One Young Fool in Dorset (25 page)

I grabbed the bunch of carrots from the bucket by
the door, and took a deep breath before opening the upper section
of the stable door.

“Goaties!” I called, holding the carrots up just
like Julie had done. “Look what I’ve got!”

The goats all swung round and stared. Old Butch’s
eyes narrowed and he launched himself at the carrots. But I was too
quick. Swiftly pulling back the bolt securing the bottom half of
the door, I swung it open and tore down the lane as though my life
depended on it, pursued by Butch and the entire goat herd.

Surely the lane was longer than yesterday? I could
hear the hooves thundering behind me. I risked a glance over my
shoulder, and that was my undoing. Somehow, I tripped over my own
feet and stumbled. The ground came up to meet me.

Something snatched the carrots from my hand.
Butch.

Sharp hooves pawed me. Whiskery faces nudged me.

I stood up quickly, furious with myself. Now what?
Some of the goats had circled Butch, hoping for a bite of carrot,
but the last traces were fast disappearing.

Quick! I had to act fast or the goats would start
wandering. I patted my pockets, searching for inspiration. I had
nothing except a red handkerchief. I drew it out.

“Goaties!” I yelled, waving the hanky. “Look what
I’ve got!”

And then I ran.

The goats lifted their heads and stampeded after me.
Seconds later I was in the field. The hanky was balled in my hand
by now and I flung it as far as I could. It landed just a few feet
away but still gave me enough time to get behind the gate and push
it shut while the herd investigated the hanky.

“Whew! I did it!” I said aloud as I leaned on the
gate looking back into the field.

Some goats had already lost interest, wandered off
and busily cropped the long grass and dandelions. Butch was
swallowing the last remnants of my red handkerchief. I sighed.
That’s why I loved this job; no two days were ever the same.

Working at the animal sanctuary, Nig-Nog, the
cattery, and the goats, all filled my mind most of the time, but I
still mourned the loss of Tony and just thinking about him would
make my heart ache with hurt pride.

24 Surprising
Visitors

I
n the afternoons, the sanctuary would open
to visitors and we all hoped that some of our charges would find
new homes.

It was unlikely that anybody would give homes to our
retired pit ponies. These ponies were little more than 12 hands
high and over twenty years old, unsuitable for riding.

Working conditions for pit ponies had improved over
the years, but in the old days, shaft ponies were usually stabled
underground, only surfacing during the colliery’s annual holidays.
They could work an eight-hour shift daily, during which they might
haul 30 tons of coal. How wonderful it was to see them end their
days cropping the lush Dorset grass. It’s unbelievable and shameful
to think that the last pit ponies were retired as late as the
1990s.

It was doubtful that anyone would re-home the
retired beach donkeys, either. These plucky little beasts of burden
had spent their lives trudging up and down the sands, giving
children rides. At least the sanctuary could give them a peaceful
retirement in the green fields of Dorset.

No, it was much more likely that visitors would
adopt a cat or dog. The puppies and kittens in the Special Care
unit never stayed long, somebody always fell in love with them and
offered them a forever home. Sometimes the adult cats in my cattery
found new homes, always a cause for celebration. Nobody ever wanted
Nig-Nog, but I didn’t mind that because he already enjoyed a good
life, and was a favourite with the staff.

Occasionally one of the older dogs would find a
home, which was always good news. However, there were some, like
ferocious Pepper, who would never know what it was like to belong
to someone. There was nothing endearing about the poor chap. Not
only was he deformed, but his vicious snarl would chase any
prospective owner away.

On one particular afternoon the visitors were
milling round the animal sanctuary and families chatted as they
viewed the cats and dogs in their pens. Big Denise was on hand to
answer any questions when she noticed an elderly man leaning on his
walking stick, staring at each dog in turn.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you looking for a
particular type of dog? We have small dogs over here, and…”

“No,” said the old man, cutting her short. “I don’t
want any of these.”

They had reached the end of the line. The old man
turned to limp away, when he stopped suddenly.

“I can hear growling,” he said, cupping his ear.

“Yes, I’m sorry, that’s Pepper in the last pen. He
hates visiting time. Actually, he hates everything and everyone.
He’s hiding in his kennel.”

“I want to see him.”

“Oh, Pepper wouldn’t make a suitable pet at all, I’m
sorry. He has a deformed leg and a terrible temper. I’m afraid he
bites.”

“I said I want to see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that just isn’t possible.”

The old man said no more but turned and stumped
away.

Big Denise forgot all about him until she entered
the kennel building a while later. Visitors viewing the animals
could only do so from outside and were never allowed inside the
building. A big sign -
Staff Only, No Unauthorised Entry
-
was posted on the door. This door opened onto a long corridor from
which each pen could be accessed, either on the left or the
right.

To her astonishment, she could hear a man’s low
voice at the end of the corridor. Quietly, she approached.

“So you’ve got a bad leg, too, have you, old fella?”
she heard the man say. “Well, bad-tempered old chaps like us should
stick together.”

And then Big Denise realised who the intruder was;
the old man with the walking stick who she’d been talking to
earlier.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’re not allowed…” she started to
say, but the words died before she could finish the sentence.

Not only had the old man entered the building, but
he was sitting on a stool
inside
Pepper’s enclosure. And
what was Pepper doing? Pepper sat meekly in front of the old man,
peering up into his face. One paw was on the old man’s knee, and
his eyes were half shut with pleasure as the old man fondled his
ears.

“Just for a second,” Big Denise told me, “I thought
there was some mistake, that this wasn’t our Pepper at all.”

“So what happened next?” I asked, enchanted by the
story.

“I watched them together for a while, and I had to
admit, those two were made for each other. Pepper behaved like a
different dog; gentle, patient and obedient. The old man told me he
wanted to adopt Pepper, and I couldn’t think of a single reason why
he shouldn’t.”

“Right, old boy,” said the old man as he let himself
out of Pepper’s pen. “I’m going to sign some papers and stuff, and
then I’m going to arrange to take you home. You wait right
there.”

Pepper’s stubby tail wagged so fast it was almost a
blur.

So Pepper did find himself a new home after all. By
the time the old man came to collect him the next weekend, the
story had spread and all the staff came to wish the pair farewell.
The old man removed Pepper’s old collar with the animal sanctuary’s
tag on it, and placed a new blue collar round his neck, with a
matching lead.

“There! Now you look very handsome!”

Pepper’s stubby tail wagged in a frenzy and he
licked the old man’s hand.

“Right, old boy, that’s it then. Say goodbye, let’s
take you home.”

With a brief wave to us, the old man stumped away,
leaning on his stick. Pepper trotted beside him, proud head up,
limping slightly but with a noticeable new spring in his step.

We shook our heads and smiled, amazed. This wasn’t
the Pepper we knew and feared.

“Bye, and good luck,” we called as the pair limped
out through the sanctuary gates to begin their new life
together.

We never saw them again but I’m sure they enjoyed a
happy life together. It really was a match made in heaven.

* * *

I should have studied for my coming exams, but there
was always something more interesting to do. My schoolfriend, Jo,
and I had started writing each other letters, which was ridiculous
as we saw each other at school every day anyway. What was in those
daily letters? I have no idea, I simply can’t remember. I asked Jo
just a few weeks ago if she could remember what we wrote about.

“No, I don’t remember at all,” she replied, casting
her mind back more than forty years. “I just remember writing them,
and getting them every day, and I remember they made me laugh. And
they were a lot more interesting than revising.”

Examination time arrived. Once again we sat in long
silent rows in the gym.

“You may now turn your papers over and begin,” said
the invigilator.

I stared at the questions and began writing. If I
failed these exams, and couldn’t go to Teacher Training College,
then what? I was furious with myself for not studying harder.

Straight after the exams came a time of relaxation,
but also uncertainty. It was too late to study and nothing I did
now could influence my ‘A’ Level results. Time would tell.

* * *

“
Ach,
that’s the postman.”

“I can’t look,” I said, a bag of nerves.

“I’ll see if the results have arrived.”

My mother scooped up the envelopes from the door mat
and sifted through them.

“Yes, your ‘A’ Level results are here.”

“I can’t look.”

“
Ach,
shall I open the envelope for you?”

“Yes, please. I can’t look.”

I was sitting on the stairs, my hands covering my
face. Now was the moment of truth. If I’d failed, as I deserved to,
my dream of a teaching career was over.

“Well?”

I peeped through my fingers, trying to read my
mother’s expression as she unfolded the letter.

“You passed them all!”

“I did? Are you sure?”

My future was mapped out. I would become a
teacher.

* * *

Autumn was on the way. At school, we’d already said
our goodbyes and signed our names on each other’s uniforms. We
would be scattering to universities and training colleges the
length and breadth of Britain.

It was my last day at the animal sanctuary. I’d
given up pretending not to watch for Tony amongst the visitors. I
always searched for him in the sea of faces when the sanctuary
gates opened to let visitors in. I’d hold my breath, but Tony never
came. He promised he’d come to say goodbye, but he couldn’t even be
bothered to do that.

“Well, Nig-Nog, it’s just you and me today,” I said,
leaning down and rubbing his cheek the way he loved.

“Puuurrp!”

A wave of sadness rippled over me.

“I’m really, really going to miss you, you
know.”

“And I’m going to miss you, Vicky.”

I jumped. I knew that voice.

Has he come back to say goodbye after all?

Slowly, slowly, heart somersaulting, I turned to see
who had spoken.

“I’m so sorry, Vicky, I just didn’t know how to tell
you,” said Tony.

I stared at him, speechless. Was
this
my
Tony? Where was the long, dirty blond hair and bushy moustache?
Where were the beads? Where was the psychedelic shirt and
bell-bottom jeans? Where was Tony the Hippy?

In front of me stood a clean-shaven lad with short,
neat hair and Marks and Spencer clothes. He didn’t look
unattractive, but this wasn’t the Tony I’d fallen for. In that
instant, I was cured.

“I came to say goodbye,” said Tony.

“Goodbye?” I echoed. “You needn’t have bothered.
Really.”

And I meant it.

Tony had done me a favour. Now I could look forward
to my exciting future without regrets, without that ache in my
heart that Tony had left. I was free.

I
was
upset, but not about Tony. I was upset
about leaving Nig-Nog, and all the other animals, and Big Denise,
and all the wonderful friends I had made at the animal
sanctuary.

I cleared out my locker for the last time, and found
a little folded note that had just been pushed through the crack in
the locker door. I unfolded it.

Vicky, I hope you’ve forgiven me. I’ve missed you a
lot these past weeks and you are always in my thoughts. I really
hope we can get together during the holidays and pick up where we
left off. Please get in touch.

All my love,

T xxx

I screwed up the note in my hand and walked over to
the wastepaper bin. I dropped the crumpled paper in.

No,
I said to myself.
No, that’s not going
to happen.

* * *

“
Ach,
are you sure you’ve got
everything?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“It’s going to be a long drive, you know.”

It was 1973, I was eighteen years old and we were
heading to West Sussex. The journey would take most drivers a
couple of hours, but this was my mother driving Ivy. It would most
likely take four or five hours, and we’d packed a picnic.

“Right, off we go!” shouted my mother, turning the
ignition key and crunching Ivy’s gears alarmingly.

My father had made sure that Ivy was facing the
right way; my mother still hadn’t mastered the art of reversing. I
took a last look at my childhood home over my shoulder and held
tight as Ivy bucked away.

The future looked bright.

Epilogue

T
he next section of my life, covering college
days, marriage and children, remains unrecorded as yet, a project
for the future perhaps. Is it possible to write a sequel to a
prequel?

My sister left university with a decent degree, but
no real idea of what she wanted to do. Already bitten by the travel
bug, she worked in an Israeli kibbutz for a while. The Yom Kippur
War began with a surprise Arab attack on Israel on Saturday 6th
October 1973 and my sister was airlifted out of the kibbutz. There
was no time to pack possessions, she and her colleagues had to
escape in just the clothes they were wearing.