Eva Ibbotson - One Dog and His Boy

They had taken the dogs back to the lorry and were helping out in the tent where the performing animals were housed. For a small sum the audience could visit them in their cages after the show.

“Excuse me.” Hal turned to find the ginger-haired boy who’d been sitting next to him.

Clutching his hand was the tiny girl with jet-black hair. “I was wondering if there was any chance of seeing the little dog that tried to pull the cart. The Peke. She’s nutty about him.”

Nini looked up. “Small dog,” she said.

“I think she’s seen dogs like that where she came from. Temple dogs they were, guarding the monks and chasing away evil spirits and all that stuff. But it’s amazing because she’s never taken notice of anything up till now. I’ve got permission from our house mother, as long as we’re not too long. She’s taken the others to look at the liberty horses.”

“Small dog,” repeated Nini, who never spoke.

“He’s in the lorry with the others – just across the grass,” said Hal. “Come on, we’ll show you.”

They were greeted by a chorus of friendly barks. Mick lifted Nini up on to the hay bales and she disappeared into the huddle of dogs. When they looked at her again, they saw something unexpected. Nini had not picked up Li-Chee or hugged him. She was sitting cross-legged in front of him, not touching him, murmuring to him in her own language while Li-Chee stood very still, his face lifted respectfully up to hers. It was obvious that he understood every word.

“You can’t imagine what a thing this is,” said Mick, and in a few words he gave them Nini’s history.

The children had moved a little way away, giving Nini as long as they could. They were talking quietly, beginning to make friends, when two stable lads came past.

“Look at this,” said one. “Here on page two.” There was a rustle of pages being turned. “That’s the spit an’ image of the boy with the white dog. The one that’s staying with Bill and Myra. Don’t tell me it isn’t.”

The children, hidden by the side of the lorry, froze into silence.

The other lad whistled through his teeth. “‘Twenty-thousand-pound reward for news of him,’ it says. It can’t be the same boy.”

“Maybe not. But it looks like him and it’s worth a chance. The phone number’s here.”

The men moved away out of earshot. Mick, looking at Hal and Pippa, saw the shock on their faces.

“I don’t want to pry, but if there’s anything I can do to help?” he said. “I mean if you’re on the run or something.” And as the children exchanged glances, he said, “You don’t have to explain, I’ll help you just the same. It makes no odds to me.”

Hal only hesitated for a moment. The redheaded boy was probably quite as much in need of twenty thousand pounds as the circus lad. But Hal felt certain that Mick was to be trusted, that he was honest and truthful and brave. He said, “Yes, maybe you could help. We’ll have to leave here at once, but we don’t really know where we are or anything. We ought to hide somewhere overnight, I suppose, and then start off at dawn.”

Pippa looked at him, frowning. It was usually she who made the decisions – and they knew nothing about the boy.

“You can spend the night at our place,” said Mick. “There’s a big boiler room in the basement. No one goes there. I know where the key is. I’ll get it and get some food down there and blankets. There’s only Mrs Platt at night and she sleeps like a top.”

“Would you really?” said Hal. “I think that might work. But how do we get to you? Did you come in a bus?”

Mick shook his head.

“We walked. It’s only twenty minutes from here. I’ll draw you a map.”

“What about the other children?” asked Pippa. “Can you trust them not to give us away?”

Mick said, “Yes.”

They left a note for George. It was hard lying to someone who had been so helpful but there was nothing else to do. The note said that Aunt Elsa had got in touch and told them that she couldn’t manage to get north because her brother-in-law was in hospital, so they were taking the overnight bus back to London. Fortunately Bill and Myra had gone out to the cinema, so the children were able to say goodbye by letter, and to thank them for all they had done.

Then they gathered up their belongings and went to fetch the dogs.

At first all went well. The dogs liked the idea of a late-night walk. They noticed that Pippa had strapped on her haversack and Hal carried his holdall, and both of them wore their anoraks. For Fleck and Otto and Li-Chee and Honey this meant that they were off on another adventure and they were ready for it.

But not Francine. Francine knew that they were leaving. Leaving the circus – and leaving Rupert.

She sat down where she was. She threw back her head and she howled. It was the most desperate and forlorn sound the children had ever heard. And from George’s camper where he now slept, Rupert replied and came to her.

What followed was almost unbearable. The poodles stood together in the dusk; their bodies so close that they might have been one thing. They did not bark or complain; they only shivered as sorrow gripped them.

Hal and Pippa watched, and the other dogs too. Could they force Francine away? She loved the life of the circus, and she loved Rupert. It was a proper enduring passion, they knew that.

Yet could they go on without her? This flight was an adventure they all shared.

The two poodles still stood like statues. No one else existed for them. Otto took a few steps towards them and then stopped. He and Francine had been friends for a long time, but he did nothing. Francine would have to decide this for herself.

“Come on, Hal,” said Pippa, who could bear it no longer. “We have to get on. She’s got a right to stay.”

They turned and made their way slowly over the trampled grass. They had reached the entrance to the circus when Francine gave a last, heart-rending howl. Then she turned away from Rupert and raced after them.

Mrs Platt was snoring – a great juddering noise that sounded as though it would rattle the window frames. One of the boys whom Mick had put on guard leaned out of the landing window and signalled to Mick in the shrubbery to say that all was clear.

In the girl’s room, Nini lay silently in her bed, but she was not asleep.

It was almost dark now. They would be here soon – and Mick settled down to wait.

The dogs walked slowly. They had had a hard day and their performance in the ring had tired them. The last dog, as they made their way through the unfamiliar streets, was Francine. She was usually so light on her feet, but now she could hardly put one paw in front of the other, and her head was down. Every step was taking her further from where she wanted to be and she looked as though she didn’t care whether she lived or died.

Hal was trying to read Mick’s map, hastily scribbled on the back of an envelope. In the failing light they took a wrong turn – but at last they came to the iron gate of Greystoke House.

There was no time to be anxious – Mick was there in a moment.

“You must be absolutely quiet,” Pippa told the dogs. They understood, and followed as Mick led them round to the back of the building and down a short flight of stone steps.

They found themselves in a boiler room with a bare stone floor, coiled pipes round the walls, a big heater humming in one corner. The windows were shuttered and a faint blue light hung overhead. It was dry and warm, and in a corner they found blankets and pillows which Mick’s friends had “borrowed” from the storeroom and brought down in secret. A big bowl of water, and plates piled with meatballs and rice, pinched from the children’s supper, were laid out on the floor.