Louisa Bennet - Monty and Me

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

This edition published 2020

Copyright © Louisa Bennet 2015

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Louisa Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008435257

Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008127664

Version: 2020-08-13

To Ann Young, Zina Daniel and Maureen Larkin.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about.

‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling.

What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it.

Duck!

I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head.

‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’

She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling.

I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation.

‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones.

‘Om shanti,’ they reply.

The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling!

I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating.

‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’

Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws.

‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle.

I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile.

‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath.

The duck quacks out ‘Tosser!’ as she waddles off, a little wobbly.

I watch her go, my ears flat, head lowered, tail tucked in, confused by Rose’s reaction. Not the duck’s. They never take it well.

‘This isn’t going to work if you eat the ducks. You have to leave them alone, Monty,’ she says, wagging her finger.

Even when she’s cross she’s softly spoken. It’s like a gentle breeze whispering through tall grass.

I ‘harrumph’ and sit.

Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom is the alpha, the pack leader. My new pack. I can’t quite wrap my brain around what a sidebottom is, since the ones I like to sniff are most definitely at the back. So I think of her as Rose. She’s a trainee detective. I sympathise. I was a trainee guide dog once, and it’s not easy having your every move watched and judged. On the way here I spotted her training harness in the back of the car. Who’d have thought detectives wear them too! Except she calls hers a stab jacket. Not sure why.

I peer up at her eyes, the colour of Blu Tack. How do I know? I tried eating some once. Very chewy, which was great fun. But not very tasty. Her mousy brown hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that reminds me of a bushy tail. I know she is not very tall because my head comes up to her waist, but she is strong, as I found out when I bolted from my cage and she grabbed my collar. She’s not one for glinting, clinking jewellery and she dresses in monotones – today, it’s a grey trouser suit. The only exception is an antique silver watch with narrow strap and diamonds around the tiny face that carries someone else’s smell: a sickly person wrapped in blankets. Even this she keeps hidden under her shirt cuff. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be noticed.

Rose gnaws her lower lip. She looks worried. Is this because I chased the ducks? Oh no. I feel bad about that. I’ll have to try not to. Will be hard though. Goes against my instincts. You know the Retriever thing.