One Young Fool in Dorset Read Online Free Page A

Jeannie and Beach Days
    M y mother didn’t want us to have pets, and
she didn’t like dogs much. When I asked her why, she said it was
because her mother bred dogs. That sounded like a reason to like dogs, not dislike them. I really didn’t understand, but
her mother and dogs were topics she refused to talk about, so I
regretfully accepted the state of affairs.
    We children never met our grandmother or
grandfather. It wasn’t until I was nearly sixty years old and
living in Spain that we discovered the jaw-dropping secret my
mother took to her grave. Until then, we didn’t know what became of
our grandfather, or why my mother wouldn’t speak of our
grandmother, or her own childhood. But that’s another story which I
saved for the fourth Old Fools book .
    However, there were two canine exceptions to my
mother’s rule. She actually liked two particular dogs. One
was Sam, a border collie belonging to our friends, the Hale family,
who owned a large country estate on the other side of Wareham. Sam
was grumpy and known to bite, which terrified me, but I knew that
he was astonishingly intelligent. He was a trained sheep dog and
knew what was needed even before his master did. He could even open
gates.
    The other exception was beautiful Jeannie.
    About six houses down the road from our house lived
Mrs Cox, and her dog Jeannie. Mrs Cox was retired, but she used to
be a professional photographer, and she had devoted much of her
life to raising money for guide dogs for the blind. Jeannie was a
golden retriever, and was being trained as a guide dog until she
displayed a fear of manhole covers. Obviously her guide dog
training couldn’t continue. She never made the grade and was
adopted by Mrs Cox instead.
    Jeannie was friendly, happy, and obedient. She was
gentle and loved everybody. Even my mother couldn’t help herself
and was fond of Jeannie.
    At breakfast, the morning after we’d lost Timmy the
tortoise, I was still miserable. My mother suddenly spoke up.
    “What about Jeannie?” she said.
    “Jeannie? Mrs Cox’s dog Jeannie?” asked my father.
“What about her?”
    “You know how clever she is? And she’s a retriever,
yes?”
    “Of course.”
    “ Ach , why don’t we ask Mrs Cox to bring
Jeannie round here and see if they can find Timmy?”
    “Worth a try, I suppose, but I don’t hold out much
hope.”
    My father was doubtful but I was ecstatic. I was sure clever Jeannie would find Timmy.
    Later that morning, we all traipsed round to Mrs
Cox’s house and my mother explained the situation.
    “I think Jeannie and I might be able to help,” said
Mrs Cox, one hand on Jeannie’s soft head. “Let’s go round to your
place and see what we can do.”
    Back in our garden, we stood and watched.
    Mrs Cox took Jeannie to Timmy’s run. She lifted the
roof off Timmy’s little house and Jeannie snuffled the straw
inside, her feathery tail lashing in wide sweeps. Then she looked
up at Mrs Cox for instructions.
    “Jeannie, go find it!”
    Jeannie flew down the garden path and bounded onto
the lawn. We all followed at a run.
    “Go find it!” repeated Mrs Cox, panting.
    Jeannie zigzagged across the lawn, nose down, tail
high. We trailed her. At the lawn’s edge, she paused and looked up
at her mistress as though asking for permission.
    “Jeannie, go find it!” said Mrs Cox.
    Jeannie plunged into the flowerbed and I heard my
mother’s sharp intake of breath as her precious plants were pushed
aside. Jeannie weaved her way through and out the other side. With
her wet, black nose inches from the ground, Jeannie continued down
another path, along the side of a hedge, then paused at my mother’s
compost heap.
    The compost heap was a giant box constructed by my
father with slats of wood. In very cold weather you could see it
steaming. On warm days I sometimes saw slow-worms (harmless legless
lizards, not worms at all) sunning themselves on top.
    We all stopped, a little out of breath. Jeannie was
panting now, pink tongue