Harris was in mourning. His leader, King, had died under the wheels of a lorry delivering Pot Noodles to the service bay at the back of Food-U-R. Harris had barked a warning, but it was too late.
Victor Berryman had covered King in a piece of sacking and laid him inside a Walkers crisp box. He had then gone to the house of King’s nominal owner, Mandy Carter, and broken the news to her. Mandy, who rarely fed King and often denied him shelter in his own home, sobbed over her dog’s body. Harris watched her cynically. Poor King, he thought, he didn’t even have a collar. He had nothing, not even a food bowl, to call his own.
Mandy Carter had rung the Council on Victor Berryman’s phone and they had called round with a grey van, slung King inside a sack, thrown the sack into the back of the van and driven off. The Pack had chased the van for a few hundred yards, but had eventually given up and gone to their homes. Harris had waddled back to Hell Close and crawled under the hall table. He had refused a meal (a succulent oxtail), which had caused the Queen some concern, but not for long, he noticed. As usual, she was too busy with Philip to give her dog the attention he needed.
After a short sleep Harris barked to be let out and ran through the back gardens of Hell Close until he reached Charles’s cultivated plot. Harris scattered the compost heap around and then ran up and down the neat seed drills so painstakingly planted by Charles only the day before. He rested for a while, then jumped up and pulled Diana’s white jeans down from the line, chased a robin and ran off to find and sexually harass Kylie, who was playing hard to get. If King had taught him one thing, it was that you had to be tough to survive in Hell Close. And now that King was dead Harris intended to be Top Dog.
The King is dead. Long live the King! thought Harris.
On Monday morning by the second post an airmail letter arrived.
Stage Door
Theatre Royal
Dunfermline Bay
South Island
New ZealandDearest Mummy,
I could hardly believe my ears when I heard the election result. Is it too foul, living on a council estate?
I said to Craig, the director, ‘I shall have to go home, Mummy needs support.’ But Craig said, ‘Eddy, think about it, what can you do?’
And I did think about it and, as usual, Craig was right. It would be terribly unprofessional to leave a show halfway through a tour, wouldn’t it?
Sheep! is doing great business. Many bums on many seats. It is a good show. And they are such a brilliant cast, Mummy! Real troupers. The sheep costumes are horribly hot to wear, let alone sing and dance in, but I have never heard a word of complaint from anybody in the company.
New Zealand is a little dull and a trifle behind the times. I
saw a wedding party coming out of church yesterday and the bridegroom was wearing flares and a kipper tie. It was a hoot!
Craig has been a little depressed, but then he is never at his best in the rain. He needs the sun on his body in order to feel whole.
It was frightfully funny yesterday, one of the leads – Jenny Love – lost her sheep mask during her big number before the first act finale, ‘Lift the Wool from your Eyes’. She completely corpsed and could hardly bleat a word. Well, Craig and I were on the floor but the audience didn’t seem to notice that Jenny’s mask had fallen off. To tell the truth Jenny has got rather an ovine looking face.
We’re leaving for Australia next week. Advance bookings are very good. I wish you could see Sheep!, Mummy. The tunes are lovely and the dancing is terrific. We did have a few problems with the author, Verity Lawson. She and Craig had a major artistic disagreement about the slaughtering scene. Verity wanted a dead sheep to be lowered on a hook from the back of the stage, and Craig wanted the Ram (played by Marcus Lavender of The Bill) to perform a dance of death. In the end Craig won, but not until Verity had called in the Writers’ Union and made things generally unpleasant. Well, enough of this theatrical chit-chat, I’m sending you a Sheep! baseball cap, and also a programme. As you will see under ‘Tour Manager’ I’ve changed my name to Ed Windmount. Ever the peacemaker, eh?
Love from Ed.
P.S. I have had a strange letter from Grandma telling me to rejoice because Everest has been conquered!