Yes,’ said William. His voice had a sudden quaver in it. His ownership of Jumble was a thing of the past.

‘You can have him for always and always,’ she said suddenly. ‘
Now
kiss me!’

He kissed her cheek awkwardly with an air of one determined to do his duty, but with a great, glad relief at his heart.

‘I’d love to see you dance,’ she laughed. ‘You
would
look funny.’

She took a few more fairy steps.

‘You’ve seen Pavlova, haven’t you?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You must know.’

‘I mustn’t,’ said William, irritably. ‘I might have seen him and not known it was him, mightn’t I?’

She raced back to her father with another ripple of laughter.

‘He’s
such
a funny boy, Daddy, and he can’t jazz and he’s never seen Pavlova, and he can’t talk French and I’ve given him Jumble and he didn’t want to kiss me!’

Mr Jarrow fixed William with a drily quizzical smile.

‘Beware, young man,’ he said. ‘She’ll try to educate you. I know her. I warn you.’

As they got to the door of Lavender Cottage he turned to William.

‘Now just sit and think for a minute. I’ll keep my promise.’

‘I do like you,’ said Ninette graciously as he took his departure. ‘You must come again. I’ll teach you heaps of things. I think I’d like to marry you when we grow up. You’re so –
restful
.’

William came home the next afternoon to find Mr Jarrow in the armchair in the library talking to his father.

‘I was just dry for a subject,’ he was saying; ‘at my wits’ end, and when I saw them there, I had a heaven-sent inspiration. Ah! Here he is. Ninette wants you to come to tea tomorrow, William. Ninette’s given him Jumble. Do you mind?’ he said, turning to Mr Brown.

Mr Brown swallowed hard.

‘I’m trying not to,’ he said. ‘He kept us all awake last night, but I suppose we’ll get used to it.’

‘And I made him a rash promise,’ went on Mr Jarrow, ‘and I’m jolly well going to keep it if it’s humanly possible. William, what would you like best in all the world?’

William fixed his eyes unflinchingly upon his father.

‘I’d like my bow and arrows back out of that cupboard,’ he said firmly.

Mr Jarrow looked at William’s father beseechingly.

‘Don’t let me down,’ he implored. ‘I’ll pay for all the damage.’

Slowly and with a deep sigh Mr Brown drew a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘It means that we all go once more in hourly peril of our lives,’ he said resignedly.

After tea William set off again down the road. The setting sun had turned the sky to gold. There was a soft haze over all the countryside. The clear birdsongs filled all the air, and the hedgerows were bursting into summer. And through it all marched William, with a slight swagger, his bow under one arm, his arrows under the other, while at his heels trotted Jumble, eager, playful, adoring – a mongrel unashamed – all sorts of a dog. And at William’s heart was a proud, radiant happiness.

There was a picture in that year’s Academy that attracted a good deal of attention. It was of a boy sitting on an upturned box in a barn, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He was gazing down at a mongrel dog and in his freckled face was the solemnity and unconscious, eager wistfulness that is the mark of youth. His untidy, unbrushed hair stood up round his face. The mongrel was looking up, some reflection of the boy’s eager wistfulness showing in the eyes and cocked ears. It was called ‘Friendship’.

Mrs Brown went to see it. She said it wasn’t really a very good likeness of William and she wished they’d made him look a little tidier.

There’s a picture-book village green not too far from where I live. It has a duck pond, a little white church, a row of cottages with wonderful flower gardens, and a farm shop where I go to buy all my summer fruit and vegetables. One day we were driving past this green when I saw a greyhound – then another and another and another! We had to stop the car to appreciate the amazing sight of at least fifty greyhounds, all with their owners, happily gathering together.

It turned out that this was a special Rescued Greyhound Club. All the proud owners and their dogs meet up every couple of months and go for a lovely long walk in the nearby woods to celebrate their new lives together.

I wondered about writing a story about this – but the King of Animal Stories, Michael Morpurgo, has
written a greyhound novel that can’t be surpassed.
Born to Run
is a riveting read, subtly dealing with various serious issues. It’s a total page-turner. The extract that follows is near the beginning, when Patrick has rescued a sack of greyhound puppies from the canal, and is desperate to keep just one for himself.

BORN TO RUN

All that really mattered now was taking Best Mate home with him and looking after him. His mum kept hugging and kissing him. Patrick wasn’t so keen on that, not with everyone else there. So in the end he turned and walked away. He was tired of all the talk, all the chatter going on around him. He wanted to be alone with Best Mate.

But they wouldn’t leave him alone. Within a couple of minutes he found there was someone else crouching down beside him. He had on a blue uniform and a peaked cap. He explained he was from the RSPCA. He spoke with a very soft understanding voice, the kind people use when they know you’re not
going to like what they’re about to say – a bad news voice. He had come to take the puppies away, he told Patrick, and look after them for him. ‘We’ll find good homes for them all, Patrick. OK?’ he said.

‘I’ve got a good home,’ Patrick replied. ‘So I can keep one of them, can’t I?’ He looked up at his dad. ‘We can, can’t we, Dad?’ But his dad wasn’t saying yes and he wasn’t saying no. He was looking down at the floor and saying nothing. His mum was biting her lip. She wouldn’t look at him either. That was the moment Patrick realised for the first time that they might not let him take Best Mate home with him.

His dad was crouching down beside him now, his arm around him. ‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘we’ve talked about this before, about having a dog, haven’t we? Remember what we said? We can’t keep a dog in the flat. Mum’s out at work most of the day. You know she is, and so am I. It wouldn’t be fair on him. That’s why we got Swimsy instead, remember? You did such a brave and good thing, Patrick. Mum and me, we’re so proud of you. But keeping one of these pups just isn’t on. You know that. He needs space to play, room to run in.’

‘We’ve got the park, Dad,’ Patrick pleaded, his eyes filling with tears now. ‘Please, Dad. Please.’ He knew it was hopeless, but he still wouldn’t give up.

In the end it was Mrs Brightwell who persuaded him, and that was only because he couldn’t argue with her. No one argued with Mrs Brightwell. ‘Tell me something, Patrick,’ she said, and she was talking to him very gently, very quietly, not in her usual voice at all. ‘You didn’t save those puppies just so you could have one, did you?’