Previously: An unusual stranger has shaken up the neighbourhood. Gladys, Elsie, Minnie, Daphne, Cyril, and Gladys’s dog, Robert Louis Stevenson, have all witnessed the exotic man. This is Robert Louis Stevenson’s story…
Robert Louis Stevenson nudged the leaflet and business card Mr Johnson had placed on Mistress’s coffee table with his nose. They smelt of Mr. Johnson. That wasn’t surprising, but there was another smell mingled with his stink, and Robert Louis Stevenson rifled through his sniffer library to identify it.
Strangely, the scent was the same as that of the screeching, unclothed man Robert Louis Stevenson had tried to bite the other day. The one who’d leapt over the fence from Mr Johnson’s garden into Robert Louis Stevenson’s territory without a by-your-leave. After a little canine persuasion, the intruder had scrambled over the wall into Bathsheba’s garden and then, after being sprayed with water by Bathsheba’s mistress, he’d escaped into someone else’s garden. If the odours of both men were on the leaflet and card, it suggested Mr Johnson knew the creepy man.
Robert Louis Stevenson growled.
‘Good dog,’ Mistress said, and patted him on the head. ‘That’s enough now.’
‘You indulge that dog,’ Mr Johnson said. ‘You’re not doing him any favours, you know.’
Mind your own business, Robert Louis Stevenson thought, but he stopped growling anyway. Mistress was remarkably keen on the next-door neighbour. If it came to a choice, Mistress would choose Robert Louis Stevenson – although he wasn’t completely convinced. And each time she saw Mr Johnson, the odds she’d pick the next-door neighbour over her dog increased.
Why couldn’t she see there was something dodgy about Mr Johnson?
If only Robert Louis Stevenson could read, the leaflet and business card might give him a clue. For a dog, he had a large vocabulary and understood many of the words his mistress used, but reading the squiggles that crawled across pieces of paper had so far evaded him. Talking in Mistress’s language was also proving challenging. He knew what he wanted to say, and the words formed in his mind, but when they came out of his mouth, they all sounded the same. ‘Woof.’
Of course, his woofs were understood by other dogs, but Mistress wasn’t a dog. When he barked to tell her something, she often told him off for being noisy. Robert Louis Stevenson tiptoed to his favourite spot behind the sofa and settled down. If he couldn’t understand the information on the paper, he’d listen to the conversation.
‘So, I’m relying on your support, Gladys,’ Mr. Johnson said.
In a giggly tone that Mistress never used for Robert Louis Stevenson, she replied, ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. Riding Road has some gifted gardeners, and it’ll be fun. It’ll also be a good rehearsal for the competition against Creaping Bottom and Upper Chortle next year. Have you any ideas for themes?’
Still eavesdropping, Robert Louis Stevenson learnt about the Parish Council meeting that had been called by the Reverend Forbes-Snell. It would take place the following evening in the hall at All Saints’ Church, where Mr Johnson would reveal his plans for the ‘Best Kept Street in Basilwade’ competition. Robert Louis Stevenson also learnt that Mr Johnson called Mistress Gladwags, and she called him Trevikins.
Robert Louis Stevenson crept out of the room into the kitchen. There were some things a dog didn’t need to know. He shook his head to dismiss the memory and sauntered into the garden to listen for the sound of Bathsheba from next door.
‘Are you there?’ he barked.
In her clipped German accent, she replied, ‘That depends on who iss asking.’
‘You know jolly well it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.’
She sniffed. ‘And I should care because…?’
‘Well, listen to this,’ he said and explained about the leaflet and small card that had smelt of Mr Johnson and the unclothed man. Bathsheba’s bark changed from disdain to one of interest.
‘And vot can ve do about it?’
‘I’m going to try to be there,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mistress might take you too?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Her mistress shouted at her to stop yapping, and Robert Louis Stevenson heard Bathsheba trot up the path to the patio. His heart swelled with joy. He had a date.
Well, almost.
He’d have to ensure Mistress brought him to the meeting and hope Bathsheba’s mistress took her, too. Even more challenging was the fact that Bathsheba couldn’t stand him. It was a shame because his body quivered with longing every time he thought of her.
Unfortunately, the next day, he had so many conversations with Bathsheba in the garden, filling her in on the coming meeting that Mistress became fed up with his noise and shut him in the kitchen.
That evening, Mistress got ready to go out but didn’t fetch his lead.
‘I’ll be back later,’ she said. ‘And keep quiet while I’m out, your barking is getting on everyone’s nerves.’
Robert Louis Stevenson went rigid. Did she intend to leave him behind? Surely not.
He dropped to the floor, his eyes rolling and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Mistress crouched next to him.
Well, he hadn’t lost his acting abilities.
He whimpered and looked up appealingly. If only he could talk, but he dared not bark again.
Mistress checked her watch. ‘Oh dear, I’ll have to take you with me. I can’t leave you like this.’
Robert Louis Stevenson couldn’t help it; the tip of his tail repeatedly thumped the kitchen tiles.
He waited until he’d got to the end of the garden path before perking up and trotting along happily beside Mistress.
‘Perhaps you just needed some fresh air, boy?’
Robert Louis Stevenson looked up and nodded his head.
In the church hall, he would have to be on his best behaviour. He’d even consider allowing the odious Reverend Forbes-Snell to tickle his ears without biting him. After their last meeting, it was unlikely the vicar would try to pet him, but just in case, Robert Louis Stevenson decided he’d grit his teeth and endure it if it meant he could meet up with Bathsheba. He would willingly make any sacrifice to be with her.
Mr Johnson had saved Mistress a seat in the front row and Robert Louis Stevenson settled down between her feet. He risked an exploratory sniff at Mr Johnson. Somewhere on his clothes, there was a hint of the unclothed man, although the scent wasn’t strong. Lifting his nose, he sampled the air in the hall for Bathsheba, but there were so many smells, Robert Louis Stevenson’s head spun.
Perhaps Bathsheba would be able to smell him. Her nose was more sensitive than his, and at the thought of her, he began to tremble.
Mistress patted his head and said to Mr Johnson, ‘Oh dear, he’s having another funny turn. I might have to take him to the vet tomorrow. He doesn’t seem himself.’
‘He is exactly himself,’ Mr Johnson said, unsympathetically.
Robert Louis Stevenson tried to stop thinking of Bathsheba and took control of his body.
But where was she?
Finally, he heard her delicate paws tip-tapping on the hall floor. He knew she was behind him, although he couldn’t see her.
The Reverend Forbes-Snell stood, a pompous smile on his face as he waited for the hubbub to die down. Surprisingly, silence fell quickly. For some reason, people appeared to be in awe of the ridiculous man. They must see something Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t. Or perhaps he could see something they couldn’t.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining us and foregoing your night’s television viewing.’ He laughed, but his eyes were hard, and Robert Louis Stevenson suspected he wasn’t tolerant of people’s TV habits.
‘The Parish Council and I…’ He stopped to extend one arm to the right and one to the left, indicating those who were with him on the dais. ‘We have some exciting news to share, and we also have a guest speaker to tell us more.’ He waved his pudgy hand towards a woman who was sitting in the front row.
She got up and stepped forward as Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes. ‘Ah, um, this is…’ He ran his finger down his list and looked up. ‘Sheila?’
‘It’s Doris,’ the woman snapped.
Even Robert Louis Stevenson jumped at her tone. Nobody spoke to the Reverend Forbes-Snell like that.
The vicar looked down at his notes and frowned. ‘I…um…I was expecting Sheila.’ His voice was plaintive.
‘My name is Doris Scuppet,’ the woman said.
Reverend Forbes-Snell drew back slightly as the woman stomped towards him in sensible flat shoes. ‘Of course you are. Ah, I see. Sheila couldn’t come and you have replaced her?’
The woman reached the seat that had been left for her, and the parish councillor next to her shuffled away, his face pinched with fear.
The woman’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘My name is Doris Scuppet. I belong to SHEILA.’
‘You belong…?’ The vicar’s brows rose in alarm. ‘Surely you don’t mean you belong…?’
‘Yes.’ Doris’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Reverend Forbes-Snell as if defying him to interrupt her again. ‘As I said, I belong to SHEILA, the Society of Horticultural Excellence In Local Areas.’
The Reverend Forbes-Snell checked his notes and sat down. Obviously, the guest needed no further introduction.
Doris took over.
A competition, blah blah.
Next year, blah blah.
Make the villages and towns beautiful, blah blah.
More blah, blah.
Robert Louis Stevenson yawned. Facing the front of the hall, he knew Bathsheba was somewhere in the audience, but she was behind him and, therefore, out of sight. Slowly, he shuffled his bottom, and by moving his front paws to the right, he turned slightly. Doris had apparently finished and there was unenthusiastic applause, during which he swivelled around and lay down. Now he could see through people’s legs, and he spotted Bathsheba two rows behind. Not that she was taking any notice – she looked in all directions except towards him, although he suspected she knew he was there.
How magnificent she was.
Robert Louis Stevenson began to quake, and he wondered if Mistress would notice if he slid silently – or as silently as one could slide with a jingly name tag attached to his collar, towards Bathsheba.
He should have known better. Mistress spotted him and bent to check he was all right. At the same time, Mr Johnson rose to go to the dais and Doris was on her way back to her seat.
Robert Louis Stevenson turned to face the front. He didn’t want Mistress to take him home because she thought he was ill. He needed to steady himself, and he couldn’t do that while he was looking at Bathsheba, so he turned and stared at Trevikins. Robert Louis Stevenson sniggered. At least it would take his mind off the beautiful, sassy sausage dog behind him.
Mr Johnson told everyone about the ‘Best Kept Street’ competition and appealed to people to organise themselves with their neighbours and to sign up on his website, so he knew which streets were entering. The winners would then assist him in preparing for the inter-town competition next year.
So far, so dull.
That was, until Mr Johnson mentioned that Riding Road’s committee, headed by him, would comprise Gladys Winterbottom, Daphne Didcott, Susan Stibthorpe, and he’d like another volunteer.
If Daphne Didcott was part of the committee, then it was possible Bathsheba would be at any meetings, too. Joy! He began to tremble again.
Finally, the meeting was over, and everyone had left the hall. The first meeting of the Riding Road Best Kept Street committee was due to meet at Mistress’s house two days later. Robert Louis Stevenson was desperate to know if Bathsheba would come with her mistress. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be a disaster – he’d simply go into the back garden and hope she was in hers.
But he needed to be more careful. While Mr Johnson had walked Mistress home after the Parish Council meeting, he’d suggested she take Robert Louis Stevenson to see the vet.
‘There’s something wrong with that dog, Gladwags.’
Mistress had agreed.
Perhaps Robert Louis Stevenson had overdone it earlier with his pretence of being ill. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen Bathsheba, nor heard the good news that their mistresses would soon be meeting.
He’d wagged his tail and peered around as if he was super-perky. Surely Mistress wouldn’t take him to the vet if he appeared well.
Unfortunately, Elsie had caught up with them as they’d walked home, and he’d forgotten his resolve to keep his body in check. He’d leapt at Elsie’s pink velvet tracksuit-clad leg and clung on before Mr Johnson had prised him off. Elsie had shrieked. Mistress had told Robert Louis Stevenson off and Mr Johnson had once again urged Mistress to take him to the vet.
‘That dog is always barking. He’s constantly harassing my poor Horatio and, as for his disgraceful behaviour with Elsie…’
Well, all dogs bark, so get used to it, Trevikins. And dogs chase cats, especially the sneaky ones like Horatio, who like to taunt dogs but pretend they’re victims. And as for ‘disgraceful behaviour’, Robert Louis Stevenson wasn’t sure what that meant, but since Elsie had been mentioned, presumably, it had something to do with losing control when she was around.
But there was nothing wrong with any of that and certainly nothing a vet could do about it, even if Mr Johnson had mentioned straightening Robert Louis Stevenson’s card.
The only card he could think of was a business card.
That just proved how ignorant Mr Johnson was. Just because he had a business card didn’t mean everyone else did. Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t own a business, so why would he need a business card? Numptie.
Later that day, Robert Louis Stevenson shot out into the garden. He could hear Bathsheba sniffling next door.
‘It iss you, Robert Louis Steeffenssen?’
He loved the way she pronounced his name. Not that she often said it, but when she did, it sent shivers through him. Was she warming to him? Her tone suggested she’d been waiting for him to go into the garden.
‘Will you be coming to Mistress’s meeting in two days’ time?’ he asked.
‘No, my mistress vill leave me here, but I vill be in the garden. I vill see you then.’
He would have skipped if he’d known how. He had a date. How marvellous! And she was still there in the garden talking to him.
‘I hear you are going to see the vet?’ she said.
‘Possibly. Mr Johnson is trying to persuade Mistress, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He thinks I’ve got a business. How stupid is that? He said my business card needs straightening. If you ask me, he needs to mind his own business.’ He sniggered. That was a good joke. He hoped it impressed Bathsheba.
There was silence for several seconds.
‘Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘Ja,’ said Bathsheba slowly. ‘Vot did he say exactly?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Voz it possible he said you should be card-straightened?’
‘Could be.’
‘Vot about car-straighted?’
‘Possibly. Whatever it was, didn’t make sense…’ Why was Bathsheba so interested?
‘Only you may be in for a very nasty shock if you go to the vet to be car-straighted.’
‘Why?’
She explained.
At first, he didn’t believe her, but she appeared to know what she was talking about with all the biological names. Finally, he was convinced.
So, it had nothing to do with being straightened out, nor with cards. It had plenty to do with relieving him of vital parts of his body. How could those bits even be removed? He felt sick at the thought.
He tiptoed back into the house, his back legs knocking, and crept into Mistress’s living room, where she was watching television. Wagging his tail, he attempted to look the picture of health.
‘Robert Louis Stevenson? Are you well?’
He opened his mouth in what he hoped resembled a smile and tried to make his eyes even brighter. His tail wagged so fast, his bottom wobbled.
‘Thank heavens. You look a lot better,’ said Mistress, patting her lap.
Robert Louis Stevenson leapt onto the sofa next to her and settled down as she tickled his ears.
It suddenly occurred to him that Bathsheba might have been joking, although that would have been rather cruel. The more he thought about it, the more he supposed she’d been wrong. What would she know?
However, when the subject of vets came up again, he’d certainly be on the alert. Until then, he’d be a perfect dog. He looked up at Mistress again and smiled.
She patted his head.
Robert Louis Stevenson snuggled closer to his mistress. He didn’t want to think about business cards or gardening. He didn’t want to think about Mr. Johnson. He definitely didn’t want to think about Bathsheba and Elsie. And as for the vet… No, no, no.
He would concentrate on keeping quiet and keeping his bits intact.
To read the previous stories:
Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html
Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html
Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html
Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html
Elsie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/07/elsies-story-by-dawn-knox-tea-and-buns.html
When Sally met Cyril (And Roger) is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/09/when-sally-met-cyril-and-roger-by-dawn.html
About the author
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