Dodger (34 page)

‘I dunno, Dodge. Clothes, watches, jewels, wallets …'

‘Jewels?'

‘You know, his findings and that. To live off, I imagine.'

‘Any old toys?'

‘Can't remember. He was packing everything what was his, perhaps to keep as souvenirs if he couldn't sell them. I was too busy sobbing to notice. I just cared that he was going.'

‘Well then.' I leaned back on my chair and addressed myself to Georgie. ‘This is a grand development. Even if he ain't there, his relatives will be able to point us in his direction. We'll be reunited with our old pal in no time.'

‘Us?' Georgie asked. ‘You coming too, Jack?'

‘Course. I can't let you go wandering up north unaccompanied, can I?' I smiled at him. ‘Who knows what trouble you'll get yourself into next without my good influence to show you the way. No, I must make sure you're safe before my mind will be at rest, and it's the perfect excuse to see my old pal Charley again.' I turned to Warrigal. ‘And you're always going on about how much you'd like to see the rest of this beautiful country too, ain't you?' Everybody turned to Warrigal in surprise at this supposed interest
in sightseeing. He just stared back at them and said nothing. ‘That's the spirit,' I said as though he had nodded along with great enthusiasm. ‘It's going to be quite companionable.' I got up and walked over to Georgie, who appeared to be getting most excited about the prospect of a country jaunt. ‘And, what with the wonders of this industrial age,' I said as I leaned over his shoulder to see the paper, ‘I'm sure we'll be up there in no time. Now, what's that address say?'

*

‘Newley Farm, Eden Lane, Wildreed Wood,' I told the wagoner what we had halted in a field lane somewhere south of Kettering. It was half a week later and the rain was battering down upon our sodden hats as we looked up where he was perched. It was late afternoon, the short day was darkening and I was starting to doubt if we would ever find the wretched place.

‘Never heard of it,' the wagoner shouted down to us. ‘Ye sure it's in Northamptonshire?'

‘Not any more,' I sighed. ‘Look, can you take us to a tavern or some other shelter. Your ride's empty and we're drenched.'

‘Sorry, young sirs,' he said as he lifted the whip to strike the horse. ‘I mean, if it was just the two of ye, then p'raps, but …' And he threw a glance at Warrigal before the wagon trundled on.

‘He's my valet, you ignorant brute!' I shouted after him as he headed off down the sloping lane without us. But it was to no avail; the three of us would have to walk to the next village on foot.

We had travelled up to Peterborough by train with no trouble and, in truth, until then the journey had been most pleasant. The Northern and Eastern Railway is a modern marvel and it was a civilised delight to share the journey from Islington with the other sophisticated first class passengers whose pockets had unwittingly
financed our next few days. However, what with myself and Georgie being two smoky London lads what was unused to any England beyond its capital, we had not reckoned on Northamptonshire being quite so spread out. We had expected to only have to visit two or three farms before chancing upon our man, but we had spent the last three days riding carriages between countless farmhouses, villages and hamlets and meeting with no one what had ever heard of no Wildreed Wood.

‘Why would a farm be in a wood?' asked our innkeeper that very morning in a manner not unreasonable. ‘Where'd the cattle graze?' This point had not occurred to me and I was becoming most vexed with how stupid the country was making me feel. The innkeeper, however, seemed amused by our childish ignorance of pastoral ways and was quick to educate us. ‘We keep our farms in fields oftentimes,' he chuckled before showing us to his door, ‘and our clouds in the sky. Seems to me that address ye've got ain't no address at all.'

It was later, as we trudged along the rain-splashed lane in the wake of that wagoner, that I began to entertain the serious idea of just giving up and going home. It was clear now that the innkeeper was right, the address Mouse had been given was false and Charley had not wanted anyone to know where he had fled to. Our time in the north of England had been a miserable one; we had visited every farm from Oundle to Corby to Rushden to Wellingborough and had met with much silence, distrust and hostility from wary provincials. Warrigal, who had managed to blend in among the other servants and colonials of London with surprising ease, caused great consternation here in the country and that was before the locals had taken a good look at the dark, hunted expression Georgie had been wearing on his face ever since he had become a fugitive from justice. We had been refused as many lodgings at inns as we had rides on carriages
and this had hindered our progress even more. Those few Christians what did agree to take our money in exchange for beds, food and answers still could not help us in our search. Farmers knew other farms – they were sure they knew all the farms on the way down to Banbury and those in all the surrounding counties – so if this one was real we would have heard of it by now.

A steeple rose up through the deep cutting of the lane, heralding another village what had not been visited yet, one what was tucked down between some hills, and I felt it was time to voice these concerns to my fellow travellers.

‘We'll spend a night here,' I said, ‘and if we get no joy Warrigal and myself'll head home tomorrow. Georgie, you can go west to Coketown without us.' Neither of them spoke back. They just kept their hands on their hats so as to not lose them to the hysterical wind and grunted in silent agreement.

This last village was smaller than any we had visited so far but, like most of the others, there was an ancient church, an old inn and it was surrounded by farmland. As we walked down the one road we could see a handful of villagers eyeing us with suspicion as we made for the crackling orange windows of the Roundhead Tavern. We neared the place, what had a sign flapping in the wind outside with the image of one such soldier on it, and we could see through the glass that there was a handful of dirty patrons, farmhands it was likely, all gathered around the fireplace and drinking from pewter pots while a young woman was tending to the bar. Other than that it was empty, which meant there was a strong chance of lodgings, so we shook the rain from our hats and coats under the shelter of the doorway and entered. The patrons, as they had done at every other inn we had stopped at in recent days, stopped their talking and turned to stare at us like we was three Cavaliers come back to start trouble.

‘Good woman,' I said as I strode up to the barmaid, doing my best to sound genteel. ‘My company and I are weary from walking in the wet. We require three beds and three hot meals. Pray don't refuse us, there's a good lass.'

The maid, who was a little older than us and did not look the sort to suffer much nonsense, considered each of us, her eyes settling at last on Warrigal. I leaned in close to her so that the men by the fire could not hear.

‘Try not to draw too much attention to my friend there,' I whispered. ‘He's a prince from one of the African colonies but don't feel like you have to curtsy, he don't want special treatment. Just act like he's one of us.' I winked at her and pulled back before looking around the tavern and nodding with approval. ‘I think this place will do, your Majesty.' I turned to Warrigal who was sneezing into a handkerchief, ‘I think it will just about do.'

‘Look here,' said the maid, her hands on her hips, ‘I don't care if he's an Arabian Knight. He pays the same prices as everyone else or ye and he keep walking.'

We ordered three jars of the local ale and some beef pies and went to sit in the snug of the bar while our rooms was prepared. The farmhands by the fire kept on glancing over at us and speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones and we all tried hard not to catch their eyes. I was concerned about Georgie who, as I had observed that night at the rat pit, still had his old fondness for fisticuffs and could be baited into a scrap with little provocation. But for now he appeared to be behaving himself and just drank back the beer while moaning about the weather.

‘If I do get grabbed,' he said to us with a defeatist air, ‘then I think I should like to be transported. It sounds nice and hot, Warrigal, where you come from.'

‘Is,' said Warrigal with a small nod.

‘I think I should prefer to be sent there then.' Georgie looked out of the window towards the drizzle.

‘Same,' said Warrigal.

The beef pies was served by the maid, who went straight back to the bar as I unfolded the little piece of paper with the address on it. The pie was piping hot and so I got up while it cooled and walked over to speak to her again. I was now sure that the words scribbled there was just nonsense employed to appease a crying child, but there was no harm in asking one more person. However, as with everyone else, this girl had never heard of the place and declared it to be make-believe. This was the final word for me; I was too dejected to ask anyone else and so I scrunched the paper up into a ball and tossed it over the heads of the farmhands and into the flames of the fire. The men looked perturbed at this, as if I had done it to offend them, but I turned my back and went to sit down again.

‘Get some more pints while you're up there, Dodger,' Georgie shouted over with a mouthful of cow. ‘I've already done mine and so has Warrigal.'

Behind me, from the farmhands, there was this sudden sniggering. Perhaps it was Georgie's thick cockney accent that they was finding so droll, or perhaps it was the word Warrigal. Either way, I hoped that Georgie had not heard it; there was six of them and, although they had seemed intimidated by us when we first entered, the snigger showed that this was no longer the case. The barmaid, who was taking forever to pour the pints, seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

‘Go sit yeself down, sir,' she said as she saw that the ale needed time to settle, ‘I'll bring these over when they're done. No need to stay at the bar.'

I took my seat again and spoke to Warrigal. ‘First thing
tomorrow,' I said, ‘train back to London.' He nodded and we ate our pies in silence as Georgie started going on about what a shame it was that we would not get to see old Charley after all. As he was talking, the barmaid came over with the pots of ale and laid them down. As she did this the men by the fireplace began sniggering again and one of them started making this barking noise. ‘What's that about?' said Georgie, snapping his head around to them.

‘Just some foolishness,' she replied. ‘Best ignored.'

A number of them began barking now and it was clear they was looking over to us in mockery. Georgie laid down his cutlery and stared back at them hard.

‘They calling us dogs?' he asked.

‘Calm yourself,' I said to him and then, in a lower voice so the maid would not hear, I hissed, ‘You're in enough trouble.'

‘They're not calling you dogs,' the barmaid said in a hurry. ‘Look, I'll have a word and tell them to stop if it's bothering you. We don't want trouble.'

‘You ain't gonna get none,' I assured her, my stare still fixed on Georgie.

‘It's just …' The barmaid went to leave but then decided to stay and explain things to us. ‘They think the name is funny because there is a dog around here called that. A sheepdog. So they're just having a chuckle over it. They don't mean no harm.'

‘There's a sheepdog called Warrigal?' Georgie asked, grinding his teeth at the indignity of it. He was getting riled on Warrigal's behalf after just one pot of ale.

‘No.' She waved the idea away with her hands as if this was nonsense. ‘The other name. Dodger.'

‘Dodger?' asked Georgie. He punched me in the arm and laughed. ‘Dodger the sheepdog!' He shook his head. ‘That's funny.'

‘Well,' she went on in a lighter tone, ‘he's a very funny man, Farmer Bates. Now, can I get you gentlemen anything further?'

‘Yes,' I said after taking my first mouthful of pie. ‘This here could use some vinegar if you have it and later on I should care for … Farmer Who?'

‘Farmer Charley Bates –' the girl smiled – ‘of Bates Beef.'

Charles Bates, the barmaid went on to inform us, was a local cattle farmer. He was the man what all the sniggering fellows in that inn worked for, whose beef was in the pie I was now eating and who had thought to name his dog Dodger. He was known for his cheerful manner and, in spite of his youth, had proven to be the most popular pastoralist around ever since he had inherited the Harrington farm following his wife's father's death three years before. It was not a large farm, about a hundred acres, and he was said to be in some debt. But they all loved Farmer Bates around here, I was told, even though he was distrusted at first for being from my wicked part of the world. He had proven himself to be a most generous employer of local men while always working as hard as any of them and so the village had grown to revere him above all others. This girl in particular seemed to think very high of my old friend and she only ever struck a sour note when mentioning the wealthy wife he had married, a Rose Harrington, who the barmaid declared was a snooty mare what put on airs. However, after she had gossiped for some time about Charley the barmaid became more guarded as I began to show too much interest in her favourite cow killer. She refused to give me directions to
his farmhouse and asked if we three meant to bring trouble to the door of Farmer Bates. I assured her that we was just his old friends from London but still she replied with suspicion. ‘If ye and he are such good friends –' her eyes narrowed – ‘then how come he gave ye a different address?' This was hard to answer and so I thanked her for her time and let her go about her business.