Paws and Whiskers (25 page)

‘I’m glad he’s back, Dad,’ was all he said. ‘And your old Taocat, too!’ he added to Elizabeth, with a difficult smile. Elizabeth, the factual, the matter-of-fact, burst into tears. Peter scratched Tao behind the ears, awkward, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t expect anything else – I told you that. I tell you what,’ the boy continued, with a desperate cheerfulness, avoiding the eyes of his family, ‘you go down – I’ll catch up with you later. I want to go back to the Lookout and see if I
can get a decent picture of that whisky-jack.’

There will never be a more blurred picture of a whisky-jack, said Uncle John grimly to himself. On an impulse he spoke aloud.

‘How about if I came too, Peter? I could throw the crumbs and perhaps bring the bird nearer?’ Even as he spoke he could have bitten back the words, expecting a rebuff, but to his surprise the boy accepted his offer.

They watched the rest of the family wending their way down the trail, Tao still clutched in Elizabeth’s arms, gentle worshipping Luath restored at last to the longed-for position at his master’s heels.

The two remaining now returned to Lookout Point. They took some photographs. They prised an odd-shaped fungus growth off a tree. They found, incredibly, the cylindrical core of a diamond drill. And all the time they talked: they talked of rockets, orbits, space; gravely they pondered the seven stomachs of a cow; tomorrow’s weather; but neither mentioned dogs.

Now, still talking, they were back at the fork of the trail; Longridge looked surreptitiously at his watch: it was time to go. He looked at Peter. ‘We’d better g—’ he started to say, but his voice trailed off as he saw the expression on the face of the tense, frozen boy
beside him, then followed the direction of his gaze . . .

Down the trail, out of the darkness of the bush and into the light of the slanting bars of sunlight, jogging along with his peculiar nautical roll, came – Ch. Boroughcastle Brigadier of Doune.

Boroughcastle Brigadier’s ragged banner of a tail streamed out behind him, his battle-scarred ears were upright and forward, and his noble pink and black nose twitched, straining to encompass all that his short gaze was denied. Thin and tired, hopeful, happy – and hungry, his remarkable face alight with expectation – the old warrior was returning from the wilderness. Bodger, beautiful for once, was coming as fast as he could.

He broke into a run, faster and faster, until the years fell away, and he hurled himself towards Peter.

And as he had never run before, as though he would outdistance time itself, Peter was running towards his dog.

Noel Streatfeild was one of my favourite authors when I was young. I’ve collected copies of her books for years. You might have read her brilliant book
Ballet Shoes
or perhaps seen special reprints of
The Circus is Coming
or
White Boots
or
Tennis Shoes.
They’re all fantastic family stories aimed at eight-to-twelve-year-olds – but she also wrote occasional books for younger children.

I like a quirky little book about a dog called Osbert. He’s a black poodle – but his hair has forgotten to curl. I love his special shaggy look, but he’s considered not smart enough to go to a stylish wedding with his family. However, Monsieur Toto, the ladies’ hairdresser, comes to the rescue.

It’s a sweet story – though if I ever had a poodle, I’d give him a simple all-over lamb cut.

OSBERT

It was the day before Aunt Cathy’s wedding. Everything glistened and gleamed with excitement. Then the blow fell. Father said: ‘We must get some neighbor to take Osbert tomorrow.’

Osbert had been in the family since he was a month old. When first he had come to the house it had been thought that maybe he would develop into some kind of terrier. As he grew, it was discovered he was mostly black poodle whose hair had forgotten to curl. He was as much a part of the family as the children. It was impossible to think of him missing anything that was going on. Peter gasped.

‘Goodness, Dad, that’s an awfully mean thing to
say even in fun.’

Ann, the eldest, left the breakfast table. She put her arms round Osbert’s neck.

‘Don’t you listen, old man, of course you’ll be here for the wedding.’

The face of Andrew, the youngest, was red as a geranium with indignation.

‘And you’re going to have a great big slice of wedding cake all to yourself.’

The next youngest, Jane, looked severely at her father.

‘If anyone but us was listening they might think you meant it.’

Their father hated the children to think him mean, but Osbert was really a very queer-looking dog to attend a smart wedding. He put on his most off-to-the-office-don’t-stop-me-now look.

‘It’s no good arguing. Osbert is to be away all tomorrow. I leave it to you to fix.’

The children went into committee.

‘Fancy,’ Ann said, ‘not inviting him just because he’s homely.’

Peter kicked angrily at the table leg.

‘A fat lot of guests would be coming to this wedding if everybody who was homely wasn’t invited.’

Jane sighed.

‘If only he had curly hair like other poodles.’

Ann jumped.

‘Fetch your money-boxes.’

Andrew asked: ‘What for?’

Ann skipped with pride at her good idea.

‘To take Osbert to the hairdresser.’

Monsieur Toto had been doing ladies’ hair all day. He was hot, and glad it was time to shut his shop. Then his doorbell clanged. He did not look round to see who had come in.

‘I’m closed. If you wish anything, come in another day.’

Peter, as the eldest male, was carrying the money. He laid it down slowly. It was a most impressive sight. The entire savings of four money-boxes for nearly a year. Four dollar bills, two half-dollars, seventeen quarters, thirty-seven dimes, and ten nickels.

Monsieur Toto turned at the clink of money. Ann’s words fell over each other.

‘All this is for you if you will make Osbert beautiful.’

‘Which is Osbert?’

The children did not speak. They pointed. Monsieur Toto gulped. There was a glassy look in his eyes. The children said all together: ‘Curls.’

Monsieur Toto was tired. Osbert had a great deal of hair and all of it very straight.

‘That is impossible.’

Jane gave a despairing howl. She knelt by Osbert, the tears pouring down her cheeks.

‘Darling, darling Osbert, he won’t do it. He won’t do it.’

Monsieur Toto hated to see a child cry. ‘Let me hear exactly why you wish Osbert curled, but, mind you, this is discussion only. I promise nothing.’

It was the wedding morning. The sun shone, men came and arranged flowers and silver bells. The children’s mother fussed in and out of the kitchen. Aunt Cathy ran about arranging her wedding presents. Happiness could be felt like a soft wind. Only the children could not enjoy the day. They could think of nothing but twelve o’clock. At twelve o’clock Monsieur Toto had said Osbert might be fetched. It was a difficult job, for at twelve o’clock the girls should be putting on their pink bridesmaids’ dresses and the boys their best suits. It had been decided that Peter was the one most easily to be spared. They hoped their mother would be so busy fussing over the girls she might not notice that he was not there.

Their mother did notice, for at one o’clock relations
would arrive.

‘Where,’ she asked, ‘is Peter?’

The children did not answer, so she called their father. He asked, too: ‘Where is Peter?’

Ann saw they had to confess.

‘He’s gone to fetch Osbert.’

Father’s voice for once was angry.

‘Fetch Osbert! But I said Osbert was to go to a neighbor.’

Ann nodded.

‘I know, but we . . . we thought . . .’

There were feet running up the path. Peter opened the front door, but did not himself come in. Instead, in walked a dog who, for a moment, nobody recognized.

Monsieur Toto had done a wonderful job. He had given Osbert a permanent wave. Where once had been lank hair were now little tight curls. He had shampooed him with a very expensive shampoo. He had clipped him. His legs now seemed to be wearing ebony cowboy trousers. His tail had been shaved except for the very tip where there was a bunch of curls. Parts of the rest of him had been clipped, but not his head. On that was a festoon of curls tied with a yellow bow. In the bow was fastened a spray of orange blossom.

The wedding started. When every guest had arrived, a photographer came to take pictures of the
wedding group.

The bride and bridegroom.

The groom’s father and mother.

The children’s father and mother.

Ann and Jane, gorgeous in pink.

Andrew and Peter, curiously tidy and washed. But what held the eyes of all the guests was the center of the group. Sitting in front of the bride and groom and trying not to look self-conscious was Osbert. A paragon of a dog. Glistening, yellow-bowed perfection.

The guests forgot their party manners. They even forgot to say, ‘Bless the bride.’ Instead, there burst from them a thought they could not hold back.

‘Surely that is the most beautiful dog in the world.’