Sometimes, hardly have we dreamt that something will happen
than it does. It was fate steering the wheel again on this particular morning. Dorothy
was reading the daily newspaper over breakfast when she came across a very
interesting advertisement announcing
"The chance of a lifetime! A one-in-a-million opportunity to
go on a mystery tour of the universe.”
"Why not have a go? Just send a postcard to Duggy's the internationally
acclaimed dog biscuit manufacturers. Tell us in no more than a dozen words why
your dog eats Duggy's dog biscuits and we'll put the best slogans in the draw.
Don't hesitate. You've got nothing to lose!’
Although Dorothy was dubious about giving Minor anything that
she would not put on her own plate and justifiably sceptical about Duggy's
extravagant claims to global fame, she felt so elated at the idea of winning a
free holiday that she didn't even bother finishing her breakfast. Instead, she
took her shopping-list out of the cutlery drawer and added ‘Duggy's dog biscuits,
small packet’ and ‘postcard’ to it, and told Minor that they were going out.
For once Dorothy wasn't bothered about the bone Minor had
hidden under the hearthrug the previous day. Standing in front of the hall
mirror pushing a hatpin through her current shopping hat into the knot of hair
at the back of her head, she reflected that there was absolutely no time to
waste.
Minor gave a little ‘Woof’ of anticipation. They didn't
usually go into the village two days on the run and they always went past the
butcher’s shop. His mouth watered at the thought of Robert's juicy bones. Dorothy
checked that the front door was well and truly locked, then set off at a brisk
pace down the road, Minor close on her heels.
At the newsagent’s that sold stamps, she found herself at the
end of a very long queue of people who, much to Dorothy’s dismay, all bought
postcards and stamps. Everyone must have read the newspaper. Mr Davies was all
grace and favour. He didn’t usually have run on postcards and his takings on
stamps had to be turned in to the post office of course, but he quickly ran out
of plain, cheap postcards, so his customers were obliged to buy ones with
nature scenes or castle ruins on them at three times the price, and that was
exactly up the newsagent’s street. He would think twice about stocking plain
postcards ever again.
Next stop was at Verdi, the grocer’s emporium. Unhindered by
the image of an unfriendly dog barking ‘No dogs allowed’ sticky-taped onto the
door, Minor trailed into the shop behind Dorothy and hid behind the crates of
cabbages and other goods waiting to be sold. Minor did not have many arch
enemies, but Mr Verdi's sneering shop-assistant, Mr Bontemps, was one of them.
Minor could still remember his last involuntary encounter with one of Mr
Bontemps' sturdy army boots, so he wasn't taking any chances.
Mr Bontemps was a tall, thin, greasy-haired man with long
skinny fingers and a stained white overall who performed in amateur dramatics
whenever he could persuade someone to give him a part. He was very proud of his
deed-polled French name and he sometimes put on a French accent to impress
visitors to the village. But Dorothy knew that Mr Bontemps had never even been
as far as Dover, let alone the Continent (though he sometimes hinted at having been
in the Foreign Legion) and unfortunately he knew that she knew.
Everybody in front of Dorothy seemed to need Duggy's dog
biscuits, including Laura Finch, Dorothy’s musical comrade of London says, now familiar from the vicarage
committee meetings Dorothy had regrettably got Laura involved with. Mrs Finch
happened to be another of Minor's unfavourite people not least because he knew
that she didn’t like him. A frown furrowed Dorothy’s brow as she listened to Laura
giving her order to Mr Bontemps. The air always turned chilly when Dorothy and
Laura bumped into one another, but today the air became even chillier than
usual as Dorothy was forced to witness Laura’s request for Duggy's dog
biscuits.
Fawning Mr Bontemps sidled into the back of the shop and returned
bearing the requested item. He liked Laura Finch because she made him feel
important by addressing him in a theatrical voice and thanking him profusely,
and there were rumours that she was about to start a theatrical group in Lower
Grumpsfield.
“Anything else I can do for you, dear lady?” he enunciated in his
best Standard English voice at theatrical pitch. “Kippers fresh in, or a bit of
Cheshire for our tea?” At the very least, that tone of voice qualified him for
a butler role.
“Well, if you insist, Monsieur Bontemps,” Laura replied coyly.
After wrapping up a slab of the cheese and coming all the way round the counter
to help Laura with her shopping bag, the gratified Mr Bontemps bowed and
scraped in Shakespearian manner while he counted the loose change she had dropped
onto the palm of his outstretched hand. Mr Bontemps was not averse to having
his palm crossed in exchange for the best that Mr Verdi – the proprietor who,
incidentally, had never actually been sighted in Upper Grumpsfield – could
provide in the way of home produce and Gallic politeness.
Nodding conspiratorially at Mr Bontemps as though he were her
best friend, Laura backed away from the counter a step or two before spinning
round on her heels and elbowing her way towards the exit. She walked straight
into Dorothy, spilling some of the contents of her shopping bag on the floor. Dorothy
retrieved the dog biscuits nimbly while Laura made hard work of picking up the
rest of her groceries, since she had gone to fat after moving to Lower
Grumpsfield.
“Laura! What a surprise! I didn't know you had a dog,” said
Dorothy.
“I haven't,” retorted Laura, snatching the packet of dog
biscuits from Dorothy. “Haven't you seen this morning's paper?”
“Of course I have.”
“I’m planning to win that holiday, Dorothy. See if I don’t!”
Minor emerged from behind the cabbages ready to give Laura’s
left ankle a nip. Laura took one look at him and made a dash for the interim
safety of the pavement, clutching the dog biscuits like a trophy.
While Minor was chasing Laura to the bus stop, Dorothy
concentrated on getting to the front of the queue. Now Laura had left, Mr
Bontemps reverted to his pseudo French accent. There was run on Duggy’s dog
biscuits. The customers were unusually silent as they shuffled for positions. At
last, Dorothy was able to ask for the desired commodity.
“Sorry, malheureusement and regretfully we are all sold out,” Said
Mr Bontemps, rolling his rrr’s at the back of his throat and not sounding the
least bit sorry.
“‘Are you sure?”
“Allors! Want to look for yourself?” he said grinning
cheekily.
“Well, you haven't looked, have you?” retorted Dorothy.
“Oh yes I have,” said Mr Bontemps, forgetting about his French
accent. “Everyone in the village has been in for some. Have some butter-creams
instead.”
“My dog does not eat butter-creams.”
“Sorry, I’m sure.” Mr Bontemps thought the old bag was being
even touchier than usual.
“So am I.”
With those words, Dorothy stalked out of the shop without buying
anything at all.
Laura Finch had boarded a bus without even finding out where
it was going to just to shake Minor off. He always knew where Dorothy would be
going next, so he had run on ahead and was already standing on Robert the
butcher’s doorstep. Minor was wagging his tail expectantly when Dorothy
arrived, still red in the face after her disagreeable confrontations with Mr
Bontemps and Laura.
“Good morning, my dear,” said Robert, greeting her in his most
mellifluent tones. He was a jovial Welshman of generous stature with a black
and white striped apron strapped over his white overall. Robert devoted his
considerable vocal prowess to the church choir every Sunday morning and sang
along with his radio on every other day of the week. He never had a cross word
for anyone and called all his female customers his dear.
“What can I do for you and that lovely little dog of yours, my
dear?”
Minor gave a delighted little ‘Woof’. There was a NO DOGS sign
on the door to comply with regulations, but of course, Minor could not read and
Robert did not care much for unnecessary restrictions. Any dog that entered his
shop knew how to behave.
“Two lamb chops and a quarter of boiled ham, please, Mr Jones.”
“Two lamb chops and a quarter of ham it is, my dear,” repeated
Robert, jumping up and down as he chopped the chops.
“Nice day today, isn’t it?” he conjectured as he rolled the
ham slices in shiny paper with his name written all over it.
“Not for me, it isn't. I can't get any Duggy's dog biscuits.”
“Duggy's dog biscuits? Are you trying to poison that poor dog
of yours?”
“No, Mr Jones. I want to enter the competition in the morning
paper, but I don't even know what the biscuits look like.”
Robert absentmindedly popped a slice of the boiled ham into
his own mouth.
“Laura Finch bought the very last packet, and she hasn't even
got a dog.”
Robert knew exactly how Dorothy felt, but he had a shop to run
and could not afford to drive away any of his regular customers. That included Laura,
who patronised his shop to stock up on home-made sausages and other delicacies
instead of choosing the new-fangled supermarket in Middlethumpton, where
everything came from somewhere else and origins were kept a state secret. So he
took great care not to discuss one of his customers with another.
“Don't worry, my dear. I'll tell you what Duggy's dog biscuits
are like. They're terrible, that’s what they are. Terrible! I wouldn't give
them to my worst enemy, if I had one.”
Robert racked his brains for anyone he might want give Duggy's
dog biscuits to while he trimmed and wrapped the lamb chops, putting an extra
one on top for good measure and winking slyly at Minor as he did so.
“Are you quite sure, Mr Jones?”
Dorothy offered him a banknote and he waved it away.
“It’s on the house today, Dorothy, but only if you call me
Robert.”
Some people gave things to charity and he helped in his own
way. It didn’t hurt to be nice to people now and again. On the contrary, he had
a thriving business.
“You are very kind, Robert,” said Dorothy. She was a little
embarrassed and not in need of charity, but Robert Jones would have been hurt
if she had spurned his generosity.
“Don’t mention it, my dear. You take my advice and keep away
from Duggy's dog biscuits, isn't it?” Robert wiped his hands on his apron before coming round the
counter to put the chops and ham into Dorothy’s shopping-bag and a juicy bone
between Minor’s eager fangs.
Slipping into his native Welsh tongue and squeezing Dorothy's
hand, Robert thanked her for her custom with a little bow and a ‘Diolch yn fawr’.
He also made a somewhat evangelical gesture, which might have been a blessing,
but it could also have been a salute to the next customer about to enter his
shop. It was Cleo Hartley, who fascinated him with her American lilt and
seemingly indomitable spirit.
“Now you stay away from those dog biscuits, won't you? And
have a nice day, my dear!”
Dorothy did not think she would. Giving Cleo a sweet smile and
wondering how long it would take Robert Jones to ask Cleo for a date, Dorothy
set off for home. Minor had gone on ahead and would be sitting on the doorstep deciding
what to do with his new bone.
At lunchtime, Dorothy put four lamb chops (I thought I’d asked
for two) under the grill and thought seriously about the competition. She tried
to imagine what dog biscuits were like, but since she gave Minor only food she fancied
herself, she did not feel very hopeful about finding an advertising slogan
worthy of a tour of the universe.
After three cups of tea and some of the cake she had baked
that morning. Dorothy fetched a pencil and paper and sat down at the kitchen
table to compile a list. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained’, she exhorted
herself, though the slogan-creating corner of her mind was a blank. It did not
take her long to realize that her talent for writing slogans was very modest.
She would have to forget all about the prize. After all, she had managed
without a tour of the universe up to now.
Dorothy then remembered that she had not washed up, so she got
to work. On hearing the clatter of plates, Minor came rushing in and ate the
two lamb chops left over from lunch. Dorothy abandoned the washing up and sat down to have one last try at
slogan-composing.
Minor lay down and closed his eyes. He could tell that Dorothy
was anguishing over something. She read some of the slogans aloud. They sounded
even sillier that way.
“Well, never mind. I wouldn’t like the universe, Minor. Too
far away and probably too hot,” she declaimed.
Minor growled at the imaginary cat that haunted his dream.
“But if I'm not going to win, Minor, I might just as well tell
Duggy's exactly what Robert thinks about their biscuits,” Dorothy added in
stentorian tones.
Minor opened his eyes expectantly at the word ‘biscuits’.
“Anyway, it's a pity to waste the postcard.”
After scribbling ‘Humans think Duggy's dog biscuits taste
terrible, but dogs love them!’ on the back of a postcard with a picture of
Tower Bridge on the front, Dorothy addressed the card and hurried to the post-box
on the corner to consign the slogan to its fate.
