Paws and Whiskers Read online

  I’ve included the last scene of the book. It’s hard to read it and stay dry-eyed – and you definitely need a hankie if you watch a DVD of the old film. It all seems a bit corny and old-fashioned now, but the ending is still powerful enough to have me in floods of tears.

  THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY

  Everyone was silent and preoccupied. Suddenly Elizabeth stood up. ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘Listen, Daddy – I can hear a dog barking!’ Complete and utter silence fell as everyone strained their ears in the direction of the hills behind. No one heard anything.

  ‘You’re imagining things,’ said her mother. ‘Or perhaps it was a fox. Come along, we must start back.’

  ‘Wait, wait! Just one minute – you’ll be able to hear it in a minute, too,’ whispered Elizabeth, and her mother, remembering the child’s hearing was still young and acute enough to hear the squeaking noise of bats and other noises lost for ever to adults – and now even to Peter – remained silent.

  Elizabeth’s tense, listening expression changed to a slowly dawning smile. ‘It’s Luath!’ she announced matter-of-factly. ‘I know his bark!’

  ‘Don’t do this to us, Liz,’ said her father gently, disbelieving. ‘It’s . . .’

  Now Peter thought he heard something too: ‘Shhh . . .’

  There was silence again, everyone straining to hear in an agony of suspense. Nothing was heard. But Elizabeth had been so convinced, the knowledge written so plainly on her face, that now Jim Hunter experienced a queer, urgent expectancy, every nerve in his body tingling with certain awareness that something was going to happen. He rose and hurried down the narrow path to where it joined the broader track leading around the hill. ‘Whistle, Dad!’ said Peter breathlessly, behind him.

  The sound rang out piercingly shrill and sweet, and almost before the echo rebounded a joyous, answering bark rang around the surrounding hills.

  They stood there in the quiet afternoon, their taut bodies awaiting the relief of suspense; they stood at the road’s end, waiting to welcome a weary traveller who had journeyed so far, with such faith, along it. They had not long to wait.

  Hurtling through the bushes on the high hillside of the trail a small, black-tipped wheaten body leaped the last six feet down with careless grace and landed softly at their feet. The unearthly, discordant wail of a welcoming Siamese rent the air.

  Elizabeth’s face was radiant with joy. She kneeled, and picked up the ecstatic, purring cat. ‘Oh, Tao!’ she said softly, and as she gathered him into her arms he wound his black needle-tipped paws lovingly around her neck. ‘Tao!’ she whispered, burying her nose in his soft, thyme-scented fur, and Tao tightened his grip in such an ecstasy of love that Elizabeth nearly choked.

  Longridge had never thought of himself as being a particularly emotional man, but when the Labrador appeared an instant later, a gaunt, stare-coated shadow of the beautiful dog he had last seen, running as fast as his legs would carry him towards his master, all his soul shining out of sunken eyes, he felt a lump in his throat, and at the strange, inarticulate half-strangled noises that issued from the dog when he leaped at his master, and the expression on his friend’s face, he had to turn away and pretend to loosen Tao’s too loving paws.

  Minutes passed; everyone had burst out talking and chattering excitedly, gathering around the dog to stroke and pat and reassure, until he too threw every vestige of restraint to the winds, and barked as if he would never stop, shivering violently, his eyes alight and alive once more and never leaving his master’s face. The cat, on Elizabeth’s shoulder, joined in with raucous howls; everyone laughed, talked or cried at once, and for a while there was pandemonium in the quiet wood.

  Then, suddenly – as though the same thought had struck them all simultaneously – there was silence. No one dared to look at Peter. He was standing aside, aimlessly cracking a twig over and over again until it became a limp ribbon in his hands. He had not touched Luath, and turned away now when the dog at last came over, including him in an almost human round of greeting.

  ‘I’m glad he’s back, Dad,’ was all he said. ‘And your old Taocat, too!’ he added to Elizabeth, with a difficult smile. Elizabeth, the factual, the matter-of-fact, burst into tears. Peter scratched Tao behind the ears, awkward, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t expect anything else – I told you that. I tell you what,’ the boy continued, with a desperate cheerfulness, avoiding the eyes of his family, ‘you go down – I’ll catch up with you later. I want to go back to the Lookout and see if I can get a decent picture of that whisky-jack.’

  There will never be a more blurred picture of a whisky-jack, said Uncle John grimly to himself. On an impulse he spoke aloud.

  ‘How about if I came too, Peter? I could throw the crumbs and perhaps bring the bird nearer?’ Even as he spoke he could have bitten back the words, expecting a rebuff, but to his surprise the boy accepted his offer.

  They watched the rest of the family wending their way down the trail, Tao still clutched in Elizabeth’s arms, gentle worshipping Luath restored at last to the longed-for position at his master’s heels.

  The two remaining now returned to Lookout Point. They took some photographs. They prised an odd-shaped fungus growth off a tree. They found, incredibly, the cylindrical core of a diamond drill. And all the time they talked: they talked of rockets, orbits, space; gravely they pondered the seven stomachs of a cow; tomorrow’s weather; but neither mentioned dogs.

  Now, still talking, they were back at the fork of the trail; Longridge looked surreptitiously at his watch: it was time to go. He looked at Peter. ‘We’d better g—’ he started to say, but his voice trailed off as he saw the expression on the face of the tense, frozen boy beside him, then followed the direction of his gaze . . .

  Down the trail, out of the darkness of the bush and into the light of the slanting bars of sunlight, jogging along with his peculiar nautical roll, came – Ch. Boroughcastle Brigadier of Doune.

  Boroughcastle Brigadier’s ragged banner of a tail streamed out behind him, his battle-scarred ears were upright and forward, and his noble pink and black nose twitched, straining to encompass all that his short gaze was denied. Thin and tired, hopeful, happy – and hungry, his remarkable face alight with expectation – the old warrior was returning from the wilderness. Bodger, beautiful for once, was coming as fast as he could.

  He broke into a run, faster and faster, until the years fell away, and he hurled himself towards Peter.

  And as he had never run before, as though he would outdistance time itself, Peter was running towards his dog.

  OSBERT

  by Noel Streatfeild

  Noel Streatfeild was one of my favourite authors when I was young. I’ve collected copies of her books for years. You might have read her brilliant book Ballet Shoes or perhaps seen special reprints of The Circus is Coming or White Boots or Tennis Shoes. They’re all fantastic family stories aimed at eight-to-twelve-year-olds – but she also wrote occasional books for younger children.

  I like a quirky little book about a dog called Osbert. He’s a black poodle – but his hair has forgotten to curl. I love his special shaggy look, but he’s considered not smart enough to go to a stylish wedding with his family. However, Monsieur Toto, the ladies’ hairdresser, comes to the rescue.

  It’s a sweet story – though if I ever had a poodle, I’d give him a simple all-over lamb cut.

  OSBERT

  It was the day before Aunt Cathy’s wedding. Everything glistened and gleamed with excitement. Then the blow fell. Father said: ‘We must get some neighbor to take Osbert tomorrow.’

  Osbert had been in the family since he was a month old. When first he had come to the house it had been thought that maybe he would develop into some kind of terrier. As he grew, it was discovered he was mostly black poodle whose hair had forgotten to curl. He was as much a part of the family as the children. It was impossible to think of him missing anything that was going on. Peter gasped.

  ‘Goodness, Dad, that’s an awfully mean th