It was at Westerham that a nasty experience was awaiting me. And this I must tell you about.
Thirteen
Church bells woke me. They had a strident Sunday morning sound that sent my thoughts racing back to other times — human times.
Awareness of my present plight dismissed the memories before they gathered pace and I stretched my aching limbs, wincing at the tenderness of my foot-pads as I pushed them against the ground. A bus shelter had been my refuge for the night, but the early morning chill had crept into my bones and seemed reluctant to leave. I yawned and my stomach grumbled for nourishment. Glancing around, I saw there were no shops in the immediate vicinity, so I trotted gingerly along the street keeping my nose high in the air, acutely receptive for the faintest waft of food smells. I soon found myself in the High Street and to my dismay realised it was indeed Sunday, for all the shops — apart from a couple of newsagents — were closed. It was a pretty dismal dog who stood shivering by the kerbside, looking first left then right, undecided, unwanted and unfed.
It was the pealing bells that gave me the idea. Small groups of people were walking briskly towards the sound, clad in Sunday best, a brightness about them that would wear off as the day wore on. Children held hands with parents or skipped along ahead of them; grannies clutched at the elbows of middle-aged offspring; sombre husbands walked stiffly alongside beaming wives. There was a fresh friendly feeling in the air, the beginning of spring enhancing the Sunday morning ritual, encouraging goodwill to all men. And maybe dogs, too.
I followed the people to their church. It was on a hill, half hidden away from the road by a screen of trees, its entrance reached by a gravelly path winding through a surrounding graveyard. A few of the people clucked their tongues at me or gave me a friendly pat as they passed by, but soon they had all disappeared into the cold, grey-stoned building. I settled down on a flat gravestone to wait.
I enjoyed the muted singing that came from the church immensely, occasionally joining in at the bits I knew. The service seemed to go on forever, and I soon became bored with the long stretches of silence between hymns so I began to explore the churchyard and was surprised at the thriving animal and insect life in this place of the dead. The unmistakable sound of the congregation rising as one body inside the church drew me away from my fascinating study of a rainbow-coloured spider’s web, and I trotted back round to the enormous doorway, keeping to the damp grass which was so cool to my sore pads. I waited to one side of the porch and soon the flock came pouring out, some looking uplifted, others looking relieved now that their weekly duty was done. It was one of the uplifted members I wanted.
I soon spotted her: a little old lady, probably in her mid-sixties, round-faced, smiling constantly, knowing and known by everybody, it seemed. All lace and kindness. Perfect.
She spent several minutes chatting to the vicar, occasionally breaking off from her conversation to call hello to a passing acquaintance, giving them a little blessing with her white-gloved hand. I waited patiently until she’d ended her dialogue with the cleric then followed her as she made her way through the remaining gossiping cliques. Smiling sweetly and stopping to chat to every third or fourth person she finally drew clear of the throng and strode spritely down the gravel path. I followed, keeping a few yards behind, not ready to make my move while she still had so many distractions. We reached the road and she turned left, climbing further up the steep hill and away from the town.
‘Good morning, Miss Birdie!’ the people we passed called out, and she acknowledged them with a cheery wave.
Now’s the time, I thought, and scampered up ahead of her. I stopped four yards ahead, turned to face her and gave her my sweetest smile.
‘Woof,’ I said.
Miss Birdie threw her hands up in surprise and beamed with delight. ‘What a pretty dog!’ she exclaimed and I wagged my rump with pride. She advanced on me and clasped my head between white-gloved hands.
‘Oh, what a lovely boy!’ She rubbed my back and I tried to lick her face, congratulating myself on finding another Bella. ‘Yes, yes, he is!’ she went on.
After a few moments of unbridled affection she bade me goodbye and strode on, waving at me as she went. I bounded after her and tried to leap into her arms, slobbering and grinning and desperately trying to fawn my way into her heart and charity. I admit it: I had no shame.
Miss Birdie gently pushed me down then patted my head. ‘Off you go, now, there’s a good dog,’ she said in her kind way.
Sorry Rumbo, but at that point I whimpered.
Not only that, I hung my head, drooped my tail and looked cow-eyed at her. I was pathetic.
It worked, for she suddenly said, ‘Oh my poor dear, you’re starving, that’s what it is! Look at those skinny old ribs.’ My chin almost touched the ground as I hammed up my performance. ‘Come along then, dear, you come with me and we’ll soon put you to rights. Poor little wretch!’
I was in. I tried to lick her face again in glee, but she restrained me with a surprisingly firm hand. I needed no encouragement to follow her, although she seemed to think I did, for she constantly patted her thigh and called out ‘Come along now.’
She had plenty of energy, this charming old lady, and we soon reached a rusty iron gate, behind which was a muddy path leading away from the road. Tangled undergrowth lay on either side of the narrow path and there was a constant rustling of hidden life as we made our way along it. I sniffed the scent of Miss Birdie along this well-used route, not the fresh powdery smell that followed in her wake now, but a staler version of it mingled with the scents of many animals. Now and again I stopped to explore a particularly interesting odour, but her call would send me scampering onwards.
Suddenly we emerged into a clearing and a flint-walled cottage stood before us, its corners, door and window openings reinforced by cut stone. It was a beautiful scene — like walking on to a chocolate box — and in perfect character with Miss Birdie herself. Smug with my own cleverness, I trotted up to the weathered door and waited for Miss Birdie to catch up with me.
She pushed open the door without using a key and beckoned me to enter. In I went and was pleased to find the interior of the cottage matched the quaintness of the exterior. Ancient furniture, worn and comfortable, filled the main room in which I found myself, there being no hallway. Well-cared for ornaments were scattered around the room, one of those interesting dark-wood dressers filled with delicately painted crockery taking up a large part of one wall. I wagged my tail in approval.
‘Now let’s just see if you’ve an address on your collar, then we’ll give you some food, eh?’ Miss Birdie placed her handbag on a chair and leaned forward over me, reaching for the name-plate on my collar. I obligingly sat down, determined not to kill any golden geese through over-exuberance. She peered shortsightedly at the scratched lettering on the nameplate and tutted in mild annoyance at herself.
‘My old eyes are getting worse,’ she told me, and I smiled in sympathy. I would dearly have loved to have told her of my own peculiarly clear eyesight, of the many changing colours I could see in her face, of the blue deepness in her ageing eyes, of the sparkling colours all around us, even in her faded furniture. It was frustrating to have to keep these things to myself, and even Rumbo had been unable to understand my visual sensitivity.
She felt inside her handbag and produced a light-rimmed pair of spectacles and muttered ‘That’s better,’ as she put them on. She still squinted through the lenses but managed to make out the name on the strip of metal.