Alice Falls Again, page 7
Pavlov straightened up with pride for a brief moment, then sank back down on his haunches. “You’re right, of course. It’s mostly show. My bark’s worse than my bite. If truth be known, I haven’t bitten a soul outside conflict. I haven’t the stomach for it.”
“In that case, it’s very brave of you to guard this place.”
“Not really. Although, do you know what the soldiers used to say about me in the war? ‘It’s not the size of the dog in a fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.’”
Alice wasn’t sure whether Pavlov could even muster up a friendly argument in his current state. But she knew he liked talking about his time in the army.
“What war did you fight in?”
“Oh lots. The Furry Years War … the Pawleonic Wars, that was where we tore a bone apart … the Battle of Gruffalgar, that was a tough one. And, of course, the Boxer Rebellion.”
“Goodness. That’s a lot. I can’t say I’ve heard of them all.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It was all very secret. They called us the hush puppies.”
“So what happened to you after you ran off? How did you end up like this?”
“It’s a long story, Alice.”
“It can’t be that long, I saw you just a day or so ago?”
“More like a year or two. In dog years that’s about fourteen years, you know. I always wondered what happened to you at Alice Falls.”
Two years? No wonder Pavlov looked older. Alice’s head reeled as her brain tried to come to terms with the fact that two years had passed since their fall at the weir. Then she told herself anything could happen in Wonderland. Perhaps time passed differently for different creatures, or she had slept in the cottage longer than she realised. She asked Pavlov to tell his story.
“Here’s the short version,” said Pavlov in a low voice. “It seems war veterans are not in great demand on the job market so I worked as a security guard for a while. I kept my nose down, if not entirely clean, and also had a string of jobs in debt collection hounding people for money.”
“Poor you. It can’t have been much fun having to badger people.”
“I hounded I didn’t badger.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A couple of stripes. Higher rank, you know. Anyway, out of the blue I got a new lead and became the companion of an old lady called May Hubart. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? At first, it was fine. All I had to do was to keep her company and make sure none of the silverware went missing. She had a few children, quite late in her life – hence people called her Old Mother Hubart - but they had left home young. She gave them all her money in the hope they’d return home but they just squandered her fortune. She had to sell most of her assets, including the big house. We moved into a run-down cottage where we lived hand to paw. One day, she went to the cupboard and there was no more food. I almost died of hunger before she got hold of a loaf or two of bread. She was convinced I was at death’s door and even had a coffin made for me. That was when we fell out and she began to treat me like a pet. Man’s best friend I may be but apparently not woman’s. Not long after she sold me to this farmer who, as she put it, ‘Would knock some sense into me’. It’s hard to forgive that.”
“They do say every dog has its day.”
“I think my days are all in the past.”
Out of nowhere came an angry shout. “Rex! Come here you good-for-nothing cur!”
“I must go. Take care, Alice. I hope to see you again.”
“Rex? Is that what they call you now?”
Pavlov didn’t answer. The look in his big brown bloodshot eyes said it all.
“Who’s there? Who is it? Come into the light.” The cry came from a large, buxom woman, who was standing in the farmhouse doorway.
“My name’s Alice. Sorry if I startled you.”
“I’m more surprised you didn’t startle Rex. He usually barks his head off at anything that moves. Only thing he’s good for, the useless mutt.”
Alice so wanted to help Pavlov. He deserved better, so she spoke up.
“His name is Colonel Pavlov.”
“What? Pavlov? Don’t be silly. He’s always been Rex. At least, that’s what he answers to.”
I’m sure I would answer to Rex too if I were kept on a chain and beaten, thought Alice, but decided against speaking her mind. She was sure Pavlov, as an ex-soldier, would agree that one had to choose one’s battles. And now was probably not the time or the place.
The woman was clearly the farmer’s wife as she had a round, weather-beaten face with rosy cheeks. Over a blue chequered dress she wore a white apron that was spattered with flour and stained red in places. The impression that she had been cooking was reinforced by the fact that she was carrying a rolling pin in one hand and a carving knife in the other.
“Why you’re just a child! Come in and have a slice of plum pie. What on earth are you doing way out here on your lonesome? My name’s Mrs MacDonald, the farmer’s wife. You can call me Mrs. M. Now tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Mrs MacDonald cut Alice a large slice of red plum pie with the carving knife. Its blade dripped red juice onto her apron. Alice had neither the strength nor inclination to tell her host about trains in rivers, talking animals and a magic cottage in the wilderness, so in between mouthfuls of plum pie and gulps of apple juice, she explained that she had become lost while picking wild blackberries and was trying to find her way back to town.
“Well you’re jolly lucky you found us then. The mud flats are home to the Eelers. They hunt for girls like you. Don’t you worry, we’ll look after you and make sure you get home safely.”
Alice had seen those dark, ghoulish fishermen on the moors, but for the life of her she couldn’t work out how she had managed to guess their name right. She was also more than a little surprised that the farmer’s wife was being so kind to her and had not been the monster Alice had expected. After all, how could anyone who mistreated their dog not be a beast themselves? And this pie did taste very good.
“This is exquisite plum pie. You’re a very good cook, Mrs M.”
“Thank you, my dear. Very nice of you to say so. I made a batch of them for my children.”
“Oh, are they here?”
The woman gave Alice a hurt look that melted into an expression of sad forgiveness.
“No, not at the moment, dear. I have two children, Gillian and Jackson. Jackson is one of the town councillors, you know. He’s become a very big figure around town. He’s so busy he doesn’t have time to visit me much. You probably know him if you’re from Banbury. He’d be quite a catch for a girl like you.”
Alice wasn’t at all thrilled at what the farmer’s wife was suggesting. The woman had also put a little too much stress on the word “if”, implying she didn’t believe Alice was from town. The word “Jackson” rang a bell in Alice’s head, but she couldn’t say why. Perhaps she had had a tutor called Jackson and it was a school bell she was hearing.
“Gillian left home around the same time as Jackson. She’s probably married to the town physician, Doctor Foster, by now. Most likely has a family of her own, I wouldn’t wonder. I’m sure she’ll come for a visit soon.”
Alice sensed that the farmer’s wife hadn’t seen her children for a very long time. There was an awkward silence, which Mrs MacDonald eventually broke. “So where are your blackberries?”
“I didn’t find any.”
“That’s because there aren’t any blackberries in these parts.” Mrs MacDonald smiled frostily at Alice.
“That must be the reason I lost my way then,” said Alice, “Through walking so far trying to find some.” It was Alice’s turn to look smug.
“Lost your way?” said the farmer’s wife, disbelievingly. “You can’t lose what you never had, my dear.”
There was another long moment when neither spoke.
“Anyway,” said Mrs MacDonald at length, “if you were wandering in the mud flats, it might be good for you to know that breathing in that polluted air takes away your dearest memories. No wonder you can’t find your way back home. The flats will have taken away your most precious memory. People say it’s the toll you have to pay for crossing the home of the Eelers.”
It was true, Alice had temporarily forgotten the urgency to get back home, even her family and everyone she had met and everything she had done in Wonderland. But since she couldn’t think of anything else important that she may have forgotten, she was sure her memory was now intact and that Mrs M’s alleged curse of the moor was just an old wives’ tale. There was another silence, during which the farmer’s wife went to a cot in the corner of the room and gave it a heavy-handed rock.
“Is that your baby? Can I see?”
“Please don’t,” said Mrs MacDonald a little too quickly. “She’s sleeping.” An untanned pelt, once white but now dirty and by the look of things also stained with plum juice, was draped over the cot. The farmer’s wife tucked it in tighter round the edges, humming the lullaby “Hush Little Baby”.
“You won’t believe what we’ve done to stop the baby crying,” said the woman, giving Alice a long sideways stare. Alice didn’t want to hazard a guess what they had had to do but since this was Wonderland, she feared it may have involved white rabbits.
“Is Mr MacDonald around to help?”
“Ha!” The farmer’s wife snorted once out loud angrily, waving the carving knife in the air. “The baby’s father is out. More likely than not clowning around instead of hunting for skins for the cot. You won’t believe how much blood, sweat and tears it needs to stop that baby crying.”
Although the farmer’s wife tried to smile at Alice, she could see the woman’s eyes well up with tears as her jaw set in rage. Alice thought it best not to ask anything about the baby or its father. She also decided that she had outstayed her welcome. She had to get going. However, before she could excuse herself and leave, the farmer’s wife reappeared at Alice’s side, jollier than ever. “Would you like to help me milk the pigs, dear?”
“Don’t you mean the cows?”
“We don’t have any cows. What a funny little girl you are!” And she pinched Alice’s cheek hard.
The farmer’s wife began to lead Alice by the hand to the pig pen.
“Do you really need the carving knife to go milking?” asked Alice.
“Probably not. But better safe than sorry.”
It seemed an interesting interpretation of the word “safe”.
On the way to the pig pen, Alice caught a glimpse of Colonel Pavlov’s paws protruding from his kennel. She wanted to shout ‘hello’ to him but followed her instinct to let sleeping dogs lie.
“Have you milked pigs before?”
“I can’t say I have, no,” said Alice.
“Can you say you haven’t?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you talk about what you can say rather than talk about what you can’t say? You’re the most peculiar, adorable child I’ve met, you know. I could squeeze you to bits.”
The farmer’s wife smiled knowingly at Alice, who tried to keep a healthy distance between them as they crossed the farmyard to a rather smelly pen in the far corner.
“In the beginning, I used to have four piglets, you know. Now I only have the three pigs.”
“What happened to the other one?”
“Other two you mean.”
“Four minus three equals one, I think you’ll find.”
“Not if you add one extra pig. Do keep up, Alice! Now, our first pig we sent to the market in town.”
“To sell the milk?”
“I can’t imagine rashers of bacon being able to sell much of anything, can you? Now ‘sell for much’ is a different kettle of fish entirely. We did very well out of that pig. Anyway, the second pig we kept. Pig number three ran away and opened a steak house in Banbury.”
Alice giggled and tried to turn it into a cough so as not to appear rude.
“Pig number four we ignored totally but she stuck around anyway. I thought about making a silk purse out of her ears but she wouldn’t hear a word of it. Then one day in trotted the ugliest pig you ever did see, squealing like…well, a stuck pig. I felt so sorry for it I decided to add it to my collection. When it arrived, it moaned about everything under the sun – the food, the bedding, being chained to the fence - but I soon put a stop to that. He won’t talk again, I’ll tell you that for nothing!”
Alice looked inside the pig pen. Two pink pigs, one fat and one which looked neglected, stared at her in seeming despair. The third pig, which was grey and much hairier, had its hind quarters towards Alice.
“Hoy! Ugly pig! Come here, we have a guest,” shouted the farmer’s wife and hurled a stone at the pig’s rump. The animal turned its head around and Alice saw that it was Chester, the wart-hog from the train. Dirtier, thinner and extremely dejected.
“What did I tell you! The ugliest pig you ever did see. He doesn’t produce much milk either.”
Chester’s eyes opened wider and he stared forlornly at the muddy ground. Alice used a hand to stifle a cry. For all his grumpiness, Chester didn’t deserve this fate. The farmer’s wife took Alice’s reaction as repulsion at Chester’s appearance.
“Disgusting aren’t they? Let’s not milk the pigs. Come and help me look for my cat in the barn.”
“I really should be going. It’s quite a long walk back.”
“I thought you said you were lost?”
“I think I can remember the way back now. I guess the effect of the mud flats has worn off.”
“Honey catches more flies than vinegar with you, doesn’t it, my dear Alice? Well, you can’t leave just yet. You need to work off all that plum pie you ate. Don’t want you getting fat. At least, not too quickly.”
Alice didn’t relish the idea of being shut up in a barn with Mrs M. “How about we take a quick look at your fields?”
“Why? Nothing happening in the fields, I’m afraid. Sadly all our crops burnt.”
“How terrible. Was it a forest fire?” asked Alice, doubting that there was such a thing as a field fire.
“No. We burnt the fields ourselves to get rid of the infestation.”
“Was it an infestation of rats?”
“Ladybirds mainly. Other creatures too; dormice, bees, corn buntings, hares, spiders, wagtails, dragonflies, you name it. But mainly ladybirds. Crawling with the nasty things. Chattering all the time. The idea was that we would burn their homes, they would go back to look for their children, who of course would have fled or would be in hiding, and the parents would get so distraught they would voluntarily relocate. It was the most humane way we could think of. Well it worked a treat. The downside is we have lost half our livelihood but it’s a small price to pay for ending the pestilence.”
Alice decided Mrs M was quite mad. And possibly dangerous.
There was an empty field off to the left with a drinking trough in it and wire fencing around. Alice asked Mrs M what animals she kept there. Instead of a direct answer, the woman gave Alice a long and distrusting look and said, “Have you seen Mary?”
Alice didn’t like lying because she didn’t like other people doing it to her. Even though she counted her story about collecting berries as a white lie, she had made her blackberry bed and now had to lie in it.
“Mary who?” she said unconvincingly.
“Mary Peep. Probably about your height.” The farmer’s wife stared into Alice’s eyes intensely. “People call her ‘Bow Peep’ on account of the bows in her hair.”
“Well I don’t have bows in my hair. And I’m afraid I don’t know any Bow Peep,” said Alice, who didn’t see this as lying as she couldn’t say for sure if the Mary she had met at the cottage was the same one they called Bow Peep.
“Have you seen her?” Alice asked Mrs M.
“No. But apparently she took my sheep to Shepherd’s Bush. She was supposed to bring them back and put them in this pen. Rumour has it that she lost them and is hoping that they’ll find their own way back. Stupid girl! Well if they do come back, I shall probably have to cut off their tails to teach them a lesson. I’ll hang them on the branches of trees as a warning to my other animals.”
Alice thought it was quite awful how Mrs M went around cutting off tails.
“And as for Mary, well there’s a new pillory in the market square that would fit her just nicely,” said Mrs MacDonald, staring at Alice’s neck.
“I do hope you get your sheep back. Have you any other animals on the farm apart from the pigs?”
The farmer’s wife teared up again and stared into the distance. “I used to have horses and cows and sheep and hens. And lizards and elephants. And a pangolin. I trained them all to stop talking and obey me. Animals are so much better than people, you know. Won’t leave you if you show them who’s boss.
“I loved them so much. All gone now. I blame those children of mine. Jackson used to sleep under the haystacks instead of looking after the cows and sheep. He looked so sweet dressed in his blue shirt and trousers and carrying that trumpet of his. He used to try to call the cattle and sheep by playing his trumpet. He played so badly that more often than not, the animals ran away into the meadow and cornfields.” Mrs MacDonald bucked up. “He’s very successful nowadays though, did I tell you? Town official no less. I’ll bet everybody’s terrified of him.”
“I had to flog the horses,” Mrs MacDonald said at length, her mood plunging again.
“Sell them?”
“No, whip them. They wouldn’t clean the lake. They all drowned in the end.”
“How awful.”
“Just shows. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him swim. Well, not for hours on end at any rate. The farmhands were to blame for some of the animals leaving. We hired that dunce, Humphrey Dunfry, the neighbour’s child to mind the hens. Something wrong in his head, that lad. He used to collect the eggs and carry them around in his pockets. You can guess what happened to most of the eggs. The hens were so distraught they flew off first chance they had.”
