Saturday, 7.30am
Ten minutes? It couldn’t have been ten minutes. Never! Two. At most. Surely? So much to do! Awakened with a bump, a shock sharper than running into a wandering Afghan carriage, Brian Wiseton woke with that cold, slightly sick feeling on coming-to from a deep doze. He had read that the artist Salavdor Dali had said something to the effect that if you were holding a five pound note out straight in one of your hands, as you fell asleep, then by the time it reached the ground you had slept enough. Time to awake refreshed. Brian felt far from refreshed. That bump! Shock. His head hitting his chest perhaps? Should never have closed his eyes. What was he thinking of? Getting here early because there was so much to do. Not like some. Stole a march on Ms Goodlife, as he had Ambrose Graveney. Time to take advantage of it.
He raised his head, shaking off the last traces of guilt and nausea, to see that he had been caught up with. Graveney was there. On the bench. Susan Goodlife – he recognised her now; anything but scraggy! – was, he could see, at the end of the row talking to someone. Looked like Madge Donnelly. She would come to her berth any moment. The English Toy Terrier clan was gathering. No time to waste! He stood up to release his dogs from their crate. They were well trained for these occasions; that was another reason for doing shows regularly. It kept them on their toes. In the mood. He needed, now, to be both himself. He turned, and almost laughed aloud. He still had a head start. Ambrose had been as wilful as he had been. There, slumped in the bench, eyes closed, Roley still tucked up in the crate. Ha! Fancy! What a thing to do. Brian got on with things as the well-upholstered Goodlife pushed her way up from the bottom end of the row to her pram of collapsibles parked next to him. This was not easy. Was the gap wide enough? Three meters the KC directed. In this narrow corridor it was difficult avoiding the sprawl of bits and pieces, dogs and feet, as the benches filled up and the cavalcade pushed and pressed past. Ambrose slumbered on.
“Mr Wiseton. We have met. Malvern was it? Or Edinburgh?”
“Never done Edinburgh.”
“Oh, you should. Jolly bracing. Sets you up for the Highland Tour. Fewer competitors on the whole up there, and, if I may say so, ones not so likely to be winners. Good circuit for winning a few old certificates.”
“I might think about it one day. Takes too long, and costs too much I’ve always thought.”
“Why not ask Mr Graveney, there. Ambrose isn’t it? We met at Edinburgh last year. He got a third I recall. Took it very well, though he had some pungent comments about the ring arrangements. As is his style. My Cecil won that day.”
“Well done. I don’t think now’s the time to remind him.”
“Maybe”, said the perceptive Ms Gooodlife, gazing at the dreamer “maybe you should tell him something. Silly time to doze. Better gently bring him round, I would say. Be the kind thing to do.”
“Suppose you’re right. Don’t like waking sleeping dog owners, though, any more than their dogs.”
“Needs must. If you know the man. Do you? If you don’t, I’ll give him a prod, but I’d rather not. Gentlemen may react fiercely if unexpectedly disturbed. Especially by a lady.”
“Not old Ambrose, I wouldn’t expect. Bit on the dull side, as everyone says of him, but safe. Solid.”
Even so, Brian agreed it would indeed be the right thing to do. Relieved, Ms Goodlife turned to her own preparations. Ambrose was still, clearly, far away from the land of the groomers crowding ever more around him. Passing and re-passing as they oscillated between their trolleys, parked along the open end of the benches where there was more room, and the individual slots where their patient dogs looked, passively, on. He stepped nearer the sleeper. The head was fully down on the chest. That drop had not worked as a wake-up call as Brian felt it had done for him. He shook the man gently by the shoulder. Too gently, obviously. Ambrose didn’t stir. If anything, he slipped lower into his seated position. Brian hesitated. But courage! It really was most unusual at such a time of day, a time dedicated to competition preparation. Had he not been so weak himself only a few minutes earlier he wouldn’t have believed it of the man. He took a firmer hold of Graveney’s shoulder and shook, this time strongly. Ambrose almost fell out of the alcove. As a natural reaction, Brian Wiseton pushed him back into an upright seating position. To no avail. Alarmed, he took a good look and then called out – pointlessly, maybe, but it was an unavoidable reaction:
“Hey! Help! Is there a doctor here? I think this man is ill. Very ill.”
There was no doctor; none to listen. No response. All were busy grooming. Clipping, combing, washing down, brushing up, spray cans and powder puffs at the ready. From snout to tail. Even if they heard his cry above the general background hum, most would have tuned it out. Their minds were concentrated on the job in hand. On the ring performance to come. On the judge to be impressed. On taking in as much as they could of their rivals, comparing other entries with their own natural star and worthy winner. He tried again. He did not want to leave Ambrose Graveney’s side.
“I say!” How old-fashioned that sounded, but it seemed to work better than his earlier ‘Hey!’ Also his voice was louder as his concern rose. “I say! Anyone! This man’s ill. He needs help. Now. Quickly. Can someone please send for a steward. Better still, an ambulance. A doctor. The first aid room must be open by now. It’s Ambrose Graveney,” he added. Most in the Toy Terrier benches knew the stern-faced regular exhibitor. “Please! Can someone go for help? I don’t want to leave him.”
A welcome voice, that of John Pugh arrived opposite, cut across the mumble of half-caught responses.
“I’ll get the office. On my mobile. Don’t want to leave the dogs. I’ve got the number handy. Just this moment been on to them to complain about my entry in the catalogue.”
“Please. Thanks. No delay. Please. I’m really worried for him.”
Mr Barnaby Trott was having what he liked to describe as a ‘quiet cup of coffee’ when the message got to him. By ‘quiet’ he meant ‘alone’. On his own. His tod, as he chummily would put it. It was, he was sure, a public demonstration of how in charge of affairs he really was. So in charge that, on the morning of a major exhibition, in this case a dog show of some importance to those who lived in that world, and of much importance to the Hall as it was a good, and reliable, annual money spinner, he, the Manager, capital M, could take himself off for a quiet cup of coffee. The competitors’ door had only just been opened; that for the public yet firm shut. It was a moment of controlled calm before the hurly-burly of the day. He was an oasis of calm. A fine example to his juniors – his ‘dedicated and loyal, hard working staff’ as he would PR quote to the press and, to his joy, at times the TV. That the TV would be coming later pleased him. Today’s show was a must for the regional news. The area news channel never missed it. Hence his smarter suit, shirt and tie. Barnaby Trott was not of the open-necked brigade of publicity-seeking celebrities. He was decorum and standards.
The doggies and their owners were duly pouring in and sorting themselves out just as they should. He had had no problems at the door with proof of any dog’s, or human come to that, identity. Only one irritating call had come in from someone moaning about a detail of his entry in the day’s programme. Really not his affair! What had their catalogue to do with him? He wasn’t a printer. Let them bitch to the Kennel Club or whatever. Not that he expressed it in those terms to the groaner. His reply had been soothing. Requiring of no action by him whatsoever. So, quiet cup of coffee in hand, he had settled, on his own, for a few pleasant and well-deserved minutes. It was upsetting to be told, by a call from what sounded like the same moaning man, that someone had been taken ill in one of the dog bench areas. He wanted to send, oh! anyone. Yet at that moment he knew he couldn’t. Sighing with the responsibility of high office, Mr Barnaby Trott took a last sip of what now seemed quite the nicest cup of coffee that had ever come his way, and set forth at a measured, proper, don’t-panic, pace to see what it was all about. Probably no more than a false alarm. It usually was. Thank the Lord! And good management.
Mr Trott counted along the rows of benches to number five and, with a magisterial air, he was certain, adorning his brow and eliciting his stride, he made his way past parting people, fussing around up-turned trolley grooming tables, to where the centre of the scene seemed to be. His large, clear, authoritative badge led him smoothly through the muttering mass until he arrived at the spot where Brian Wiseton was still, rather helplessly, holding the hand of a somewhat overweight man. Mr Trott was not overweight. Mr Trott was in fine shape. For his age. And life style. Necessary-to-duty life style. Mr Trott was a regular gym user, at the Company’s expense; both gained from a physically as well as a mentally alert manager. He came to a halt and looked. He didn’t like to take the lead with ordinary people. It was better that they came unto him. Brian spoke.
“You the doctor?”
Mr Trott gave his badge the tiniest of polishes with his left hand.
“What seems to have happened? The doctor has been sent for. That was arranged the moment the call was received. As a sensible, proper procedure. Now then, what is going on here?”
Mr Wiseton looked at Mr Trott. Dogs were beginning to yelp. Owners were wanting to get back to their ring preparations. After all, what else could they do? Brian indicated the comatose Ambrose.
“He’s ill, you say,” uttered the Manager.” Are you medically trained?”
“No. Just a, a sort of, how would you put it, colleague.”
“Fellow competitor.”
“You could say that.”
“And you know this man. His name?”
“Graveney. Mr Ambrose Graveney.”
“Known him long?”
“For quite a few years now. Only see him at shows, though. Like this. Three, four times a year. I don’t go to Scotland.”
Mr Trott considered this evidence. He looked at the rest of the evidence. It worried him. Ill? He had a sound suspicion that it was more than ill. The man looked dead to him. He did not say so. No need to cause panic. What to do until the doctor arrived?
“Have you moved him at all?”
“Only to get him back up in the seat, as it were. When he almost fell over. He felt very heavy.” Dead people are heavy to move, mused Mr Trott, but said:
“Overweight I would say. Not young either. Overcome no doubt. Too much for him. Early start. All that lifting and pushing that I see you people do. He does look unconscious, for sure. Please,” he suddenly snapped into CO mood. “All of you. Please. Go on with your business. I’m sure it’s no more than heat. Exhaustion. Maybe some sort of minor seizure. I shall stay here until proper medical help arrives.” He made a hand gesture near enough to a shoo! shoo! Obediently, relieved at preparation time regained and responsibility shed, the members of his audience turned to their affairs. Mr Wiseton and Mr Trott stood side by side screening the unfortunate Mr Graveney from passing view. Not yet, strictly, public view, Mr Trott was relieved to think. The paying proletariat would not be let in for a good while yet. Surely, in that time, the doctor would have come and this embarrassing man safely moved out of his ken and manor? Away to hospital with any luck, and that would be the end of that. As usual, Mr Trott knew that he had managed things well. He even took a mental note to ensure that the ring marshals and the judge would be informed that Mr Graveney was unlikely to be putting in an appearance.
Mr Wiseton’s thoughts, unable to acknowledge death as the likely situation even to himself, took thought to dogs. Not just his two. What about Roley? Couldn’t leave the poor little fellah in his crate much longer. Might it be possible to find someone else to show him while Ambrose recovered? He put the word ‘recovered’ in the hopeful bracket. John Pugh or Graham Wright could. They only had one dog each – bitches, rather – so no clash. One of them could handle Roley. On the other hand, he would prefer Madge Donnelly, whom he could see at the end of his row where she had been chatting to Susan a few minutes ago. A true dog lover and happy handler in the ring. If not her, then Alison Jeffrey or Gloria Winter both, presumably, also already there. Thus ran his mind. All had dogs with them today.
All were helpful. People were helpful to each other, competition needs apart. So far as he knew, none of them was entering the same class as Roley. Could he leave old Ambrose to go and find one of them? This Manager seemed sure that help was near at hand. With so much upset already, what would a few more minutes count? He stayed put.
Mr Trott gazed heavenward. The banners were rather good this year. It had been his idea to hang them from those new positions. Most fetching!