Bertie's Gift

by Hannah Coates

Genres: Family Life; Holiday books; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The heartwarming story of how the little dog with the biggest heart saves Christmas . ***** 'Charming, touching - an absolute gift of a book!' Katie Fforde 'If you love animals, you will adore this gorgeous book.' Milly Johnson Bertie is all alone : his beloved sister and fellow beagle Molly has been adopted, leaving him behind. But when Bertie is taken in by the Green family, it seems he's finally found a place to call home. Yet he swiftly realises that the kind and loving Green family is in crisis. After a tragedy two years ago, they've never recovered - and as Christmas approaches, grief is pulling them apart. Never has a four-legged friend been more in need - and brave, warm-hearted Bertie must rise to the challenge. Can he find Molly and bring the Green family back together again...all in time for Christmas Day?

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

ONE

‘Never despair – even when it’s slop for dinner.’

 

‘Wheeee!’ I launch myself across the wet kitchen lino on my rump for the seventh time. The world spins brilliantly with my body, and my ears begin to lift. ‘Look at me, Molly, I’m skating.’

My sister shakes her head, but she’s grinning, her pink tongue hanging out. She’s been enjoying the show from a safe vantage point under the kitchen table, where Mr Minton is less likely to walk past and tread on her paw or tail by accident. He’s old, so it only hurts when he’s wearing his heavy boots instead of his deliciously smelly slippers. But she knows I don’t like her to risk it. Not with her bad leg.

Molly’s bad leg is my fault. That’s how I see it, at any rate.

Back when we were puppies together, skidding back and forth across another kitchen floor with our siblings, someone brought a delivery to the front door, and Mum’s owner left the front door open while she carried the box through to the kitchen.

Now, Mum knew we were all brainless fur balls at that age. So she had warned us very specifically never to leave the house, however green and tempting the front lawn seemed.

‘It’s not safe outside the house,’ Mum told us all repeatedly, licking behind our ears as she did every morning and every evening. ‘There’s a busy road out there. Full of cars.’

‘What are cars?’ I asked excitedly.

‘Big machines that go really fast and can hurt you. So don’t ever go outside without a human. Do you hear me?’

Big machines that go really fast.

To me, they sounded amazing. Far too amazing to be avoided, however many times she repeated her warning while cleaning my fur.

So, of course, you already know what happened.

The moment the front door was left open, I saw my chance. I nudged Molly – the two of us never left each other’s sides, even then – and whispered, ‘Come on, the front door’s open. Let’s go and see what the lawn’s like.’

‘But Mum said— ’

‘Never mind what Mum said. She already knows what’s outside, she goes out on the lawn every day, so of course she’s not curious. But that’s not very fair on us, is it?’ I dragged her along by the ear, and she did not protest after that, but came willingly. Because Molly and I could never bear to be apart, not even for a few minutes. But she was smaller than me, the runt of the litter, and not as fast-moving. ‘Oh come on, Sis, if we don’t hurry, someone will shut the door again. Don’t you want to see what’s outside?’

What was outside was a large delivery van, reversing down our drive.

Suddenly we were outside.

Free.

Unaccompanied for the first time in our young lives.

Oblivious to the danger, I bounded across an expanse of sweet green lawn so wide and long, it seemed like a field to me at the age of three months. Grass, glorious grass! My tender paws revelled in the feel of its velvety dampness, and my nose quivered at the gorgeous fresh smell of every green springing blade it encountered. Up above our heads was the sky, the highest ceiling I had ever seen, and it seemed to stretch for ever, blue and soaring and ever so slightly terrifying.

In my heart, I had known that ‘outside’ would be like this. The world beyond the dreary confines of our house was phenomenal, it was like nothing I had ever known before, and all I could think was, ‘What else is there? What more can I see and smell and touch?’

The lawn came to an end, but I did not stop there.

Oh no, for imbued with an adventurer’s spirit, I kept running and running, with little Molly close behind me. Together, we stampeded through the soft soil of a flower bed and careered across the hard black Tarmac of the drive, barking wildly at the bombardment of smells and sights all around us.

Still reversing, the van’s rear wheels missed me by a few inches.

Molly was not so lucky.

The first I knew that something had gone badly wrong was a dull thud behind me, and the squeal of the van’s brakes.

Then a high-pitched yelp from Molly.

It was the kind of yelp that stays with you for ever. Sometimes I still hear it in my dreams and wake from sleep, trembling with guilt over what I did to my sister that day.

When Molly came back from the vet’s surgery after the accident, one of her hind legs was tightly bandaged. She had to sleep on the sofa for days, only lifted off for food and to do her business on newspaper. Hanging my head in shame, I lay beneath the sofa all day, just to be near my sister, and cowered in abject fear every time anyone so much as opened the front door.

I thought of the outside world as a terrible, dangerous place after that, and vowed never to go outside again.

My resolve lasted all of three weeks.

You would think I should have learned my lesson after such an appalling accident. But of course, as soon as we puppies started to be allowed outside for walks and play time, I forgot my timidity and bounded about the lawn with the others as though it had never happened.

I never forgot my part in causing Molly’s accident, though.

Maybe I would have forgotten in time. Except that the injury she suffered under the van’s wheel that day has never entirely healed. Even now poor Molly still limps badly, and often asks me to lick her leg over the site of the old wound while she rests, as she finds that eases her pain for a few hours.

So the prospect of Mr Minton treading on her leg is a very real and frightening threat. For both of us.

Personally, I always scarper when I see old Minton coming. His eyesight is fading, and since we’re beagles and a little vertically challenged, he doesn’t always spot us underfoot. Not like the bigger dogs, Jethro, Biscuit and sweet-natured Tina. But Molly is slower, not just on account of being smaller, but because of her bad leg too.

By contrast, I could never be accused of being slow.

‘Bertie, careful now.’ Her tone sharpens now as I skid wildly across the kitchen floor. Her eyes widen in horror. ‘Too fast, Bertie. Too fast. You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t watch out for the— ’

Too late.

Unlike the other times I’ve done this, I miss the softer landing of the messy pile of unwashed clothes and collide with the metal base of the cooker instead.

With a yelp, I am thrown sideways by the impact, all the breath knocked out of me. I lie there for a few seconds, staring up at the ceiling from an odd angle. It feels like my brain has turned to jelly.

‘Ouch.’ I get up gingerly, checking myself for broken bones. Nothing seems to be seriously damaged, but I am unsteady on my paws. I stagger away, then give myself a little shake, hoping to settle my brains back into place. ‘Hmm, that wasn’t supposed to happen.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Think some of my brains fell out of my ear.’ I shake my head again. The buzzing starts to subside. ‘That wasn’t such a great idea. I need all the brains I can get.’

Molly limps over to investigate. Her nose nuzzles at my face, then she gives my ear a quick lick to be sure. ‘Bertie, you’ve got to be more careful,’ she scolds me, concern in her lovely dark eyes. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Oh, you’ll never get rid of me,’ I say cheerily. ‘Even when you’re old and can hardly walk, I’ll be there, Sis, causing trouble for you as always.’

Molly sits back and stares at me, wagging her tail. ‘I can hardly walk now,’ she reminds me drily, but it’s clear I’ve amused her.

Jethro shambles through the partly open kitchen door. A large yellow Labrador, his belly distended from too many dog treats while Mrs Minton was still alive, he gazes at us both in mild annoyance. ‘What’s all the noise about? You’re going to wake Minton with that ruckus. And why is the floor wet?’ He sniffs speculatively. ‘Not wee. Did you knock over the water bowl again?’

‘Welcome to my skating rink,’ I say, drawing myself up magnificently.

‘Your . . . what?’

Biscuit, an even larger yellow Labrador, pushes past Jethro, his own nose twitching with culinary excitement. ‘What’s up? Has Minton been cooking liver again? Damn, that smells good, smells good, smells . . .’ We wait, watching him blink through other possible adjectives, but Biscuit has not been blessed with an over-large vocabulary. ‘Good,’ he concludes, and scratches an itchy ear, apparently satisfied with his word choice.

‘Not liver,’ Jethro growls. It’s obvious he’s bored and looking for a fight. ‘Bertie’s been skating again.’

‘Oh no, no, no, no, no.’ Biscuit keeps scratching, his paw slightly hysterical now, like it’s got stuck in a loop and can’t stop. ‘Not the wet floor again. Minton hates the wet floor. Half rations coming.’

We fall silent at a familiar and disconcerting sound from above. It’s the heavy creak of Mr Minton coming down the stairs in his boots. Probably to discover what the noise is about.

I nudge Molly. ‘Boots, not slippers. Quick, back under the table,’ I whisper, and she nods, hurriedly returning to her hiding place, head down, tail between her legs.

Biscuit turns too quickly and bangs straight into the door frame. ‘Ow,’ he mutters, looking dazed, then stumbles back into the living room.

Jethro has already vanished. He may not be the most intelligent animal in the world, but he has good preservation skills.

There is no sign of Tina, I realise. Though she probably hasn’t even stirred yet today. A long-legged greyhound, Tina prefers to sleep most of the morning away in her comfortable padded basket whenever possible, aware that a walk is unlikely to be forthcoming until late afternoon. Always assuming that Mr Minton actually remembers to take us out, that is.

Not that Tina ever deigns to speak to me and Molly if she can avoid it.

‘Beagles,’ she exclaimed on the day we first arrived at 167 Park View Drive – two fluffy, brown and white puppies yapping and wriggling about in a carry-case – her thin snout quivering in outrage before she turned her back on us and curled up in her basket. ‘How unspeakably common.’

A tall, elegant lady, Tina considers herself a cut above the rest of us. And she probably is, I often think. Tina would never lower herself to skid across a wet kitchen floor for fun, that’s for sure.

I dart under the table, squatting rump to nervous rump with Molly, and watch as Mr Minton stomps into the kitchen.

Mr Minton.

What can I say that would endear another human to him?

Not much, frankly.

Our owner is stooped and crabby, and always in a bad mood these days. Though, to be fair, that’s hardly surprising. It’s only three months since his wife died. I’m sure I would be in a foul mood for the rest of my life if Molly died, and she’s my sister, not my life mate. And I can see his point of view when he complains about the state of the place, and how much work he has to do now she’s gone. For it was old Mrs Minton who brought us here, and cared for all us dogs, and who always dropped food scraps from the meal table for us (assuming Biscuit and Jethro didn’t muscle us out of the way before we could snatch it up) when her husband wasn’t looking.

Then one morning she did not come downstairs like usual. And Mr Minton sat up there on his own for hours, sobbing and banging on the floor, before men finally arrived and carried her body out of the house.

‘Oh no,’ Biscuit had said gloomily, watching all this with only the vaguest wag of his tail. ‘Oh no. Maybe she’s just sleepy. I’m often sleepy like that. Maybe she’ll come back soon. Tomorrow. Or . . . tomorrow.’

But none of us were so stupid we could not grasp what her abrupt departure meant. It was the end of everything we had known. The end of our comfortable life.

And the start of Mr Minton’s reign of terror.

Initially, it was only our food that was affected by this change in leadership. Plastic-wrapped dog food rolls were Minton’s first startling innovation. We still get them for dinner most days. Cylinders of brown pap that come oozing out of multi-coloured wrappers and land in the bowls with a horrible slopping sound. I am far too polite to suggest what it looked like. But it was not a popular decision.

‘Eat it, you ungrateful mutts,’ he told us, whenever he remembered to feed us that first week. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s cheap. Eat me out of house and home if I let you, wouldn’t you?’

Always a picky eater, Tina turned up her nose and suggested that it was actually dog meat we were eating.

As in, other dogs.

Molly refused to eat for three whole days after she heard that. Biscuit thought the brown pap tasted okay though, and ate her ration alongside his own and most of Tina’s.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ he managed to say between gulps.

I was not keen either. But I was hungry. And starvation can make even cardboard seem tasty, as Molly quickly discovered, and eventually I persuaded her to eat the brown pap. ‘Honestly, like Biscuit says, it’s not that bad once you’re used to it,’ I told her, licking at her bad leg when it ached in the long, cold evenings. ‘Come on, Sis, you need to keep your strength up for our walks.’

‘What walks?’ she asked blankly.

‘I’m sure he’ll take us out in a day or two,’ I said, and after a minute of gloom she agreed, rubbing her nose against mine for comfort.

We both like to hope for the best. It seems the only way to deal with life’s trials. Things always look brighter when you’ve got a smile on your face and all four paws in motion. Like trouble can never catch up with you that way.

But it turned out that Mr Minton is not a very keen dog-walker either.

That first month, we all looked up hopefully whenever Mr Minton came trudging in from his weekly shop, and our tummies rumbled with expectation. But the heavy tins with their gravy-rich contents or satisfying chunks of jelly never returned. All we had left from that time were memories of tasty scraps and meaty treats and bowl-licking goodness at meal times. It was clear early on that, however much we whined and turned our noses up at the new squishy cylinders, the delicious tins would never return. For the good old days had passed away irrevocably with Mrs Minton.

Now even Tina partakes of half a bowlful of the grim slop. So she doesn’t get any thinner, I suppose, and slip down a grating while we’re out on a walk.

‘Better than eating poo,’ Jethro often says cheerlessly, and tucks in alongside Biscuit at chow-time, neither of them being fussy eaters.

Sometimes, while waiting for the unappetizing brown slop to land in my bowl, I’m not entirely sure he’s right. But I’m determined not to give in to despair.

Beside me under the table, Molly shivers as Mr Minton swears loudly over the wet floor, and stamps away in his heavy boots to fetch the mop.

‘Bloody water everywhere,’ he shouts, rummaging in the cupboard under the stairs. Bucket and mop and broom clatter together noisily as he slams about. ‘Bloody mangy mutts. You’ll be the death of me one day, just like you were the death of my poor wife.’

I feel my sister tremble and nudge her shoulder reassuringly. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Life will get better,’ I tell her in a whisper. ‘You’ll see.’

‘Of course it will,’ she agrees at once.

She’s right. We’re both right.

Things have been bad since the old lady died. Really bad. But life has to return to normal soon. When Mr Minton finally remembers to take us to the park, I think optimistically, we will see all the other dogs out with their kindly owners, and dream of a future off the lead like theirs, with pats and tasty treats and endless running after slobbery tennis balls.

One day that future will be ours, mine and Molly’s. Until then, we just have to keep our paws firmly crossed.

It’s a lovely dream. A tail-wagging, eyelid-fluttering dream.

But we all have to wake up sometime.

TWO

After the unfortunate skating incident, the sky clouds over and it rains for three days straight. Rain that runs down the windows, drips incessantly off the porch and collects in big, splashy puddles in the back yard. The kind of super-wet rain that soaks through fur in an instant, and can only be removed by a brisk, all-over shake.

For some reason, Mr Minton is not keen on brisk, all-over shakes, so he never takes us out for walks when it’s raining. Instead, we get five minutes morning and evening instead, out in the back yard, with him standing in the doorway, irritably urging us again and again to ‘do your business’. As if being nagged has ever helped me concentrate, especially when I’m trying to whip up enthusiasm in some soggy corner of the yard, rain trickling under my collar, my paws cold and wet. But he must enjoy saying it, otherwise he would hardly keep repeating the phrase in exactly the same tone of voice every time.

The fourth day dawns dry though, with a hint of sunshine behind the rapidly moving clouds. We all look up hopefully as Mr Minton looks out of the kitchen window after his breakfast fry-up. Will it be a walk day?

Jethro farts with expectation.

Luckily old Minton is partially deaf these days, so does not seem to hear him. Though what has occurred may soon become apparent to everyone.

Side-effects of the slop, I think delicately.

After a moment’s study of the skies, Mr Minton nods and says, ‘Park today, I think.’

He has learned not to say ‘walk’, as it sets Biscuit off.

Unfortunately, Jethro’s tail begins to thump heavily against the kitchen lino at the word ‘park’, in anticipation of that happy event.

Biscuit stares at the Labrador’s yellow tail for a moment with his head nodding in time to the thumps. His mouth opens, a little drool beginning to gather there, and he pants thoughtfully.

Suddenly a look of inspiration comes over Biscuit. His eyelids twitch and he lumbers up off his heavy hindquarters, turns round three times in quick succession, then begins to thump his own tail. Disjointedly, out of time with Jethro’s, which makes me and Molly wince. He has never shared our sense of musical appreciation. On the whole, Labradors are not a hugely artistic lot.

‘Park?’ Biscuit repeats excitedly. ‘Park? Park?’

‘Park,’ Jethro agrees.

Biscuit’s grin widens. More drool appears at the corner of his mouth, and a long string of gloop descends slowly to the lino. ‘Park,’ he moans in apparent ecstasy.

Jethro turns round twice more. ‘Park, park.’

Tina appears in the kitchen doorway. Stretching out her front legs, the greyhound gives a yawn of exquisite boredom. ‘What on earth is going on here? With all the noise you’re making, I expected to find Minton doling out the flea and tick treatment, at the very least.’

‘Park,’ Jethro informs her.

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘Park, park, park, park, park!’

In a state of near hysteria, Biscuit directs a series of high-pitched barks at Mr Minton, who is looking at him in disgust now. He bumps into Jethro, who tumbles backwards into the metal water bowl and knocks it over again.

Cold water streams across the lino like a tiny river, and we all scrabble out of its reach.

Mr Minton says a word that used to make Mrs Minton shriek with outrage. Now he can say it with impunity, I suppose. Loudly and frequently, too.

He lunges for Jethro’s collar.

The rest of us escape his wrath by cramming ourselves under the small kitchen table, though there really isn’t room for everyone. In the confusion, Tina treads on Molly’s bad leg, and my sister yelps. I growl at the offending greyhound – I’m normally very polite, but I can’t always help myself where family is concerned – and she nips my rump, which I consider to be a disproportionate response.

In the ensuing chaos, Biscuit turns to me enthusiastically, his tongue lolling out. ‘What does “park” mean again?’

*  *  *

It takes nearly another two hours for Mr Minton’s temper to soften towards us. As usual after such incidents, we hold a council of war in the kitchen, then send Tina into the living room to see if she can put him in a better mood.

It works, of course. Exactly as expected.

‘Tina never fails,’ I say to Molly, and she nods her agreement.

‘Uncanny.’

‘Indeed.’ I bend round to lick my hindquarters, which are still stinging from Tina’s sharp teeth. ‘I can’t imagine what they see in her.’

A fine actress, that’s what they see.

Tina has a trick of shuffling up to any human in a chair, then laying her head in their lap and gazing up at them soulfully. Not only is she the right height for that approach – as a beagle, I have about as much chance of reaching Minton’s lap from a standing position as Biscuit has of winning a dog intelligence test – but she has the perfect face for it. Big round eyes, a soft tapering muzzle and an inherently tragic expression. Like nothing could ever make her happy again. Except possibly some leftover sausage roll.

Twenty minutes later, we are in the park.

It’s not much of a park, basically a small leafy square with a fenced-off playground at its heart. But it has some marvellous trails between the ranked trees, redolent of squirrel and dotted with exciting offerings from other dogs that their generous owners have not removed. Mr Minton does not always bother to collect our leavin. . .