GRAN SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, WATCHING THE GOLD-FINCHES sitting neatly on the feeder in the garden, scarlet, black and white flashing brightly now as they flew away, startled by a large pigeon landing on the grass.
They don’t look British, she thought, more like something escaped from an exotic aviary. Now a group of chattering, quarrelling sparrows flew in. That was more like it! A football crowd at a big match. She laughed aloud and got up, taking her empty mug to the sink. Lois and Derek had both gone out, and she had a free morning for once. She looked again out of the window. It was a beautiful morning, and Jeems was standing by the door, looking hopefully at her lead.
“Right, dog,” she said. “We’ll go for a healthy walk. Up to the hall and back over the meadows. Will that do?” Jeems’s tail wagged ferociously, and in a couple of minutes they were off, heading along the road towards the hall.
Only two cars passed her, causing her to jump on to the verge, dragging Jeems up after her. For some reason, the dog hated walking on the verge, preferring the middle of the tarmac road. Lois said it was good for her claws. It saves having them cut at the vets, she’d said. The second car had been Paula Hickson’s old banger, and she saw it turn up the long drive to the hall. The woman was a good worker, so Lois reported. But Gran had overheard one or two conversations, and had come to the conclusion that the children were suffering from lack of a father. Certainly the eldest, young Jack, was not right, not right at all. There was trouble there, Gran was certain.
As she approached the big, wrought iron gates, operated automatically, she saw at the far end of the drive a figure on a bicycle. She stopped, pretending to adjust Jeems’s lead. It was a man, and he was going at quite a speed. Gran wondered if the gates would open up to a bicycle.
They didn’t, and the man dismounted, hauled his bike round the edge of the gates, and came towards her. He was neatly dressed in gardener’s overalls, and smiled at her. She thought he had a nice face, but reckoned he was too thin to be doing hard physical work. Didn’t look well. His hand, as he bent down to stroke Jeems, was bony and she could see the blue veins standing out.
His voice was cheerful as he wished her a good morning. “Just the morning for a walk,” he said. “And a nice little dog to keep you company. I might get myself a dog. What make is she?”
“Cairn crossed with farm terrier,” Gran said. “My son-in-law got her for my daughter. She’s thoroughly spoiled,” she added. “That’s what happens when children grow up. The parents get a dog instead. We all need something small to love, don’t we?” What am I rattling on about? she thought, and then was horrified to see the man wipe his eyes. For God’s sake, what had she said?
“I must get on,” the man said. “Just going to the shop to get a sandwich for my break.”
“I should’ve thought your wife would make you a sandwich,” Gran said sourly. Another of these working wives too busy to look after their husbands properly.
“Ah, if only,” said the man, and, mounting his bicycle, he rode off towards the village.
Gran walked on, past the farm where the farmer’s wife had started a small herd of llamas. More foreigners, thought Gran. They don’t look right in our fields, silly fluffy things. What’s wrong with sheep, anyway, if you want good wool for knitting? She’d seen some alpaca wool garments in the new fancy shop over at Waltonby. The farmer there had developed his old barns, now too small for huge modern machinery, into retail units, and one of them had this fine, hairy wool. Gran had looked at the price tickets and nearly exploded in front of a party of visiting tourists.
“Just as well we can still buy proper lamb’s wool at a decent price,” she said to Jeems, and added that even so, it would probably vanish from the shops soon, since no young folk these days knew how to knit.
She had taken off Jeems’s lead, as the road was quiet and the dog would come to heel obediently. At least, she usually did, but when a rabbit shot across the road and through the hedge into a field, Jeems followed. Gran called until she was hoarse, but with no response.
Damn! Just when she was enjoying the morning, this had to happen. Gran walked on until she came to a gate into the field, opened it and looked around. No sign of Jeems. At the far side of the field, the woods began, and if she had followed the rabbit in there, it would be impossible to find her. Lois would never forgive her!
Gran stepped out across the grass, fortunately grazed close by cattle, who were still in the field. Hoping there wasn’t a bull amongst them, she took the quickest route and reached a ditch dividing the wood from the field. Finding a rotten-looking plank stretching across the ditch, she stepped gingerly on to it and was quickly inside the trees, thanking her lucky stars she had found the footpath that led back to the village.
“Jeems! Jeems!” she yelled, but her voice had nearly given out, and she hoped to see the little white dog somewhere in the murky darkness of the trees. It was very quiet, until a sudden squawk from a frightened blackbird caused her to stop and look carefully into the undergrowth. There she was! Almost disguised by the surrounding thicket, Jeems’s wagging tail showed up clearly. Gran forced her way through, scratching her hands and legs and cursing all dogs, until she could grab the tail and haul Jeems out of the rabbit hole.
“Come here, you little devil!” she said, and stood still to catch her breath. Then she peered more closely across the thicket. What was that over there? “Looks like a poachers’ lair,” she said to Jeems, and began to work her way towards it.
It had clearly once been a gamekeeper’s hut, but long disused. Somebody had patched it up with bits of wood and tarpaulin, and to Gran’s disappointment, had padlocked the door. She peered through a crack, but could see only a dead pheasant hanging head down from a crossbeam. The glorious feathers were still quite bright, so Gran knew it hadn’t been there long. She turned and made her way back to the footpath, dragging a reluctant Jeems behind her. “Our woods are full of surprises,” she said. “A secret world, dog Jeems.”
By the time she had followed the footpath round three sides of the wood, and then negotiated another field and into the main road, both she and Jeems were hot and tired. Back home in her kitchen, she filled the dog’s water bowl and looked at the clock. It was twelve o’clock, and she saw Lois going by the kitchen window.
“Hi, Mum. What’s for lunch? Had a good morning?” Then she looked down at Jeems seemingly drinking an entire bowl of water. “Good heavens! Where’ve you two been? Gossiping in the sun round at Joan’s, I expect. Well, don’t look like that, Mum. I was only guessing.”
This clinched it. Gran had been going to tell Lois about the hut in the woods, but now decided against it. She could hear Lois’s mocking voice, teasing her about being a townie and having no idea about the foolishness of taking a rabbit-hunting terrier off the lead right next to an open field. Anyway, the hut was just another old tumbledown place for poachers or them bird-watchers. She put it firmly from her mind.