The Plague Dogs: A Novel Page 49

  Now I saw in my dream that they had gone only a very little way when they were ware of a foul limousine coming to meet them across the lea. Bumping along the track, it made a slow course among the marram grass and came to a halt not far from where Mr. Wood was holding Snitter in his arms. In the back were seated the Right Hon. William Harbottle and the Under Secretary.

  His companions turned to rejoin Mr. Wood and the Secretary of State got out of the car and also approached him.

  “Good morning,” he said, as Mr. Wood looked up. “You must be one of the splendid people who’ve helped to capture these dogs at last. I’m very grateful to you, and so will many other people be, I’m sure.”

  Mr. Wood gazed at him with a bewildered air, like a man interrupted in prayer or the contemplation of some splendid painting.

  “Major,” said Hot Bottle Bill, turning to John Awdry, “can we get this unpleasant business over at once? Shoot the dog as quickly as you can, will you, please?”

  “This is the dog’s lawful owner, sir,” said Awdry. “In all the circumstances—”

  “The dog’s owner? This is very unexpected news!” said the Secretary of State. “I thought the Research Station—Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it can’t make any difference. Will you please carry on at once and shoot the dog?”

  “With the greatest respect, sir,” replied Awdry, “I am not responsible to you, but to my battalion commander. I don’t intend to shoot the dog and I will tell my battalion commander my reasons at the first opportunity.”

  Hot Bottle Bill was drawing breath to reply when a second figure appeared beside Major Awdry.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Major Rose, “but I happen to be the warden of this nature reserve. No animal may be killed here, by law, and to bring in a firearm is illegal. I feel compelled to point out also that motor-cars, apart from my own, are not allowed and that you have no authority to have brought one in. I must respectfully ask you to leave at once.”

  Still Hot Bottle Bill stood his ground.

  “I don’t think you understand—” he began, when suddenly there appeared beside the two majors a third figure, terrible indeed, shaggy-haired, duffle-coated and armed with a camera as Perseus with the Gorgon’s head.

  “In case you don’t know me, Secretary of State, I’m Digby Driver of the London Orator. If it’ll save any time, I may as well tell you that if you have that dog shot Sir Ivor Stone and I will make your name stink from here to Buckingham Palace and the House of Commons.” He paused, and then added, “We can, you know.”

  Hot Bottle Bill was not a British Cabinet Minister for nothing. For one long moment he contemplated the dauntless three upon the strand. Then he retreated to the car and could be seen telling his higher civil servant to go and deal with the matter.

  The Under Secretary advanced with circumspection, evidently wondering whether it would be safer to tackle Titus Herminius or Spurius Lartius.

  “Er,” he began, “I-er-think—”

  But we shall never know what the Under Secretary thought, for at that moment a white-fanged, snarling beast, black as a kodiak bear, hurled itself forward from behind Sir Peter Scott (even he jumped) and stood barking fit to defend the Bank of England.

  “Rowf! Rowf-rowf! Grrrrrr-owf! Grrrrrr-owf! Rowf!”

  The Under Secretary was not a senior civil servant for nothing. He hastened back to the limousine, which shortly reversed and went bumping away, with Rowf, still barking, in pursuit.

  “Oh, boy!” shouted Digby Driver, literally dancing on the sand. “What a riot! And I’ve got two shots of Harbottle looking at the dog out of the window—panic all over his face—if only they come out!”

  “I can’t help feeling a bit worried,” said Major Awdry. “I only hope to God we’ve done right. But to tell you the truth, I really felt so—”

  “Don’t worry about a thing!” cried Digby Driver, slapping him on the back. “Not a little thing! You were terrific, Major! What a fantastic turn-up for the book! Ever heard of the power of the press? Oh, brother, are you about to see it for real or are you? Sir Ivor’ll give me the Japanese Order of Chastity, Class Five, for this, wanna bet? Old Harbottle, ho! ho!”

  He capered among the laminaria saccharina as the tide came flowing in, but suddenly checked himself upon catching sight of the pale and sweating face of Mr. Wood, where he still sat at the foot of the dune.

  “I say,” he said, crossing quickly over to him, “how’s it going? Are you O.K.?”

  “Not too good, I’m afraid,” gasped Mr. Wood, “but what’s it matter? Oh, Snitter, Snitter, my dear old chap, there there, don’t worry” (to be perfectly honest, Snitter did not look worried), “we’re going home, boy, home! I’ll look after you. We’re just a couple of old crocks now, so you can look after me too. Who’s this big, black fellow? This your mate, is he? Well, I dare say we can find a place for him as well. That’s a good old chap, then! That’s a good boy!” (Rowf stood like a dog in a dream as his ears were scratched by a second man within the hour.)

  “I say!” called Ronald Lockley, who all this time had stuck by the Orielton and held her aground as the tide flowed, “I think it’s time we were sailin’ away. Are you fit, Peter?”

  Sir Peter Scott, after a hurried exchange with Major Rose (in which the words “Pennington Arms” and “Saloon Bar” were clearly distinguishable), waded back on board, the screw went into reverse, the Orielton backed off the sand and the redoubtable two headed south for the mouth of the estuary. Major Awdry and the sergeant-major set off to rejoin their men, while Major Rose and Digby Driver helped Mr. Wood back to the Triumph Toledo.

  “Er—I say,” said Driver a little tentatively, as they hobbled along, with Snitter and Rowf following at their heels, “You know, you’re going to need a bit of help when you get back to Barrow. I don’t know whether you mean to go to the hospital or home or what, but—”

  “Someone’s got to look after these dogs,” said Mr. Wood, resolutely planting one foot before the other. “I shall have to try to—”

  “Someone’s going to have to look after you, I reckon,” said Driver, “or you’ll wind up in the obituary column. I was thinking—I’ll have to stay up here for a day or two yet. For one thing, I’ve got the story of all time to write—Sunday papers, too, I don’t doubt. If you like, I’ll move into your place and help you sort things out. That’s if you don’t mind a typewriter and a fair bit of telephoning—reverse charges, of course.”

  “I’d be deeply grateful,” said Mr. Wood. “But are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” said Driver. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t felt so much on anyone’s side for years. Not for years! As for that Secretary of State, well, he will be in a state by the time I’ve finished with him. He’ll look sillier than that Boycott bloke, and that’s saying something.”

  Mr. Wood resumed his place in the back of the car, Snitter on his lap and Rowf lying somewhat awkwardly at his feet. A silence of almost stupefied contentment fell, broken only by the mumblings and chucklings of Digby Driver at the wheel,

  “Astounding Scene on Lakeland Beach,” muttered Digby Driver. “Secretary of State Put to Headlong Flight. (Picture, exclusive.) But for the penetration and vigilance of the London Orator, a serious miscarriage of justice would have taken place yesterday on the sand-dunes of the Drigg Nature Reserve, where the so-called Plague Dogs, innocent four-footed victims of a bureaucratic witch-hunt launched from Whitehall—”

  “Rowf?”

  “What?”

  “Did you want to stay with the man in the rubber boots?”

  “Well—I don’t know—well, I’d just as soon stay with you, Snitter. After all, you need looking after. He doesn’t. And your man seems a decent sort too. I must admit I’d no idea there were so many. It’s all different on the Isle of Dog, isn’t it? Thank goodness we got there after all. I dare say I may be going to learn a few things.”

  “It’s jolly being dead, isn’t it?” said Snitter. “Who’d ever have tho
ught it? Oh, Snit’s a good dog! Come to that, Rowf’s a good dog, too.”

  The beach is deserted now, save for a few gulls and a flutter of dunlins running in and out of the waterline. The breeze has fallen; the air is calm and on the level brine a single, sleek razorbill dives and reappears. The clustered blades of marram droop along the dunes, arc upon arc intersecting against the darkening eastern sky, still as their own roots in the drifted sand beneath. Farther off, where those roots have already changed the sand to a firmer, loamier soil, the marram has vanished, yielding place to denser, more compact grasses. The incoming tide, with a rhythmic whisper and seethe of bubbles, flows up the beach and back, across and back, smoothing and at length obliterating the prints of Snitter and Rowf, of Digby Driver and Sir Peter Scott, and finally even the indented troughs where the limousine reversed and went its way. Before full-tide the gulls are gone, flying all together along the coast, gaining height as they turn inland above the estuary of the three rivers, soaring up on the thermals over Ravenglass, up over Muncaster Fell and the Ratty line winding away into Eskdale. From this remote height the sun is still setting, far out at sea beyond the Isle of Man, but below, in the early winter dusk, the mist has already thickened, blotting out the Crinkles and the lonely summit of Great Gable, the stony ridge of the Mickledore and the long, southern shoulder of Scafell; creeping lower, as night falls, to cover Hard Knott Pass, the Three Shire Stone and Cockley Beck between. Far off, to the east of Dow Crag and the Levers Hause, the lights of Coniston shine out in the darkness; and beyond, the lake glimmers, a mere streak of grey between invisible shores.

  The Coniston Fells