Vegetating

16

Vegetating

    Trisha had perked up on getting back to Sydney, where it wasn’t so humid as Queensland and where they could have their air-con on. Steve’s wallet would be feeling the pain, but it was better than the alternative.

    Unfortunately, once she was feeling brighter she started worrying about Harriet again. “She’s gonna vegetate up there, Steve!”

    She already was, wasn’t she? Hard to know what to say, really. “Um, well, don’t see there’s anything we can do about it,” he muttered.

    “There must be something!”

    Uh…

    After a moment she declared fiercely: “I’m gonna get hold of Hughie—no, Joel might be better—and make sure she takes that dog, after all!”

    Steve gulped. “Look, love, a young dog needs training; she won’t be able to—”

    “Joel can help her,” she ordained, scowling horribly.

    “Um, well, maybe there’s an obedience school somewhere up that way—”

    “She can’t drive!” she snapped.

    Ooh, heck, nor she could. Kind of ruled out taking the bloody thing to the vet, too, didn’t it?

    “What’s Hughie’s number?” she demanded fiercely.

    Briefly Steve debated lying and saying he didn’t have it. Uh—no, on the whole. She’d be sure to remember forcing him to write it down as an emergency contact in case Harrie whatever. Well, didn’t remember to charge that ruddy mobile of hers, for one. He got out his very old diary that was now serving as an address book.

    She got hold of Hughie okay and forced him to put Joel on the phone. Then she bullied the poor joker. However, when she eventually hung up she had a very funny look on her dial.

    “Agreed, did he?” he ventured.

    Trisha looked lofty. “He perfectly took my point that a dog will be a companion and a safety measure for her, and he’s trained lots of dogs, he said it’d be a pleasure.”

    “Glad to hear it,” replied Steve mildly. “Didn’t say what sort it is, I s’pose?”

    There was a strange silence.

    Steve cleared his throat. “Look, she can afford to feed a whole pack of dogs, don’t worry that the thing’s gonna eat her out of house and home.”

    “No,” said Trisha weakly. “It’s not that big.”

    Steve was now envisaging either a St Bernard or a miniature poodle. “What is it, then?”

    “A whippet,” said Trisha weakly.

    Steve collapsed in startled sniggers.

    “They make very gentle pets!” she said defiantly.

    “Uh—yeah.—Do they?—Yeah,” he said weakly, wiping his eyes. “Okay, Harrie’s gonna have a whippet. Let’s hope Joel stresses the point that it’ll need plenty of exercise.”

    “They’re not racing dogs!” said Trisha crossly.

    This one certainly wouldn’t be, no! Right: now there was only one problem, wasn’t there? Making her sister agree to— Trisha was on the blower to her already.

    Harriet hung up the phone, which now lived permanently on the kitchen bench in reach of the power point, conveniently according to Trisha, and sat down limply. Whippets were huge! Well, skinny, but very tall: before seeing any she’d always sort of imagined them as being little, much smaller than greyhounds, but they weren’t: when she’d still been living in Mum’s house, not long before they sold it, a new family had moved into a house not far from the shopping centre, that she had to pass on her way there, and she’d seen the lady with her two dogs in the front garden one day and had stopped to admire them and the lady had been very pleased to be asked what they were and had explained they were whippets. Pale grey: beautiful dogs, with very gentle faces and huge soft brown eyes. They were called Candy and Andy, which privately she hadn’t thought suited them. Grey Cloud, maybe, and, um, well, they were almost a dove grey, really, so, Soft Dove? Gentle Dove?—something like that would have suited them much better. Beautiful though they were, they were, however, undoubtedly very tall. How on earth was she ever gonna control a thing that tall?

    She hadn’t had tea yet—Trisha had assumed she’d had hers, so she hadn’t said she’d been reading and forgotten all about it—but she felt so limp she might have a glass of wine first. She’d just poured it when the phone rang again. Help, now what?

    It was Joel. Once it penetrated to her dazed senses that Trisha must have talked him into agreeing to train the dog, she gasped: “You don’t have to!”

    “That’s okay, I like dogs,” he said with a smile in his voice. “And Uncle Hughie will give you a hand with it, too: give him something to do, stop him doing too much hard yacker round this place.”

    “Um, yes,” said Harriet dubiously. Well, even if he just came over on the excuse of helping with the dog and watched TV as usual, it would get him away from the hard yacker. “It—it’s very good of you both, Joel.”

    This received the expectable cheery disclaimer and he rang off with the promise, or rather threat, of bringing the dog over tomorrow.

    Ooh, heck. Groggily Harriet drank off her shiraz and poured herself another, very large one.

    Oddly enough she slept like a log that night instead of lying awake worrying about the whippet, so the shiraz must have been the right medicine. She had a shower and got dressed just in case Joel might turn up very early, and then made some coffee and toast. The mangoes were over but she’d have mango jam—on ricotta, since there was some. The mango jam was entirely thanks to Trisha: she’d efficiently made pots and pots of it, using lots of pectin because she didn’t think mangoes would be acid enough to set very well, with the result that the stuff had set like a rock; but never mind, it tasted great and it was better than letting the mangoes go to waste. Well, almost; jam-making in the humidity hadn’t improved Trisha’s mood, alas.

    She was just sitting down to it when the phone rang. Now what?

    Isabelle. Oh, God. Highly recommended by Erin Arvidson, no bother, only for two nights or at the most three… Completely reliable, they wouldn’t make any demands, naturally their own cooking… Eternally grateful, just for this once… Oh, God!

    Of course she gave in: she sincerely doubted there was a human being in the entire country—make that in the entire world—that could have said no to Isabelle Bell with the bit between her teeth.

    These people were called Collins—not the ones that had stayed as B&B guests, no, or any relation—and like Erin were from Adelaide. Their holiday plans had been disrupted by the recent Queensland floods. Harriet hadn’t gathered whether they’d actually been caught somewhere and held up, or simply couldn’t go where they’d planned. They were, of course, more grey nomads. Well, Kyla’s notices were still firmly in place—more firmly than ever, actually, they’d been properly hammered in by Hughie; and the fencing was still up—in fact much improved, with fence posts provided and hammered in by Hughie. Trisha had admitted the area now looked very neat but hadn’t approved of Isabelle’s “taking advantage” of her on that account. Harriet didn’t really object to a couple of grey nomads camping down the drive, even if they were water-stealers, but she had been looking forward to having some peaceful time to herself after the strain of having her menopausal sister over the holidays.

    She sighed and looked wanly at the pot of mango jam. Funnily enough she didn’t really feel like eating, now.

    The grey nomads weren’t due until some time this afternoon. Just in case a tree had blown down during the night she went down and checked the driveway and the camping area, but it was just as usual. After that she just went back inside and sat listlessly at the kitchen table.

    Joel turned up around half-past ten, when she was at the point of thinking she should make a cup of coffee for morning tea but not at the point of working up the energy to do so.

    “Gidday, Harriet!”

    “Hullo, Joel,” she replied, trying to smile.

    “Look, if you don’t want this dog after all—”

    “No, it’s not that. Isabelle’s just landed me with more grey nomads.”

    He passed his hand through his short, crisp dark curls. “Crikey, Harriet!”

    “It’s no use telling me to stand up to her, I can’t. She’s like a—a steamroller or something. Besides, she’s been very kind to me, she always takes me to the supermarket when she goes.”

    “Yeah,” the young man said limply. “I could say tell her where to get off, and I’ll take you to the supermarket meself, but it’d be a waste of breath, wouldn’t it?”

    “Mm.”

    “Well, anyway, do ya want the dog?”

    “I duh-don’t know, really, Joel,” she faltered. “It—it would be company, and I suppose it’s a good idea to have a dog on the premises, but they’re very tall, aren't they?”

    The long-legged Joel replied limply: “Uh—tallish, yeah. Taller than, um, a spaniel, yeah. Well, he’s in the ute: come and see what you think.”

    Harriet accompanied him outside obediently. The dog was tied up in the back of the ute. It looked at her meekly out of huge, soft brown eyes. Since they were only in late February it presumably wasn’t a year old yet, but it was tall, all right: you couldn't have called it a puppy.

    “Oh, dear,” she said weakly. “What’s its name?”

    “His. Pup,” replied Joel on a dry note.

    “You mean they haven’t given him a name?” she gasped.

    “Nope. Uh—thing is, ’e’s not pure-bred. Well, looks whippet-y, eh?” He cleared his throat slightly. “Apart from them ears.”

    Harriet looked dubiously at the ears. They were rather perky, sort of leaf-shaped, and pointed.

    “Bit of Border collie. The breeder thinks it was the dog next-door. It was her own fault in the first place, one of her dogs got out, couple of generations back, and did the Border collie bitch next-door, and she had some pretty odd-looking pups: this one’s dad would be the descendant of one of them. Can’t show him, see? She was real narked about it. –He’s been neutered, of course.”

    “Mm.”

    “And had his shots,” he added.

    “That’s good. Um, I thought he’d be pale grey. He’s sort of spotty,” said Harriet dubiously.

    “Uh—well, whippets sometimes are, that’s not down to ’is dad: he’s what they call a fawn brindle.”

    “Oh; so she—she’s not giving him away because he doesn’t look like a whippet?”

    “Not because of his coat, no. They make good pets, Harriet: they’re very gentle and unless you make sure they get a good walk every day they’ll just lie around inside. Uh—if you don’t take him he’ll be for the chop, poor young blighter: she’s had an ad on the Internet for ages with no takers.”

    “You don’t mean she’ll have him put down?” she gasped.

    Joel made a wry face. “Mm: extra mouth to feed, no good for breeding—breeders are like that. Uncle Hughie’d take him like a shot, mind you, but bloody Foster’d eat him.”

    “Of course I’ll take him! Poor thing!” she gasped.

    Joel had rather thought that might be her reaction. He smiled a trifle wryly.

    “Um, weren’t there two left over, originally?” she added on an anxious note.

    “Right. His sister. Known as Girl. White with a few black patches. One black eye, it makes her look a bit odd, reason she didn’t sell, but you wouldn’t know she wasn’t a pure-bred. Scott Bell’s taken her; his old blue heeler died a couple of years back. Isabelle let him have the one, but not the both of them, and she didn’t fancy poor ole fawn brindle Pup.”

    “I see,” said Harriet in some relief. “I’m sure she’ll be happy with Scott. Um, can we let him out?”

    “Sure. Now, he’s very tame, Harriet, but he needs training, so if he’s outside don’t let go of his lead, okay?”

    “Okay,” she agreed, nodding hard. “It’s a really smart lead,” she noticed, as Joel got up into the back of the ute and untied the brindled whippet.

    Yeah. It was a red one that one of his misguided aunts had presented Uncle Hughie with for Christmas one year, to “control” Foster. Never used. “Yep,” he agreed. “Come on, fella; good dog!” The whippet seemed disinclined to get down—they were well known for just lying around, true—so he lifted him down bodily and set him on his feet. “Come on, Harriet, say hullo.”

    Harriet approached cautiously. At around this point it dawned on Joel King that she’d never had a dog before, a point that her ruddy sister hadn’t thought to mention. “Hold out your hand, not too fast, and let him sniff it—he may lick it,” he added quickly.

    “Ooh!” she gasped, as he did.

    “Right: getting to know you, see? Now, just don’t make any fast moves, but give him a bit of a pat.”

    Very gingerly Harriet patted his head. “Good boy,” she said timidly.

    “That’s right.” Joel patted his back firmly, to encourage her. “You don’t have to treat him like he’s made of china.”

    “He does look frail, with those thin legs.”

    “Whippets are meant to be thin,” he said firmly. “Right: come on inside. I got an instruction sheet off the woman—she dishes them out to the mugs that buy the pure-breds for megabucks, but she wasn’t gonna bother with one for poor ole Pup. It tells you how much he oughta be fed and the right sort of dog food and all about exercising him and when he needs to go to the vet.”

    “The vet? What for?” she gasped.

    “Check-up, worming, that kinda thing. Come on.” He whistled and pulled on the lead, and the young dog trotted along meekly.

    In the kitchen Harriet looked limply at her fawn brindle acquisition and the whippet looked meekly at her.

    “Have ya got a bowl for him?”

    “I thought this one, that Kyla used for Foster’s water.”

    Joel refrained from clearing his throat, but it was an effort: that hand-thrown job with the signature on the bottom of it. “Good-oh. Well, put some water in it and put it down for him. That’ll help make him feel at home.”

    Obediently Harriet filled the bowl and put it down.

    Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, gone!

    “Help, he was thirsty!” she gasped.

    “Yeah: been standing in the back of the ute with ’is mouth open,” noted Joel.

    “Whuh-why?” she faltered.

    “No idea, not an expert in dog psychology. Just felt like it, ’ud be my bet. Now, he needs to get used to being here, so for Pete’s sake don’t leave the front or back doors open, will you? Let him explore the house if he wants to. If he needs to go out he’ll go over to the door, she’s got him house-trained to that extent. Hasn’t taught him ‘sit’ or ‘stay’, though, let alone ‘come’.”

    “Cuh-can you?” she faltered.

    “Sure, no worries. We’ll do it together, okay? Then he can get used to taking commands from you.”

    Harriet quailed. She’d never given anything a command in her life. Suddenly the whole idea of being responsible for this slender-legged, big-eyed, frail-looking living, breathing creature seemed overwhelming. “Oh, dear,” she said weakly, suddenly sitting down.

    “Bugger,” said Joel under his breath. “Just take it easy, okay? Only things you have to remember are not to let go of his lead when he goes outside, make sure his water bowl’s filled, and one meal a day. I’ll be over every day, don’t worry.”

    “Thanks, Joel,” she said, swallowing. “It’s very decent of you.”

    “Rats!” He patted the dog and ruffled his odd ears. “He’s a nice fella, aren’tcha, boy? He’ll have to have a name, ya know; unless you want to go on calling him Pup?”

    Suddenly Harriet frowned. “No, I think it’s an insult! It’s not a name! Um, what was that, that you said he was?”

    Joel looked blank. “Eh?”

    “His coat.”

    “Aw! Fawn brindle; seems to be the technical term.”

    “Fawn brindle,” said Harriet slowly. “That’s very pretty.” She looked at the dog. He just looked meek. “I think I might call him Brindle. Hullo, Brindle! Good dog: aren’t you a lovely boy? Brin-dle!”

    Obligingly the renamed Brindle looked at her and panted a little.

    “Hasn’t he got the most beautiful eyes?” she breathed. “And he looks so—so meek!”

    “Yeah, ’course,” agreed Joel in huge relief. “Whippets are. And Border collies are notorious for being big softies.”

    Harriet smiled slowly. “Mm. I can see that, now. You’re lovely, Brindle!”

    Joel hadn’t been able to stay, he had ten kilos of sausages in the ute—he’d stopped off to do a bit of shopping on the way back from the whippet breeder’s place, and as his uncle had been complaining they were always out of sausages and the supermarket had had a special, he’d got a few to shut him up, he explained with a grin. So, assuring Harriet she’d be okay, he’d hurried off home. That had left Harriet and Brindle.

    By lunchtime Brindle had had another drink of water and wanted out once. To Harriet’s immense relief he hadn’t seemed embarrassed or—or hampered by having her hang onto his lead while he had a pee.

    When Hughie got there they were just sitting peacefully in the kitchen, Harriet on one of the old wooden chairs and Brindle at her feet. “There you are,” he said, not allowing his relief to show.

    “Hi, Hughie!” beamed Harriet. “Look, this is Brindle: isn’t he lovely?”

    Just as well Joel had warned him, eh? Funny-looking, would have been closer to the mark. “Right. Joel said you’ve given ’im a name.”

    Harriet looked at him anxiously: would he say it was silly?

    But he just said “Good dog, Brindle! Sit!” and patted him. “Give you a hand to train him, eh?” he said, sitting down.

    “Yes; thanks very much, Hughie,” replied Harriet, smiling. “But he’s very good, I don’t think he’ll need much training! He was so good when he wanted out, he just went over to the door and sort of pointed his nose at it!”

    He wasn’t a flaming pointer! And he’d have to of pointed his nose, it was at the front of his face! As for “very good”—the thing’d be a ruddy nuisance if he couldn’t obey commands. “Should hope so,” he grunted. “We can start this arvo. Teach ’im ‘sit’ and ‘come’, to start off. Got any treats for ’im?”

    “Um, Joel bought some, and his dog food. They don’t look very enticing, though.”

    Enticing! “You’re not a dog,” he said heavily. “See, if ’e gets it right ya give ’im a treat.”

    Harriet looked dubiously at Brindle. He stood up and, looking up at her meekly, pushed his nose between her knees. “See? He does that! He likes me!” she beamed.

    Yeah, well, at least the ruddy thing wasn’t actually sniffing at her bottom. He grunted, but allowed: “Good. Needs to know who’s boss as well as like ya, mind.”

    Oh, dear. Harriet looked at him limply. Why were men so—so bossy about dogs? Dictatorial, in fact! Lovely Brindle wasn’t a working dog, he wasn’t gong to be herding sheep or cattle, she was sure he’d be quite good and happy without any training. And why shouldn’t he have the occasional treat just for—for a treat, without having to earn it?

    Hughie had had more than enough time during their Outback tour to realise she had no sense whatsoever, so he ignored the look she was giving him, not to say the soppy look she then gave the pooch, and firmly suggested lunch. Of course she then reckoned it was “so mean” to eat in front of him without giving him anything.

    “Bulldust. He’ll get fat. Ya wanna kill ’im before ’is time, go right ahead and start spoiling him.”

    “But once wouldn’t hur—”

    “He’ll start to expect it and you’ll give in to him, I know you!” retorted Hughie grimly.

    Harriet gulped. Presumably he did, yeah.

    “No titbits, nothink off your plate,” he ordered grimly. “Geddit?”

    “Yes,” said Harriet in a small voice.

    He sighed. “Knew a dame once, had a Lab—beautiful dog, one of the pale ones. Over-fed the poor brute till its belly just about touched the ground. Died when it was only six.”

    “Six?” gasped Harriet. “Seven sixes are— That’s terrible!”

    Yeah, well, that wasn’t accurate, but most people worked out dogs’ ages like that. “Right.”

    “Forty-two,” said Harriet numbly, looking at her slender pet in horror.

    “Right.”

    “Oh, dear. I promise never, ever to overfeed you, lovely Brindle,” she said in a trembling voice, “and I won’t give you anything off my plate.”

    “Good. Stick to that,” advised Hughie grimly.

    Harriet just sat back limply and watched as he then investigated the cupboards and decided on baked beans on toast for lunch. Well, probably just as well someone was making inroads on that cupboardful of tinned baked beans of Ben’s. Left to herself she’d never have touched them. No bacon was discovered in the fridge, so she got up, found the writing pad with its attached pen that Trisha had given her for the purpose, and wrote “Shopping” and “bacon” on it. Hughie came and looked over her shoulder. There was nothing else on the list. “Eggs. Dog food,” he prompted. Harriet was trying to avoid eating too many eggs: they were so cheap and easy—and nice, especially scrambled—but they were full of cholesterol, weren’t they? And Joel had bought her a huge bag of dog food, surely that’d be enough for ages? However, she wrote them down obediently. “Bones,” he prompted.

    “But it’s too hot for soup in this climate,” said Harriet feebly,

    Hughie passed a hand through his greying sandy hair. “For the dog, whaddareya?”

    Gulping, Harriet wrote “bones for Brindle”.

    After that they had the lunch. Heinz baked beans on toast for both of them—right. With dark orange tea—right again. She’d better have vegetables and fruit for tea. Though presumably there was some roughage in baked beans.

    After lunch they took Brindle outside and got on with the training…

    “Woof! Arf, arf, ARF!  ARF, ARF!”

    “Help!” gasped Harriet, hauling on his lead.

    “That’ll be the— QUIET! DOWN!” bellowed Hughie, grabbing the lead off her and jerking it strongly. “Geddown! SIT!” He pressed on Brindle’s hindquarters until he sat. “That’ll be the Border collie in ’im: whippets don’t bark, much.”

    “I see,” said Harriet lamely.

    Hughie watched resignedly as she then gave the pooch a doggie treat. He hadn't sat that good, actually. Oh, well, early days. “Be them grey nomads,” he noted with a sniff, apropos the barking.

    “Yes,” she agreed limply. That had certainly sounded like a giant vehicle down the drive. “I’d better go down there, I suppose.”

    “Before they find out your back door’s open—too right,” he agreed. “Come on, Brindle!” He jerked on the lead. “Walkies!”

    Harriet swallowed hard. She’d been hoping Hughie hadn’t been going to say that again: he had quite a deep voice normally, but when he said “Walkies” it was sort of, um, high-pitched. Very silly. Both the tone and the word.

    They went round to the drive. Yep, a huge campervan was just parking, all right.

    “Mr and Mrs Collins,” explained Harriet dully.

    “Yeah. Well, I’ll tell ’em about the water, but no way am I gonna bring Foster over: he hates other dogs.”

    Right. He also hated people, vehicles, except for getting into Hughie’s ones, reportedly cats, reportedly possums, and according to the evidence of Harriet’s own eyes, harmless geckos. Given Hughie’s lizard fixation she hadn’t mentioned that she’d seen his pet brutalising one in his crushing maw. Oh—and Joel had also mentioned that he hated hens. Well, liked eating them, yes. Reason his uncle didn't keep any, any more. And come to think of it, he hated other birds, too, because he always barked furiously if one landed anywhere within cooee of him.

    “Mm. I suppose I can spare a bit of water. It’s only for a couple of days.”

    Hughie gave one of his sniffs and headed down the drive, hauling Brindle with him.

    “Woof! Arf, arf, ARF!  ARF, ARF!”

    “What the— Shuddup, ya silly bugger! QUIET! SIT! –Shit, they’ve got a flamin’ pug!” gasped Hughie as it pranced out of the campervan.

    “Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap! Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap!”

    Swiftly Hughie clapped his hand round Brindle’s muzzle before he could respond in kind. “Quiet, boy! –Ya could do the flamin’ thing, for mine,” he muttered, not nearly sotto voce enough, as a small pot-bellied male grey nomad emerged from the campervan. “Hey! What the Hell do ya think you’re doin’, bringing a dog onto someone else’s property without warning?” he shouted.

    “Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap! Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap!”

    “Hush, Panthaway Pride,” said the grey nomad unconvincingly.

    “What?” said Harriet involuntarily.

    “Grab his lead and don’t let go,” commanded Hughie grimly, shoving Brindle’s lead at Harriet.

    “What if he barks again?” she gulped, grabbing it convulsively.

    “Let ’im. Just hang onto that lead.” He marched militantly over to the grey nomad. “Mister, if ya can’t control that flamin’ pug you’ll have to sling yer hook.”

    “He’s—”

    “Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap! Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap!”

    “Quiet, Panthaway Pride! Sit!”

    “Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap! Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap!”

    “Woof! ARF! ARF!”

    “Hush, Brindle!” gulped Harriet. “Good boy! It’s just a horrid yappy pug, it won’t hurt us!” –Probably a lie, the thing looked ready to bite anyone or anything.

    “Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap! Yap, yap, yap-yap-yap!”

    Abruptly a grim-jawed female grey nomad twice the size of the male burst out of the campervan. “QUIET, Panthaway Pride! Bad dog! SIT!”

    Golly. He sat.

    “Do I have to do everything round here?” she demanded, rounding on the spouse.

    “Their dog barked first,” he whined.

    “It’s his territory, Stanley, what on earth do you expect? Panthaway! Heel!”

    “He hasn’t been, yet,” the male grey nomad muttered as the pug came over to his mistress.

    “Then put his lead on and walk him properly!” she snarled. “We’re here, now, in case that’s escaped your notice!”

    “You can keep his flamin’ lead on, or you can bloody well clear off again. Miss Harrison wasn’t expecting no ruddy dog,” noted Hughie grimly.

    “Don’t worry, I’ll see to him. Stanley’s always been hopeless with dogs,” she replied, equally grim, as Stanley disappeared into the campervan, presumably in search of the pug’s lead. “Mr Harrison, is it?”

    “Nah. I’m a neighbour,” replied Hughie stolidly. “This here is Miss Harrison. Twenny-five bucks a day, if you’re stayin’.”

    “Of course. Two and a half days, we thought. That’ll be fifty dollars in advance, then.”

    “Half a day counts as another day. Seventy-five,” replied Hughie, unmoved.

    Harriet would just have been very glad to get rid of them and the horrid pug for fifty. Actually she’d have paid them to take the horrid little thing away. She gulped.

    Hughie won that encounter, but she hadn’t expected he wouldn’t. He also got five bucks out of them for a bucket of water. And no, Miss Harrison couldn’t supply coffee or tea-bags.

    Harriet bit her lip. “That’s all right, Hughie. Have you run out, Mrs Collins?” she asked timidly.

    Grimly Mrs Collins allowed they had, she’d trusted Stanley to do the shopping at their last stop while she walked Panthaway Pride.

    “I’ve got stacks of tea-bags, of course I can let you have some. And there’s a jar of instant coffee I’ve hardly started on, you could have that, I’ve got some real coffee.”

    “Ten bucks the lot,” said Hughie swiftly.

    “No!” she gasped.

    “Harriet, they’re rookin’ you: what’s the betting she’s stringing you a line?”

    The magisterial Mrs Collins had gone very red: indignation, Harriet was positive, not guilt. “Hughie,” she said desperately, “put yourself in her place. Trisha and Steve stayed at a motel somewhere in Victoria not long after they were married and they ran out of tea-bags and coffee sachets and the awful woman there wouldn't give them any more, and there was no shop for miles, they had to drink water for breakfast!”

    “It’s very good of you, Mrs Harrison,” said Mrs Collins, the flush abating. “Of course we can pay you back, as soon as I’ve done some shopping.”

    “That’s all right!” replied Harriet quickly, smiling at her. “It’s quite a drive to town. You’ll want to relax, now you’ve got here.”

    Hughie sniffed. “Just keep that pug away from our dog, he’s not trained yet, he’ll have a go at him,” he warned, recapturing his lead. “Come on, Harriet. –And it’s Miss Harrison, not Mrs, lady, you deaf?” he added as a parting shot.

    Harriet tried to smile apologetically at the woman, failed, said quickly: “Just come up to the house if there’s anything else, Mrs Collins,” and hurried after him. Oh, dear!

    Steve collapsed in horrible splutters. He laughed so much he just about dropped the phone.

    “Steve!” hissed his helpmeet. “Stop laughing! Harrie’s paying for this call!”

    “She—” He was off again.

    Swiftly Trisha grabbed the receiver. “We’ll ring you back, Harrie,” she said, and hung up. “Honestly!”

    Steve shook his head helplessly. Tears oozed from his eyes. Trisha sighed heavily. “Well, go on,” she said resignedly, once he seemed to have recovered.

    He blew his nose hard. “Yeah, well, all other points aside, she’s a ruddy plutocrat now, she can afford an interstate call better than we can.”

    Trisha had got so used to Harriet being the poor relation that she’d overlooked that. “Never mind,” she said, frowning horribly. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

    What principle? Steve eyed her drily but explained: “She’s got the ruddy dog. Called it—” he gulped slightly but got it out—“Brindle.”

    “Br— That’s quite pretty,” said Trisha with dignity.

    “Trisha, when you rang poor ole Joel to spy on ’er—”

    “I was not spying!” she snapped.

    Not half. “He said the thing’s kind of spotty, remember? I found the owner’s website not ten minutes ago and the pic of the last of the litter’s still there.”

    Trisha stuck her chin out. “So?”

    “You’ll set me off again, love,” he warned unsteadily. “It’s spotty, all right—well, more sort of smudged, really. Smudged spots!”

    “Harrie says he’s beautiful.”

    Steve choked, shaking.

    Trisha glared at him. “Steve, if she likes it, that’s the main thing!”

    “Yeah,” he said weakly, wiping his eyes. “Anyway, that’s not the best thing. Ruddy Isabelle Bell’s grey nomads turned up and there was a—” his voice shook—“a confrontation with their puh-pug!”

    “Do you mean a fight?” she gasped.

    “No. Stand-off; what your sister described as ‘a fusillade of shrill yapping!’ And good ole Brindle goes “woo—” He choked slightly, but got it out: “Woof, woof, ya see—that’ll be his mixed blood, I looked up whippets on the internet, they don’t bark much, but Border collies sure as Hell do, me Uncle—”

    “Shut up about your blimmin’ uncles, Steve, they’re irrelevant! I don’t see there’s anything funny about a horrid yappy pug!”

    “Nor—did—she!” he howled, breaking down completely.

    Looking very dignified, Trisha walked out and left him to it.

    After a moment Jimbo came in, looking cautious. “What’s the joke?”

    “Eh? You’d of had to of heard it for yourself, ole mate,” replied Steve weakly, wiping his eyes. “Your mad aunt going on about this so-called beautiful wuh-whippet and its meeting with a ruddy yappy pug.”

    “Um, so she got it?”

    “Uh—yeah. Sorry, Jimbo, forgot you hadn’t got the full update.”

    “I’ve been doing afterschool homework, Dad.”

    This might not have made any sense to anybody that didn’t have a kid in his class but Steve knew it was an afterschool programme whereby the senior kids actually got the work done instead of skiving off at home with their ruddy computer games, meanwhile lying in their teeth to their unfortunate parents that were paying for all that online time with its completely horrendous data charges. “Right. Tell me, is the martyred Mr Sullivan supervising these afterschool sessions out of the kindness of ’is heart, or is yer head teacher paying him actual cash dough for all that overtime?”

    Predictably the answer was “Dunno” and Jimbo persisted: “Anyway, what was the joke?”

    “Well, mainly the way Harrie described the whippet-pug confrontation. Only she reckons the thing is beautiful”—he choked slightly—“and she’s calling it Brindle.”

    Jimbo looked dubious. “That’s a funny name.”

    Yeah, well, coulda been a lot worse, given his mad aunt. “Come on, I copied the pic of the pups off the Internet—too good to waste—and you’ll see the rest of the joke.”

    Eagerly Jimbo accompanied him to the converted linen cupboard.

    In the kitchen Trisha frowned as the male guffaws floated through to her. Honestly! Dragging the kid into his stupid peer group like that! He was gonna grow up to be an uncaring hoon like the rest of them! And it wasn’t funny! If Harrie thought her dog was beautiful even if he was a bit spotty, good on h— “Help!” she gasped. “I forgot to ring her back!” She fell on the kitchen extension and rang her.

    Harriet hadn’t noticed the delay, apparently. Typical! So how was the training going? Harriet admitted they’d only just started—no, not Joel, Hughie—and they’d been interrupted by the grey nomads and their horrid pug. Adding: “Steve thought it was funny, but it was dreadful, Trisha: the thing was barking like anything and sort of—of bristling!”

    “Ugh!”

    “Yes, and it was showing its teeth, I was terrified it was going to bite poor Brindle’s leg!”

    Trisha was able to sympathise fully with this remark, got out of her that Mrs Collins had controlled the creature, got her to admit that Mrs Collins wasn’t too bad and he was a complete dreep—par for the course, exactly—and dragged the details of Brindle’s general comportment, veterinary history and prescribed diet out of her.

    “Good,” she concluded. “It sounds as if you’re fine, then, Harrie!”

    “Mm. He’s ever so gentle.”

    “So what’s he doing now?”

    There was a short silence and then Harriet admitted: “We’re in the lounge-room.”

    “Mm?”

    “Um, well, he’s lying on the sofa. –You said yourself it was only fit for the tip!” she reminded her quickly.

    Yes, but if he got into the habit of it, then when she did get a decent sofa he’d go on that, wouldn’t he? Trisha was about to say so when her sister added: “He's awfully companionable.”

    Companionable. Trisha bit her lip. “Yes,” she said in a stifled voice. “I’m glad. Well, we’re just here at the end of the phone, Harrie. ’Bye for now!” She hung up quickly.

    Steve came cautiously into the kitchen. “What are you bawling for?” he gasped in horror.

    “Nothing,” she said soggily “It’s just… Harrie said the dog was very  companionable.” She gave a rending sniff.

    Wasn’t that why she’d wanted her to get him in the first place? “Is ’e?” he said very weakly indeed. “Well, good-oh. No need to bawl over it, darl’.”

    A tear rolled down Trisha’s cheek. “A dog’s no substitute for a nice husband of her own, Steve.”

    No, well, he couldn’t answer back, that’d be a plus for most women.

    Trisha blew her nose. “Anyway, she does seem to realise that she mustn’t over-feed him!” she said briskly.

    There was an expression for that, Steve was certain. Latin, was it? Non… uh… Non sequitur, that was it! He tried to smile, and failed. “Good-oh,” he said very weakly indeed.

    By late March Brindle was doing very well, though several people not excluding Scott Bell had warned Harriet that she mustn’t expect too much of him, he was only a dog, but give him time, he’d learn. Scott’s dog was doing very well, too. Scott also revealed with a twinkle in his eye that because his dog was white with some black markings, Laverne from the Big Rock Bay pub had mentioned David Jones, the big shop, because its logo was black on white—see it on their bags, y’know? And certain clots propping up the bar had urged him to call her that.

    “But she’s a lady dog,” said Harriet dazedly to this intel.

    “Yeah.—Bitch.—Yeah, she is. That mob of drongos think they’re funny, see?”

    As he had his dog in tow, Harriet looked at her dubiously. “Ye-es.”

    “Better than Patch,” said Scott dispassionately.

    “I’ll say! Anyway, even if she has got a patch over one eye, I think she’s beautiful,” said Harriet firmly.

    “Yeah, nobbad,” he agreed, looking gratified. “Anyway, I thought DJ wasn’t bad but it didn’t seem quite right, really. So I told Isabelle—all she’d come up with was Patience: soppy, eh?”

    “It’s pretty, though. And the way she looks at you, well, she looks patient, Scott.”

    “Yeah, sweet nature. But I don’t think it suits a dog. Anyway, Isabelle had a think about it, and Lily Rose was in the lounge-room and she said to her, ‘What do you think of DJ, Lily Rose? Shall we call doggie DJ?’ And Lily Rose says ‘Dee!’” He beamed at her. ‘So that’s what we’re calling her: Dee!”

    “That’s lovely, Scott,” replied Harriet sincerely. “It’s a pretty little name, it just suits her! Hullo, Dee, so that’s your new name,” she cooed, stroking the black-patched white whippet’s head. “Aren’t you pretty! Good girl, Dee!”

    It was then revealed that Scott hadn’t just come over to her place to tell her his dog’s new name, he’d come so as they could exercise their dogs together and give Brindle some socialisation.

    “Buh-but I know she’s his sister, but I don’t think he’s used to other dogs, Scott,” faltered Harriet.

    “Nah, that’s the whole point, Harriet! See, he’s gotta get used to other dogs, so this’ll be a start! Now, my Tinker, she was real good with other dogs. Mind you, we went to a good obedience school in Brizzie.”

    “Yes,” said Harriet faintly, thinking she must have misheard. “What did you say she was called, Scott?”

    “Tinker. –Oh!” he said with a loud laugh. “It was a joke, first off, see? Tinker Bell! Isabelle’s mate Dot, well, she thought it up. But it suited her, and she was a bit of a tinker, too! So I called her that. Isabelle said I was mad, of course. Only after a bit she admitted it suited her! Little blue heeler, she was.”

    Harriet thought about it seriously. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “Actually I can just see it, Scott. A sturdy little blue heeler that’s a bit of a tinker! Lovely!”

    “You goddit,” he agreed happily. “So, where’s Brindle?”

    “Um, lying down inside, actually,” Harriet admitted guiltily.

    They were having this conversation out at the front of the house: Harriet had heard the car and come out, afraid it was unsolicited grey nomads.

    “Shoulda brung him out with you. Don’t encourage him in bad habits,” said Scott severely. “He’ll get lazy.”

    Oh, dear. Yet another male telling her not to let Brindle get lazy! “Um, he’s almost learnt that ‘Walkies’ means we’re going outside,” she ventured.

    “Good. Keep saying it, and if the blighter won’t move, just drag him out until he gets the picture.”

    Mm. Something like that. Poor Brindle!

    So Harriet, Scott, Dee and Brindle went up the slope together towards the mango trees and started to learn socialisation…

    Steve had another fit of streaming hysterics. Not the idea, no—bloody good idea—but the word!

    “Yes, well, don’t laugh too soon, because Aunty Mary rung while you were looking for booze that you don’t need before your dinner, and she’s gone and told some friends of theirs that Harrie’s got a B&B, and they’re gonna foist themselves on her for Easter,” said his wife grimly.

    “Eh? Tell the silly moo that she hasn’t got a B&B and she doesn’t want any ruddy guests—or need them!”

    “I tried, but she wasn’t listening. Well, Uncle Don had the TV on really loud—he’s getting pretty deaf, ya know—I suppose she couldn’t hear everything I was saying.”

    “Didn’t listen, more like,” he grunted. “Look, there’s plenty of time, it isn’t Easter for a couple of weeks, yet. I’ll ring her meself.”

    Trisha sighed. “All right, but let’s have tea first, for Heaven’s sake.”

    They did that. Chops. She’d done them with some fancy sauce but Steve and Jimbo ate it anyway. Kyla wasn’t with them: she and Miss Melanie Satterthwaite were dining out, thanks very much. Yes, Jimbo, she did have to go to work tomorrow, but she was grown up, now, it was her own business. Have the last chop.

    “Ooh, tha-anks, Dad!” He engulfed it hungrily, weird sauce and all.

    Steve debated telling him the latest on the Brindle front but decided against it: that generation was so used to the jaw-cracking garbage they got off the Internet or the TV—mostly Yank garbage—that he wouldn’t get the joke.

    “It’s Easter soon,” said Jimbo, having scraped his plate and sucked every last skerrick of nourishment from his chop bone.

    “And?” replied Steve guardedly.

    “Well, what say I go up and stay with Aunty Harrie!”

    Him and Aunty Mary’s geriatric mates. Steve swallowed.

    “Jimbo, there are no cheap fares over the holiday weekends, you know,” said Trisha cautiously. “And, um, how would you get to her place from the airport?”

    “Isn’t there a bus?”

    “No,” his parents chorused.

    “Aw. Well, how did Kyla get there, that time?”

    “By the grace of God and Hughie Davis,” said Steve heavily.

    “Yes—or did Joel collect her? Oh, no: he hadn’t got there by then, that’s right,” said Trisha. “Yes, well, we can’t ask him, Jimbo, dear.”

    “But Aunty Harrie’s always feeding him and letting him watch her TV! And her new computer, he’s found out ya can get all sorts of stuff on Youtube, ya see, and this mate of his, he told him there was a video about liz—” Jimbo gulped. “Iguanas,” he muttered. “From the Caribbean, I think. –Anyway,” he said, rallying, “half the time he's over there watching stuff on her computer, and using up her online time that she has to pay for!”

    There was a short silence. Steve at least was reflecting that there was one small mercy: it seemed to have sunk in that the flaming Internet was not actually a magic gift from on high that was free as air.

    After a moment Trisha said cautiously: “Jimbo, I don’t think she uses it much, she only seems to pay her bills on it. I mean, the ISPs all make you pay a set rate and even if you get the lowest one—”

    “She won’t of,” noted Steve to the ceiling.

    “Shut up, Steve! I’m trying to say I’m sure she doesn’t nearly use up her allowance herself.”

    “Yeah, but if he didn’t use hers he’d have to pay for his own computer and his own ISP, wouldn’t he?” pointed out the percipient Jimbo.

    This was true. After a moment Steve said cautiously: “He’s right, ya know, love.”

    Trisha took a deep breath. “All right, then, Steve, you ring him up and ask him to collect Jimbo from the airport we don’t know exactly what day or time, but in time for Easter!”

    “I can book onl—”

    “Yes, all right, mate,” said Steve hurriedly. “Don’tcha think someone oughta ask Harrie if she actually wants ’im, Trisha, before we book poor ole Hughie, not to say buy a so-called electronic ticket that turns out to be fifteen pages of confusing bumf that nobody in the entire world’s got the time to plough through?”

    “I’ll ring her, Mum!”

    Trisha very nearly let him. Oh, dear: talk about blackmail! Um, no, not quite that, um… Oh, yeah! “It’d be emotional blackmail, Jimbo. I’ll ring her and make sure she actually wants you.”

    Jimbo, his father registered with considerable relief, was still young enough to say happily: “She’ll want me!”

    And so of course it proved.

    However, exactly how it eventually turned out that the elderly Mr and Mrs Montgomery, call them Sid and Evie, would of course be happy to take Jimbo since they were driving up anyway, Steve Drinkwater couldn’t for the life of him have said. As he explained to Dean Barraclough and Bryce Cadell down the pub a couple of days after the event.

    “So Harriet’s up in Queensland, eh?” was the burly police sergeant’s eager response.

    Too late, Steve remembered that Trisha had come out at one point with some garbage about Dean having a thing for his sister-in-law.

    “So she’s taking paying guests?” asked Bryce eagerly.

    Too late, Steve remembered that Trisha had come out with some garbage about the firie admiring Harriet, too. Was it? Yeah, not Pete, the fire chief, he was happily married. Well, regularly escaped to his ten-pin bowling team, sure, but every bloke had to have a hobby that got him away from the little woman, or go stark, raving— Uh, yeah.

    “No, she’s not: her Aunty Mary’s wished this ruddy pair on ’er,” he said firmly.

    Their faces fell. “Aw,” they said sadly.

    Steve tottered off home a broken man. If only there was another convenient watering-hole, he’d switch!

    “Hey, that ole lady, she’s nuts,” said Jimbo confidentially to his aunt in her kitchen.

    Hurriedly Harriet shut the door. Mrs and Mrs Montgomery were just up the passage in the second bedroom. “Ssh! Um, why?”

    “She said your house was cosy. And the spare room,” he said impressively.

    Harriet gulped. Nuts put it rather well. “Oh, well, on her head be it. It wasn’t my idea to have them.”

    “Nah. But it worked out well, eh? Well, Dad said he’d give them some money for petrol but Mr Montgomery, he just laughed. He’s all right, he wants to see Hughie’s lizards!”

    “I bet she doesn’t,” said Harriet before she could stop herself. Evie Montgomery was very typical of her kind. Very, very typical. Kindly disposed, true, as the “cosy” remark attested. But very typical. She’d already explained to Harriet—in fact almost in her first breath—that “he” had to watch his salt intake and not too many animal fats, of course, the doctor had said his cholesterol count was slightly up— Yeah. Added to which she’d brought a special pillow for herself, Harriet hadn’t gathered what sort or why, and a magnetic pillow for him, “in case”. Of what, not specified. She had lain this artefact tenderly on a chair rather than putting it on the second bed in the spare room, whereas she’d already removed Harriet’s pillows and placed her own on the other bed, so—

    Having choked “Nah!” Jimbo was falling all over the kitchen laughing himself silly. His aunt smiled feebly. Oh, well, at least he seemed to be taking them in his stride.

    “Hey,” he said when he was over the fit, “c’n you make spaghetti bolognaise?”

    “Um, well, sort of. Not as good as Trisha’s, though. Did you fancy it, Jimbo?”

    “No, I was just gonna say don’t, ’cos see, they went to a B&B somewhere in Victoria and theirs was real bad and she could of done it much better herself, so I thought—”

    “Help! I won’t!” she gasped. “Thanks, Jimbo!”

    “That’s okay,” he replied pleasedly. “Just spaghetti might be all right. Only I think it’s gotta be Italian.”

    “Oh.” Dubiously Harriet got a packet out and showed it to him.

    “Well, its name’s sort of Italian,” he conceded.

    Harriet peered at the small print. “Does it say ‘Made in Australia’, though?”

    “Um… yeah. Well, that’s what it means, yeah. Victoria.”

    “Probably the stuff that was in the bad bolognaise!” she hissed.

    “Yeah!” he chortled. Promptly they both dissolved in helpless giggles.

    When they’d recovered Jimbo helpfully put the spaghetti back in the cupboard. “What is for tea?”

    “Um, I thought I’d better wait and see if they’re vegetarians or, um, have any special dietary requirements.”

    “Low salt—you could just leave it out, eh? And no fat for him.”

    “Mm. Steak and veggie stir fry? With noodles? I’ve got some nice noodles. They’ll be Aussie, too, but we might be safe.”

    “Sounds okay to me! Mum said I gotta help. I can chop things for ya,” he offered, going over to the dreaded knife block that was still sitting on the bench.

    Harriet shut her eyes for a moment.

    “What?” demanded Jimbo aggrievedly.

    “Those knives are Helluva dangerous: they’re Ben’s,” she said faintly.

    “Heck, I know that! Ya just haveta know what ya doing, he told me that! And he showed me how to use the skinning knife. –Hey,” he gasped, his eyes lighting up, “have ya still got that roo tail? ’Cos I could skin it for you!” Not waiting for an answer, he dived into the freezer.

    “Here it is!” he panted, flourishing the giant thing just as the kitchen door opened and Evie Montgomery carolled: “Here we a— Ugh!” she shrieked. “Is that a kangaroo tail? Ugh!”

    “Um, Jimbo was just looking at it,” said Harriet very weakly indeed. “Put it away, Jimbo.”

    “But if I defrost it I could skin it for ya tomorrow—”

    “Ugh! No!” shuddered Evie. “Disgusting!”

    A trifle unfortunately Sid Montgomery then appeared—they were usually several steps behind the queen, just like Prince Philip—and put his foot in it good and proper by saying: “Hey, a roo tail! You gonna defrost it, Jimbo? Needs skinning, eh? That looks like a nice set of knives you’ve got, Ha—”

    But at this point his spouse got her second wind and it was all up with him. He did try to say that maybe it was for the dog, but far, far too late.

    The dust had more or less settled, Evie and the crestfallen Sid had retreated to the lounge-room, and Jimbo was able to say, this time making sure the passage door was shut: “Hey, c’n we let Brindle in now?”

    Harriet sighed. Bloody Evie had once had an unpleasant experience with a dog that looked “just like” Brindle. Sid had tried to point out that that had been a greyhound, not a whippet, but no dice. “You could try. But she’ll probably have hysterics if she come back and finds him in here.”

    “Too bad. I was looking forward to him!”

    Quite. Harriet sat down limply while he opened the back door and fetched poor darling meek Brindle, who had been roped to the water tank approximately two minutes after Ma Montgomery arrived.

    He didn’t appear to bear a grudge, though he did appear very, very glad to see her again. And to let Jimbo pet him and tell him he wasn’t a stupid ole greyhound and such-like.

    “Ya know,” he said thoughtfully as Harriet gave in entirely and let him give poor Brindle a couple of doggie treats for having been locked out of his own house, “say I defrost the roo tail, he could have some of it! The big bones, eh?”

    The big bones would be the meaty ones that she’d need, really, if she wanted to use it for an oxtail stew recipe, but— “Yes; why not?” said Harriet, smiling at him.

    Jimbo was now as tall as Steve, though still very gangling, but he beamed the same wide smile that he’d had as a very little boy. “Great!”

    “Yes,” said Harriet, sniffing, and wiping away a tear with her apron. “I’m awfully glad you’re here, Jimbo. She’d be unbearable without you.”

    “Heck, don’t bawl, Aunty Harrie!”

    “I’m not, really. You’ve got so tall,” said Harriet in limp explanation.

    “I haven’t grown since Christmas. I’m as tall as Dad, though!” he reminded her proudly.

    “Yes, I know.”

    Jimbo eyed the knives again. “Um, say I cut up the meat for the stir-fry for ya, do ya think I could give Brindle a little bit? Just ’cos she made him go outside!” he added hurriedly.

    Harriet bit her lip. Jimbo was looking at her hopefully. So was Brindle, actually, in fact he came and pushed his nose between her knees and gave her that inscrutable big-eyed doggie look of his. “What goes through your lovely head, Brindle, when you look at me like that?” said Harriet, cupping his head in her hands. “Yes, good boy! What a lovely boy! Um, just a little bit, Jimbo,” she ended very weakly indeed.

    Funnily enough Jimbo voted not to drive back with Mr and Mrs Montgomery, but to spend the rest of his mid-term break with Aunty Harrie. Harriet was perfectly happy to have him and to pay his airfare and Hughie was perfectly happy to drive him to the airport, in fact he’d happily have taken him all the way to Brizzie, if required, so Steve and Trisha weakly gave in.

    On the wanderer’s return the pangs of raging starvation had of course to be stayed, and his full report had to be given, many riveting examples of Brindle’s prowess at this, that and the other, of Scott Bell’s Dee’s ditto and of his own adventures with, variously, said Brindle, Hughie, Joel or Scott having to be provided, a highlight having been the drive up to the rum distillery in Bundaberg with Hughie. But finally, over a mug of Milo that he was allowed to consume in the lounge-room, happily unaware of the fervent prayers in re carpet and spilling going up from his father’s direction, he was able to respond to Trisha’s anxious: “But how is Harrie, dear? Is she vegetating up there?” with an incredulous: “Eh? Nah, ’course not! She’s really busy, Mum! She takes Brindle for loads of walks, and they go to see Dee every other day, to keep up his socialisation! She’s not vegetating!”

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/09/winter-of-discontent.html