The Rift by Paula R C Readman, Craft beer: Old Speckled Hen, distinctive rich malty ale bursting with toffee character, fruity aroma and deliciously smooth.

‘Ethan, are you ready?’ Martin called me.

‘Yes, I won’t be a minute.’ I replied, stepping away from the bedroom window. The view of the park, an oasis of green amidst an ever-expanding city, caused me to reminisce on a chance meeting between our mums shortly after we were born that led to a friendship between Martin and me that’s lasted a lifetime.

As children, we explored every corner of the park. From the duck pond to the ice cream parlour, we raced our bikes along the paths. On the boating lake, we were pirates, while in the rose garden, knights with our wooden swords. As we grew older, Martin’s mum would drop him off before school and pick him up after finishing work. Sometimes, during the summer, my parents would invite them for tea. One day, I asked Mum, why Martin’s father never came with them.

 ‘It’s rude to ask such personal questions, Ethan,’ she replied. ‘People will share things with you, if they feel you have a right to know.’

It’s only now, after all these years that my question has finally been answered.

 

Martin’s mum and my parents passed away many years ago, along with our wives in recent years. Our children have emigrated for a better life so now; our friendship sustains us as Martin’s health declines. Most evenings and weekends, we would meet in the park to go to the theatre or for a meal out.

As children, Martin and I hated routine, but now we find it comforting. One morning as I reached the bench, where I always met Martin, a cosy spot under the spreading horse chestnut tree, with a view over the boating lake, I noticed a dark shape lay between the back of the bench, partially hidden by the laurel bush. I moved closer to get a better look. There appeared to be a bushy tail and paws.

 ‘A fox,’ I thought. The golden-red fur was dull and stained with dirt and blood. Had it crawled there to die after being hit crossing a busy road? I hoped the poor thing hadn’t suffered. Martin came from the opposite direction, and waved before pointing with his cane. I nodded, acknowledging that I had spotted the creature, too.

‘A dead fox?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ I peered over the back of the bench. To my surprise, a pair of sad, brown eyes met mine as the creature lifted its head and whimpered. ‘Oh, it’s a dog.’

‘Has it been hit by a car?’ Martin asked as he sat on the bench while I tried to coax the dog out.

‘It’s a corgi. Come on, you’re among friends.’  

‘A corgi,’ Martin repeated as though trying to remember something. ‘Apart from the old queen, who else do we know who owns one?’

I met Martin’s gaze as I gently stroked the dog’s head. He nudged my hand weakly as I reached for his shoulders and carefully edged him towards me until I could lift him into my arms.

 ‘Be careful; he might bite,’ Martin warned.

 ‘The poor thing is so thin; he hasn’t the energy to bite. We’ll take him back to mine,’ I said, hugging the corgi to me.

 

In the kitchen, Martin spread an old towel over the counter. The dog lay, breathing weakly, barely opening its eyes as I whispered soothing words while examining its legs and body, parting the fur to check for signs of injury.

 ‘No fractures or wounds, just undernourished. We need to get some fluids into him. Where’s Libby’s turkey baster? That’ll help us get the fluids into its mouth.’ I pulled out the cooking utensil drawer. 

‘I’ll look in the garage for a box to make him a bed,’ Martin said.

‘You’ll find a couple of old blankets, too,’ I said as Martin stepped into the garage.

After we managed to get some beef soup into the dog, and settled him in the box by the warm radiator. Martin asked, ‘Could I stay tonight, Ethan?’

‘Of course you can. We can take turns watching over our patient,’ I said, preparing us something to eat.

 ‘Shouldn’t we report finding the dog to the police, or at least someone?’

‘Let’s wait until the morning.’ I opened the oven door to check on the pies.’

‘The owner must be local. My mum and I often encountered a woman in the park who had corgis when I was young. Mum must have known her through working at the bank. The lady was always polite to me, asking about school, but she was always offhandish with Mum. Mum told me I must never be rude to her because her husband and son died in a car accident, leaving her all alone. She lived in the big house by the river, the one with the high fences.

‘Oh, I know the house you mean. The Lovejoys owned the jewellers in town.’ I said, placing the plates on the table.

‘Oh, Lovejoy… My Sally often encountered Mrs. Lovejoy walking her dog in the park and called her, Lady Penelope because she wore a hairband in her short blond hair and her corgi wore a diamante collar. Are you saying the lady, with the corgis, I met as a child is the same woman, Sally spoke about?’

‘I’ve no idea, Martin. All I know is the Lovejoy family owned the large Victorian house, with its gargoyles.’ I looked towards the sleeping dog. ‘It’s a pity this corgi doesn’t have a collar.’ I leant down to check him. His breathing seemed stronger as his legs twitched. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said maybe someone removed the collar, because they thought the diamonds were real.’

‘That’s a possibility. Would you like a beer to accompany your dinner?’ I opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Speckled Hen. Martin nodded, and I set a bottle and glass in front of him.

After taking a sip and setting his glass down, he said, ‘I could get used to this quickly. I expect you miss your Libby just as much as I miss Sally.’

‘Yeah, coming home to an untidy house and a cold kitchen makes you wonder whether you told them enough about how much you appreciate the time they took to keep everything homely.’

‘My mum ensured I knew all the shortcuts to tidying the home. Sally reckoned I could manage without her, but I miss her company the most.’

‘Yes, talking to yourself, isn’t fun. I thought about getting a rescue dog, or cat that needs a loving home,’ I said, between mouthfuls of food.

‘This pie is lovely. Full of rich gravy.’

‘I made them following the recipe Sally gave Libby,’ I laughed.

‘That’s why it tastes great. So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

 

The night passed peacefully, with Martin taking the first shift. The little dog curled up on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. I relieved Martin at three o’clock, and told him to get some rest. He nodded and went to the guest room. I stayed awake until dawn thinking about Mrs Lovejoy and her corgis.

Was the sleeping dog one of hers?

At eight o’clock, I decided to make a full English breakfast for us— an energy boost for the day ahead. With sausages grilling, I began to fry some eggs. Suddenly, something nudged my leg. When I looked down, I saw a bright, foxy face with brown eyes sparkling with life as a fluffy tail brushed the floor excitedly.

‘Hey, buddy. You look much better today,’ I said, scratching his head. He barked happily.

‘Shh, don’t wake Martin,’ I whispered. The dog lay down on the floor, tilting his head to one side.

The kitchen door opened and Martin walked in, wearing my dad’s old robe. ‘It wasn’t the corgi that woke me, but the delicious smell of a cooked breakfast.'

The corgi ran over to Martin, who rubbed his head, and then rushed back to me, sitting up to beg.

‘Yes, there are some sausages for you, too,’ I laughed.

 

After tidying the kitchen, I poured us fresh coffee and asked. ‘Do you think we should go to the Lovejoy house to see if our friend came from there?’

 ‘Definitely, but we need a lead and collar.’

 ‘Just give me a moment. I’ll phone my neighbour; she might have a spare one.’ When I returned from next door, I found Martin feeding slices of ham to the corgi.

 ‘What are you doing?’

 ‘Rhys is still hungry.’

 ‘Rhys?’

 ‘Yes, we can’t keep calling him Dog.’

 ‘Okay, it’s a good Welsh name. You get dressed while I put the harness on Rhys.’

 

Rhys seemed to know where he was going as we walked through the park. He trotted ahead quite happily. After leaving the park, we walked along the main road before turning onto an avenue lined with mature trees. Large, imposing Victorian properties had neat front gardens and parking for cars, but one stood out from the rest. Though it was the grandest, it was also the most unkempt. Two police cars stood on the weed-filled driveway. As we approached the front door, Rhys pulled hard on his lead.

 ‘He definitely lives here,’ Martin said.

 Before we had time to knock, the door opened, and a police officer asked sharply, ‘Can I help you?’

 ‘We came to see Mrs. Lovejoy,’ Martin replied, struggling to stop Rhys from wrapping his lead around the police officer’s legs.

 ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs. Lovejoy isn’t available. May I ask what you wanted to see her about?’

 ‘We think this is her dog. We found him in the park yesterday morning,’ I explained.

 ‘Just a moment.’ The officer closed the door and disappeared into the house. A few minutes later, a woman accompanied him.

 ‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Julie Roth. So you think you’ve found Mrs. Lovejoy’s dog.’

 ‘Yes, the dog was hiding under the bench, near the boating lake, but we’re not sure he is her dog. There’s no collar, you see. Has something happened to Mrs. Lovejoy?

 ‘How well did you know her?’

 ‘Not at all. I only knew her family owned the jewellers in town and she’s the only person locally we knew who owned corgis.’

 ‘My wife, Sally used to see her walking her dog in the park,’ Martin added.

 ‘Did the dog have a collar when you found it?’ the detective asked.

 ‘No. So you don’t think the dog belongs to her?’

 ‘Let’s have your details, if you’ll give them to my officer here. Would it be possible for you to look after the dog overnight again? He’ll be happier with you, than at a rescue centre. Tomorrow morning, I would like to come and see you both,’ she said, her serious tone leaving us uneasy.

 

On our way home, after picking up some tins of dog food, Rhys twisted free from his harness and darted for the shrubbery near where we found him.

‘Great, just what we need— a runaway dog, when the police are coming to see us tomorrow,’ Martin grumbled.

‘Don’t worry,’ I called over my shoulder as I pushed between two laurel bushes. At the centre of a shrubbery, I found Rhys digging. ‘Hey, boy, what are you up to?’

Rhys laid flat, his paws either side of a jewel-covered collar.

‘What do you have there, boy?’

‘Well, I never! It looks like he hid his collar. But why?’ Martin said holding back a laurel branch

 ‘Let’s go back to mine, and phone the police,’ I said.

 

Back home, I informed DI Roth what Rhys had dug up in the park, while Martin was busy examining it. Suddenly, he gasped and held up the collar.

‘These aren’t real diamonds on this collar.’

‘I didn’t think they were; just diamante.’

‘No, but these are real,’ Martin held up a tiny glass vial he found sewn into the lining of the collar. Stones of various sizes sparkled in the light.

‘DI Roth, we’ve just uncovered some raw diamonds hidden within the collar.’

‘Did you say diamonds?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’m on my way.’

I turned to Martin. ‘I don’t like this. How did the diamonds get into the collar?’

‘The question should be: why did Mrs Lovejoy hide them in the first place?’

 

The doorbell rang just as I finished preparing a bite to eat for us. Martin, followed closely by Rhys, headed to the front door while I covered the sandwiches, and popped them in the fridge. When I entered the living room, I found Martin chatting to DI Roth and a tall man in a well-cut suit.

‘Ethan, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Iris Lovejoy’s solicitor, Mr. Robert Fiske. He’s here to speak with us about Rhys, whose real name is Bertie Lovejoy, ‘Martin said.

‘Bertie…’ I laughed as the little dog sat up and extended a paw. I gestured to the others to sit down. Mr. Fiske placed his briefcase on his knees and opened it.

‘What has this to do with the diamonds, DI Roth?’ I asked.

‘Please allow Mr. Fiske to explain, Mr. Quinn and Mr. Waters,’ Roth said.

Mr. Fiske pulled out a folder. ‘I’m delighted to meet you both, although it is under sad circumstances. Mr. Waters, two nights ago, Mrs. Lovejoy’s home was broken into. While she managed to raise the alarm, by the time the police arrived, she had suffered a stroke. In the chaos with the arrival of the ambulance, her companion Bertie escaped. Naturally, the focus was on Mrs. Lovejoy, rather than her dog.’ Mr. Fiske selected another sheet of paper and spoke directly to Martin. ‘Mrs. Lovejoy left strict instruction that should anything unforeseen happen to her I was to trace her grandson, Martin Waters and give him this letter.’

‘My grandmother! I don’t understand. Why wasn’t I aware of this?’

‘Everything will be explained in the letter,’ Mr. Fiske continued. ‘Mrs Lovejoy wanted to make sure should anything happen to her that her little companion, Bertie Lovejoy would have a loving home. Are you two gentlemen in the position to take on Bertie?’

 ‘Yes,’ We both replied without hesitation.

‘Right, if you would be kind enough to sign this paper.’

I turned to DI Roth.

‘It’s all above board, I can assure you, Mr. Quinn,’ she said with a smile.

Martin and I signed the paper.

‘Now, if I can have the tube of diamonds please.’ Mr. Fiske held out his hand. Once it disappeared into the briefcase, he continued, ‘Mrs. Lovejoy wished for the estate be sold, upon her death, which includes the diamonds which are Bertie’s inheritance. Most of the capital will go to animal charities. The good news is Mrs Lovejoy would’ve approved of you both taking care of her Bertie and her will covers all his financial needs.

I found my voice and asked, ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying?’

Mr. Fiske nodded. ‘Bertie is a wealthy dog.’

Bertie wagged his tail excitedly, seeming to understand the situation.

 

As Martin and I watched Mr. Fiske and DI Roth leave, Martin said, ‘Maybe I should move in with you and Bertie.’

‘Funny enough, I had the same thought. Let’s have a drink and talk about it.’

‘First, let’s see what my grandmother has to say.’ Martin’s face darkened as he tore open the envelope.

‘I’ll fix us both a drink. Oh, just a thought, Martin: if Mrs Lovejoy was your grandmother and her son was your father, does that make Bertie your uncle?’

 ‘I suppose it does,’ Martin said with a laugh. ‘I wish Mum had told me.’

‘Maybe she did in a way. She told you the lady in the park had a husband and son who died in a car accident.’

‘Of course, Mrs. Lovejoy was the lady in the park. That explains why she gave my mum the cold shoulder,’ Martin said as he unfolded the letter.

‘I’m sure the letter will explain everything. I’ll sort out dinner. Come here, Rhys—sorry, Bertie. Let’s get you your dinner while Martin concentrates on reading the letter.’

 

After our meal, Martin read parts of the letter aloud. ‘It’s unbelievable! Mrs. Lovejoy has left me my father’s inheritance. Tomorrow, I must go and see Mr. Fiske about what will happen next.’

‘Martin, that’s wonderful news. Maybe with the inheritance, you could move to Canada to be with your daughter.’

‘It’s a lot to think about, Ethan.’

‘At least, it’s good to know Mrs. Lovejoy was sorry for the way she treated your mother.’

‘Mum was right, she was a sad, lonely woman overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her loved ones. Maybe, if Mum and Dad had married before he died she might have felt differently about us,’ Martin said with sigh. ‘I would’ve loved to know more about my father.’

‘Things were different in her generation. Anyway, we can do some research at the library. Maybe the solicitor will tell you more. Do you still want to move in with me?’

‘Yes, it would be far easier for us both to look after Rhys…I mean, Bertie. I’ll have to get used to his real name. I could buy a share in your house after the sale of mine; I can divide the money between your son and my daughter. What do you think?’

‘That’s a great idea!’

‘Thank you. I really wouldn’t want to move to Canada, Ethan. I can’t leave Bertie or you. With my health the way it is, I don’t suppose Canada would want me. We can have trips out together for the rest of our days.’ Martin said raising his glass.

‘Yes, we’ll make Bertie’s life a fun one.’ I raised mine, too. ‘We can finally relax and enjoy our golden years without any worries. Bertie will keep us busy and healthy.’

We laughed as Bertie barked his agreement.  

About the auhtor 

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer. She shares her life with her husband, Russell, and two cats. She collaborates with three publishers and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

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