‘Morning, old chap!’ Tobias sang out from where he was standing at the stove. ‘I’m afraid Finnegan has started without us. Burnt toast and jam is his thing. And there’s always plenty of that around. Especially the burnt toast.’
Finnegan sat on a chair at the head of the table, his nose deep in a jar of jam, slurping and guzzling. The tablecloth in front of him was scattered with crumbs.
Freja crept through the kitchen door, wondering just how long she had been lost in the opening chapters of Three Cursed Pharaohs. She sat down beside the hound. Tobias passed her a plate with a soft-boiled egg and piece of hot, buttered toast cut into four little soldiers. Just the way she liked it.
‘Thank you!’ she whispered. She dunked her first soldier into the egg yolk, nibbled the toast down to her fingers and popped the stump back on her plate.
‘Pleasure!’ cried Tobias. Sitting himself down at the opposite side of the table, he gobbled toast while staring at the ceiling. Between slices, he poured a cup of tea, stirred in copious quantities of milk and sugar, sipped it, spilt it and muttered to himself. Halfway through chewing his third slice of toast, Tobias dropped it and banged his hands down on the table. ‘That’s it!’ he shouted. ‘The ravine! Carl Benziger is hiding, lurking, snivelling in the ravine!’ He leapt out of his chair and darted from the room. A moment later, the typewriter could be heard clackety-clacking in the living room.
‘The ravine?’ asked Freja. ‘What ravine?’
Finnegan grinned and dribbled jam onto the tablecloth. He leaned forward, stole Tobias’ deserted egg from his plate and gulped it down, shell and all. He sneezed at the pepper, coughed up a piece of shell, then started in on Tobias’ sweet, milky tea.
Breakfast over, Freja crept back into the living room and stood, half-hidden, beside one of the wingback chairs. Tobias sat at his desk, typing. Fingers tapping, elbows flapping. Lost in a whirl of words.
And then he stopped. His hands hovered over the typewriter for a moment, then dropped to his lap. He sighed, stared at the pineapple-shaped teapot and pushed himself back from the desk. His chair rattled and rolled on its worn wheels until it hit the bookcase and fell over sideways, with Tobias still in it! Three books fell from their shelf onto his head. Sweeping them aside, he leapt to his feet, crying, ‘Aha!’ He set the chair right, wheeled it back to the desk, sat down and resumed typing.
Freja stuck her head around the side of the wingback chair and said, ‘I might have a little look around now.’
Tobias didn’t reply.
‘If that’s okay,’ she added.
Tobias typed on, oblivious to her presence. A different child might have been upset, felt neglected or lonesome. But Freja, who loved to be left alone, was delighted. She tiptoed away, feeling like things were growing more and more bearable with every passing hour, and spent a quiet morning exploring her new home. Finnegan shadowed her wherever she went, blinking, dribbling and licking random objects.
First, Freja made a lap of the garden, poking at woodpiles, climbing a winter-bare apple tree, cracking the ice on the birdbath with a stick and rubbing her face against the warm, musty neck of the chestnut horse. Back inside, she found very little beyond what she had already seen. The first door she opened revealed Tobias’ bedroom, a dark chamber that smelt like soap and old books. The second door led to a pale green bathroom. The third led back to the kitchen, where she discovered a comfortingly large supply of baked beans, jam and biscuits — both cream centred and chocolate coated.
Finnegan sat down in front of her and placed his paw on her arm.
‘What is it?’ asked Freja, tilting her head to one side.
Finnegan tilted his head the same way and dribbled on the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Freja. ‘I don’t understand.’
But she soon did. Finnegan trotted to the open cupboard door. ‘Boof!’ he exclaimed and poked a large jar of cherry jam with his nose.
‘Jam?’ asked Freja. ‘But you have just gobbled a whole jar for breakfast!’
‘Woof! Boof!’ Finnegan sat by the cupboard. He grinned and swept his shaggy tail back and forth across the floorboards.
‘I think,’ said Freja, ‘that one jar of jam a day might be all a dog needs. Even a super-sized Irish wolfhound.’ She pushed the door shut with her foot.
Finnegan’s ears drooped and he whimpered.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Freja. ‘But even puppies must show some restraint.’
Finnegan blinked slowly, three times, then threw back his head and howled. ‘Oooooow!’
‘Shoosh!’ hissed Freja, looking over her shoulder towards the door. ‘What will Tobias think?’
‘Oooooow!’ howled Finnegan, eyes closed, nose to the ceiling, mouth tightened to a little ‘o’. It was a pitiful sight, a harrowing sound.
‘Shh-shh-shh,’ whispered Freja, wrapping her arms around his hairy grey neck. ‘There, there!’
But Finnegan howled on and on and on.
Freja was now quite frantic. What if Tobias thought she had done something cruel to his beloved puppy? Scolded or kicked? What would he think of her? What would he do?
‘Ooooooow!’ Finnegan mourned as though his heart was about to break in two.
‘Bickies!’ cried Freja. ‘How about some bickies?’
The howling stopped. Finnegan’s chin dropped. His eyes sprang open. He licked his nose and grinned.
Freja opened a packet of Jam Whirlies and held them out. ‘Just one,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure if you’re allowed to —’
Finnegan knocked the biscuits from her hand, scoffed them all down and finished by licking the crumbs off the floorboards. ‘Boof!’ he said and swiped his tongue back and forth across Freja’s face.
‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered.
Satisfied, the dog trotted off, tail in the air, along the corridor and into the living room. He flopped in front of the fire and spent the rest of the morning licking the hearth stones and snoozing with his nose tucked into one of Tobias’ slippers.
There was no use crying over spilt milk — or gobbled bickies — so Freja followed Finnegan to the fireside. Lying down with her head resting on the dog’s shaggy grey back, she continued to read Tobias’ crime novel. Three Cursed Pharaohs, written for adults, was totally unsuitable for a child, but Freja loved it. While most of the animals Freja encountered were gentle and shy, she had also seen her share of hunting, fighting, violence and death in the animal kingdom. Reading Tobias’ novel, therefore, was not so very different from a season spent in the Arctic observing wildlife behaviour. Besides, she found it all so terribly informative, especially the kidnapping scene.
All the while, Tobias tapped away at his typewriter, stared into space or paced the floorboards, mumbling to himself and scratching his head with a pencil. He remained completely absorbed in his writing, oblivious to the small girl who had crept into his living room and his life.