15

Beattie

Beattie lay with her head on her paws, watching gloomily through the bars of her pen. Alison had kindly moved her to the front of the kennel building, so that she could watch people coming and going, and feel less lonely. The other staff went out of their way to be kind to her, as they had all heard about the terrible Brian Wilson who had posed as a kind re-homer but turned out to be nothing of the sort. Beattie felt so upset when she heard them talking about him, and wished she was able to tell them that the horrible man who had tried to collect her had been Darren and not Brian. As the days passed she began to give up hope of ever seeing Brian again.

She heard some news of her own family however, just by chance. Like all good rescue centres the staff would call on their re-homers after a few months, to check that all was well and offer advice. Beattie woke from a sad little doze one afternoon to hear Albert, one of the home visit people, telling Alison about his visit that morning to Mrs Featherstone.

‘D’you remember Dora?’ he began, ‘that pretty little Jack Russell and her two pups that went to the property developer somewhere near Uffington?’

‘I do,’ said Alison, ‘bossy woman with rats. One daughter.’

‘That’s it!’ Albert looked pleased. ‘Well, they’ve certainly been doing some ratting work. Mrs Featherstone had a great deal to say on the subject. Apparently her daughter got into pest control in a big way. Began running a business almost, only without any money, helping people clear their mice and rats. She’s only about 10 years old! Then one day Mrs F. got a personal request from the Mayor, asking her to volunteer her dogs to help with pests on the local housing estates. She said at first she was flattered but then realised that things had gone too far. So she put her foot down.’

‘Oh dear!’ said Alison.

‘I almost felt it was our fault,’ Albert went on. Mrs F. said she was on the point of giving all the dogs back to us.’

‘What a cheek! She asked for a ratter in the first place!’

‘Well, then the daughter changed her mind and now they’re all into terrier racing. Mrs F. seems happy with that, though they’re a funny lot, if you ask me.’

Beattie wondered what terrier racing was, and hoped her sisters liked doing it. It didn’t sound very interesting. Why would terriers want to race? Still, she thought, if they’re happy, that’s good. But oh dear! How she missed them.’

It was on a Friday morning that it happened. The sun was up, and Beattie was looking forward to being taken out of her pen for a walk. Sometimes people who liked dogs, and felt sorry for the strays that were kept at the Rescue Centre, would come and take dogs out walking, to give them a change of scene. It wasn’t perfect, as no dogs were allowed off the lead for a proper run, but it was better than nothing. So Beattie was pleased to see the elderly couple who took her out on Fridays, come up the drive in their car. As usual, Mr and Mrs Worthington parked in the wrong place, reversing badly so that nobody could get into the main office building without squeezing. A van coming up the drive behind them stopped and a young man got out.

‘Hello Beattie!’ Mr Worthington took a lead from his car boot and handed it to his wife. She was coming towards Beattie’s pen when the young man called to them.

‘Sorry but would you mind moving your car? I need to unload something into that building.’ A familiar voice that made Beattie nearly jump out of her skin, ‘I’ve got a large picture here that I need to carry through that door.’

Beattie leapt to her feet and started barking wildly. ‘Brian!’

‘Shush!’ said Mrs Worthington, ‘no need to make all that noise little dog. Mr Worthington’s just going to move the car for this young man and we’ll get you out. I’m so glad you’re looking forward to your walk today.’

But Beattie was going crazy. What was Brian doing here? She watched as Mr Worthington’s car reversed slowly back so that the office door was cleared and Beattie saw Brain draw up and unload a large object from the back of his van. She barely noticed that it was the same picture of herself and her family that the ambulance men had moved all those months ago for Mr Gibbons. But Mr Worthington, getting out of his car and noticing the painting, said to Brian, ‘Well I never! That little one’s got exactly the same markings as this Jack Russell here that we take out walking.’

‘Me, me!’ shouted Beattie, but of course her words came out as a bark.

Mrs Worthington opened the door to Beattie’s pen. She was holding the lead in her hand.

‘Heavens above Beattie,’ she said, ‘what a fuss! Come on out then, and we’ll go for our walk.’

But Beattie had gone already. As the door opened she charged through and jumped right up at Brian, heedless of the painting, and landed somewhere in the middle of his chest, so that he had to catch her as the painting nearly fell to the ground.

‘Hey little dog!’ he exclaimed, as he steadied the painting and leaned it against the wall. Then he looked to see who it was he was holding under one arm.

Mrs Worthington hurried towards them in alarm. She held the lead out to clip onto Beattie and she looked a little irritated too. ‘We’re just about to take that dog out for a walk,’ she said, ‘can you hold her while I put her lead on? I don’t think Alison will be very pleased with us if we let her go. She was found wandering the streets you know.’ But by then Brian had recognised his own dog.

‘Beattie, is this really you?’ He laughed with pleasure as Beattie licked his face, snuggling up against his chest as she always used to do.

At this point Alison came out of the office. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

‘This dog seems to have taken to your delivery man,’ said Mrs Worthington, ‘when we were just about to take her for a walk.’

‘It’s Beattie!’ said Brian. ‘I re-homed her months ago and I was told she’d run away while someone else was looking after her. I can’t believe she’s been here all the time!’

Alison took control of the situation. ‘You’d better come into the office,’ she said, ‘and Mr and Mrs Worthington, I’m sorry but it looks as if we’ll need to find you another dog to walk today. I’ll call Laura and we’ll sort something out.’

It was lucky for everyone that Alison had met Brian Wilson before. Had she not, the note on the computer, warning the staff at the Rescue Centre not to return Beattie to him, might have made for a sad ending. But as soon as Alison talked to Brian, and their stories were told, it became clear what had happened. Brian was very angry indeed. ‘I’ll have a few things to say to Darren,’ he said grimly, ‘he doesn’t work for me any more but I do know where he lives. I understand now why he said he wanted a new job. But that won’t be the end of it, you can be sure of that. Beattie and I will go and call on him, very soon.’

Both of us? Beattie shivered.

‘And what about this painting?’ Alison asked.

‘Oh, I got a call from the Plough’s Rest Home for the Elderly,’ said Brian. ‘They said the painting had been donated to your place and asked me to move it. A Mr Gibbons, they said, was so grateful to you for taking in his Jack Russell family, and thought you might like the painting for your entrance hall. He was very fond of his Jack Russells apparently.’

Alison made Brian a cup of coffee and Beattie, happy for the first time since Brian had fallen downstairs weeks ago, snuggled down on his knee and waited to be taken home. She only hoped that Brian would leave her behind when he went to see Darren.