It was no use, though; the bus lurched forward and continued its journey down the long road. I watched it getting smaller and smaller and my legs grew wearier and wearier until I came to a panting halt.
It was hopeless. The bus — and my child — had got away.
Two more days of anguished searching went by — searching of the town and searching of my mind — both of which proved fruitless. I had eaten regularly at the hospital, having my breakfast and evening meal there thanks to the generosity of the coloured cook, and had spent the rest of the time looking through the town and its outer fringes, but all to no avail. Then on the third day, which must have been a Saturday judging by the amount of shoppers there were around, I struck lucky.
I had been wandering up and down the High Street, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible (a few people had already tried to catch me now I was becoming a familiar sight around the shops), and had glanced down the small side-turning which led to the car park at the rear of the shops. There I caught a glimpse of a small familiar figure skipping alongside the much taller figure of a woman. They disappeared around a corner but I knew instantly who they were. My heart tried to escape through my throat and my knees suddenly went wobbly.
‘Carol.!’ I gurgled. ‘Carol! Polly! Wait for me! Stay there!’
The shoppers must have thought they had a mad dog amongst them, for they all froze at the sound of my barking and stared in amazement as I staggered into the small side-turning. It was like a bad dream, for the shock had turned my legs to jelly and they refused to function properly. I took a grip of myself, realising this was a chance I just could not afford to miss, and willed the power to flow through my quakey limbs. It did, but I had lost valuable seconds. I set off in pursuit of the two figures, mother and daughter, my wife and my child, and was just in time to see them climbing into a green Renault.
‘Carol! Stop! It’s me!’
They turned and looked in my direction, surprise then fear showing in their faces.
‘Quick, Gillian,’ I heard my wife say, ‘get in the car and close the door!’
‘No, Carol! It’s me! Don’t you know me?’
I was soon across the car park and yapping around the Renault, frantic for my wife to recognise me.
They both stared down at me, their fright obvious. I didn’t have the sense to calm down, my emotions were running too high. Carol rolled down the window on her side and flapped a hand at me. ‘Shoo, go away! Bad dog!’
‘Carol, for Christ’s sake, it’s me — Nigel! (Nigel? I remembered that was my previous name; I think I preferred Horace.)
‘Mummy, it’s the poor doggy I told you about, the one that nearly got run over,’ I heard my daughter say.
Then I did a quick double-take. Was this my daughter? She seemed much older than I remembered; at least two or three years older. But the woman was Carol, and she had called the girl Gillian. Of course it was my daughter!
I leapt up at the side of the car and pushed my nose against the bottom of the half-open window.
‘Polly, it’s your daddy! Don’t you remember me, Polly?’ I pleaded.
Carol smacked me on the top of the head, not viciously but defensively. Then the car’s engine roared into life, the gears clunked, and the vehicle began slowly to move away.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t leave me, Carol! Please don’t leave me!’
I ran alongside the car, dangerously close, but it gathered speed and soon outpaced me. I was sobbing by now, seeing them slip through my paws like this, knowing I could never match their speed, realising they were driving from my life again. I felt like throwing myself beneath the wheels to make them stop, but common sense and my old chum, cowardice, prevented me from doing so.
‘Come back, come back, come back!’
But they wouldn’t.
I saw Polly’s wide-eyed face as the car twisted its way round the winding road that led from the car park to the outskirts of the town, and willed her to make her mother stop the car; but it was no use, they sped away.
Many onlookers were regarding me rather nervously by now and I had the good judgement to make myself scarce before I was reported. I took off after the Renault and, as I ran, memories began to pour into me.
Soon, I remembered where I had lived.
Seventeen
Marsh Green is a tiny, one-street village just outside Edenbridge. It has a church at one end and a pub at the other, one general store in the middle and a few houses on either side. There are other houses hidden away at the back of these, one of which I stood gazing at now.
I knew this was where my wife and daughter lived — where I had once lived. My name had been Nigel Nettle (yes, I’m afraid so) and I had originally come from Tonbridge, Kent. As a boy, I’d spent a lot of time working for local farmers (hence my knowledge of the countryside and animals), but careerwise I’d turned to — of all things — plastics. I’d managed to set up a small factory in Edenbridge on the industrial estate leading to the town and had specialised in flexible packaging, branching out into other areas as the firm prospered and grew. Speaking as a dog, it all seemed very boring, but I suppose at the time the company meant a lot to me. We had moved to Marsh Green to be near the business, and I had found myself taking more and more trips up to London for business reasons (which is why the route was so familiar).
As far as I could remember, we’d been very happy: my love for Carol had never diminished with time, only grown more comfortable; Polly (Gillian) was a delight, our home was a dream, and the business was expanding rapidly. So what had happened? I had died, that’s what.
How, and when (Polly seemed so much older than I remembered) I had yet to find out; but I was even more convinced my death was connected with the mysterious man who floated into view so often, yet eluded me before recognition. If he were still a threat to my family (and that thought still clung to me), and if he had had something to do with my death (something told me he had been the cause of it), then I would find a way of dealing with him. Right now, though, I just wanted to be with Carol and Polly.
It was mid-afternoon, I think, and the sun was hidden behind heavy clouds. I was at the bottom of an unmade road and staring at the detached house before me. The walls of the ground floor were constructed of red brick, while the upper floor’s surface was covered with red clay tiles; the doors and window-frames were painted white. A feeling of warmth spread through me and I swallowed hard.
I had to steady myself, it was no good acting the way I had in the town; they would only become frightened again. Keep yourself under control, I told myself, act like a normal dog; there’ll be plenty of time to let them know who you really are once they’ve got used to you.
Pushing the latch of the garden gate down with a paw, I nudged my way in and trotted up the path, keeping a firm rein on trembling body and quaking nerves. I reached the front door and scratched at its surface with a paw.
Nothing happened. I tried again and still nothing happened. I knew they were in, because the Renault stood in the open garage to my left.
I woofed, quietly at first, then louder. ‘Carol!’ I called out. ‘It’s me, Carol, open the door!’
I heard footsteps inside, footsteps coming along the hall towards me. With a great effort of will, I stopped my barking and waited. The door opened slightly and a solitary eye peered through the two-inch crack.
‘Mummy, it’s that dog again!’ Polly cried out. The crack shrunk to an inch, the eye now regarding me with both excitement and trepidation.
More footsteps sounded down the hallway, then Carol’s eye appeared above my daughter’s. She looked at me in amazement.
‘How did you get here?’ she said.
‘I remembered where we lived, Carol. I couldn’t follow the car, but I remembered. It didn’t take long!’ I was finding it hard to contain myself.
