THE TALE OF A DOG

Freddie had always been a mummy’s boy. That’s what his dad called him. And he was, it’s true. His big sister, Sandra, was closer to Daddy and he was to Mummy. Or Ron and Jean as they were to others.

Perhaps it was natural that Freddie liked Mummy better. She was there when he got home from school, making him tea, curious about his day, admiring the painting or objects he’d made from cotton reels and pipe cleaners.  She rubbed Savlon on his grazed knees, bought him clothes from the Thrift Shop, sang songs and poured love into him. Only recently in his late 40s had Freddie learned from his sister that his birth had not been planned; he was ‘a mistake’. He was far from being upset by this news; it made sense. ‘I can see she didn’t want me to feel unloved so went that extra mile. And if Dad hadn’t wanted another child of course he would have been more distant. He resented me as a drain on stretched resources. Yes, I get it. That’s why we’ve never been close.’ 

So maybe it was a ruse of Mum’s to encourage them to bond or, more prosaically, to get Freddie out of the house for a while; he was apt to cling to her skirts, needing her to be the centre of his little world. 

‘Go with your Dad, Freddie. See if you can help him in the garden.’

Not the garden of their house; she meant the other place. The Haddons lived in a perfectly pleasant modern box which was all but identical to the other boxes that formed the perimeter of a rectangle, maybe sixty or so homes, detached and semis, painted in pastel colours, three-beds and four-beds, their back gardens jutting into the centre of the huge plot. Whether it was simply geometric necessity or the builder’s choice, the gardens on the east and west side were long, those on the north and south side were short. That’s just how it had to be for the jigsaw to fit. Ron and Jean had bought number 68, on the south side so they made do with a smaller back garden. Adequate for lawn, flowerbeds, a rockery and a shed. They even managed to squeeze in a hutch for the rabbit, Tinkerbell, which was supposed to be Sandra’s responsibility but it was always Mummy who ended up feeding it carrot tops and the outside lettuce leaves and cleaning out the black pellets it produced. Currants, she called them, but Freddie wasn’t fooled. 

The other garden was around the corner. Daddy had agreed with a woman who lived at number 24 on the west side of the rectangle, and who didn’t want the responsibility of her long patch of ground, that he could grow things there as long as he gave her some of the potatoes, sprouts, beans, cabbages and so on. At the weekend or on a summer evening he would set off with his spade and fork and thick leather gardening gloves, to dig and sow and harvest a variety of fresh vegetables for his own family and for Mrs Turnbull, who didn’t have anyone else living with her, Dad said.  

Freddie never saw her. When he cycled round on his beloved blue bike with the bell on the handlebars and the pump clipped to the frame he’d prop it up against the fence and take the narrow path along the side of the house past her rubbish bin to where he’d find Daddy among his plants and be given some simple task. It’s true, Freddie did feel closer to him when they were digging up King Edwards or picking slugs out of the lettuces and dropping them in a jar with salt. He wondered in a vague way who Mrs Turnbull was, what she looked like and why she never emerged from the house to offer them a glass of orange juice or just to chat like adults did. And why Mummy referred to her as ‘that woman’. But the thoughts never settled, they floated away. 

It was a Sunday afternoon in the long summer holiday when Freddie pedalled round to see Daddy and help in Mrs Turnbull’s garden. He’d done it many times before without incident and had no inkling that this would be different. But as he approached number 24 a dog, a huge brown and black Alsatian, came running at him through an open gate, barking furiously. Freddie tried to cycle faster to get away but the dog was swift and determined. He tried to ignore it, thinking someone would call the dog back. But they didn’t. He was alone in the street. No people, no cars. ‘Go away,’ he squeaked, ‘Leave me alone.’ He cycled on, veering across the road, as the angry beast snarled and snapped at his leg. 

Freddie was crying now, shouting, hoping his voice would bring help. He was scared, really scared. The barking was loud and insistent; the sight of the slavering mouth, pointed teeth and lolling tongue were terrifying. Freddie was desperate; any second he expected to feel the searing pain of those teeth plunged into his calf. He wobbled, lost control of his bike, let it fall to the ground and tumbled off it, scraping his arm on the Tarmac. Yelling in terror, Freddie struggled to his feet and stumbled across the pavement. The brute pursued him; still the manic bark, the sharp teeth bared, front legs braced for attack. Freddie was screaming, hysterical with panic. 

From the front door of number 24 a woman emerged. She was older than his Mum and had grey hair, long and loose around her stern face. She saw instantly what was happening and began to shout, ‘Get off! Go away, you bastard! Oi-oi-oi!’ He thought she was telling him off but the woman stalked past Freddie and threatened the Alsatian with flailing arms and solid confidence, shouting louder than it could bark. It gave a final, defiant snarl and slunk away, its body held close to the ground, tail tucked down and low.  

‘That’s an evil bitch,’ the woman declared. Freddie was shocked by her language. He never heard such words at home. He became aware of pain and lifted his arm. There was blood, red and wet, where the skin on his elbow had been scraped off. The woman saw it, gave him a serious look and said, ‘You’re a brave boy, Freddie.’ She turned away and went into the house.

Freddie never trusted any dog after that. Even today one on a lead makes him wary.   

And he never trusted his father to protect him. Because when he runs the scene over in his mind, which he does from time to time, there is another person standing in the front garden of number 24, just as frightened of the dog as he was. Daddy was cowering there behind the woman, silent and frozen. 

And Daddy had come out of the house, behind Mrs Turnbull. Which for a long time made no sense at all.