Author Archives: Will Leake

The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane

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Daisy sniffed the morning air. It smelled good – but she was scared. Her owner Tom Wilson had occasionally observed that Daisy Belle was afraid of nothing. But what did he know? She was SCARED right now, for sure. She had been out all night for the third time and she wanted to find her way back to Wilson.

Daisy looked around. She was in some sort of building, with stone walls on three sides, one incorporating a heavy door; the fourth side, by which she had entered, was open. Through it, she could see the rain falling outside, splashing on some strange grey stones – some upright, others leaning. There was a flagstone floor and a slightly musty smell, but it was dry. She thought it might be just part of a much larger building. DB was scared, but also exhausted; she stopped thinking, and fell asleep again.

Meanwhile, Wilson was still looking for her. She’d only been with the family a fortnight and he’d lost her already. They lived in Shady Lane, Moscombe, and they’d been walking at Glebe Farm when she’d run off. She had come via the rescue society, as her first owner had needed to move into sheltered housing and couldn’t take Daisy there. Daisy had loved her old home and her first owner, and so far she thought she loved the Wilsons too, until this crisis had come along. He’d let her run loose, off the lead, and she’d chased a rabbit and quickly disappeared. He wanted her back, so he could call her his Naughty Lady again. He’d received plenty of earache from Mrs Wilson and he knew he had to find Daisy – the alternative was unthinkable.

She wished he’d been there to cuddle up to when that badger had rushed at her with flailing claws and sharp teeth. It was only her natural ability to leap up quickly from a prone position that had enabled her to escape. Had she known, Wilson had been no more than fifty yards away and had seen the badger amble off in search of easier prey, along the line of poplars standing upright like soldiers. But Tom didn’t know DB was there and likewise, she was unaware of him.

On the second night she had encountered a fox, but it hadn’t tried to catch her like the badger had. Perhaps she was just a bit too big, but the incident had frightened her just the same. And then there were those two little plump deer, she had seen them before at Moscombe, what was it Wilson called them – chipmunks….? No, muntjacs, that was it. Anyway, it didn’t matter what they were called, and to be fair they hadn’t done more than sniff inquisitively in her direction. If she had been secure on the end of her flexi-lead, with Tom holding the other end, she’d have run them off – badger, fox, deer and all-comers, with some loud barking. But she hadn’t got him now, so she kept quiet.

She had wondered, the first night, if letting her run free and get lost was some kind of punishment for those times when she’d stolen things around the house to take away and chew. But she didn’t think so; and she knew that Jack, the family’s other dog, would have said not. Jack had had to find a new home too, for the second time in his life, and he knew a lot of things. He said the Wilsons were pretty easy-going. Jack had once had an owner who took four-week holidays in France and left Jack in boarding kennels. He’d told Daisy, in no uncertain terms, that kennels were a no-no; and that the best thing about the Wilsons was that they took their dogs on holiday with them.

Tom was looking for her in the wrong place. He’d stayed out each night since she’d gone, and apart from a brief return home to grab a snack, had spent each day wandering around the fields of Glebe Farm. His reasoning, that she could still be in the immediate area, was understandable but flawed. Daisy had actually put a few miles between them, running along the river meadows and skirting the cricket field, then crossing and re-crossing it in a scissors movement before going over the hill into the nearby village of Ashton. There, she had caught a geriatric field mouse in the churchyard and eaten it, but it didn’t taste as good as the dog food that she got every night at home – or the cold chicken which they often added to her dinner. She was hungry, but at least she could get a drink from the morning dew on the long grass. She had spent the third night in Ashton, and had been glad to snatch a few hours’ sleep in the church porch. Lying against the grey stone wall the little white dog, her curly coat now very dirty, was almost invisible.

So much so that Mrs Wilson’s friend Sally, who lived in the village and had gone to the church to do the week’s flowers, almost missed her. But just then a pheasant crowed and Daisy reacted automatically with a little bark, which alerted Sally. She carefully approached the dog, very slowly so as not to spook her. Daisy was certainly scared, and she didn’t know this lady, but she liked humans and this was the first one she’d seen for three days. She allowed Sally to hold her and check her collar tag, and Sally, disbelieving at first, read a phone number that she knew well. Struggling to get her mobile out of her bag without letting go of the dog, she made a call. Daisy, with the acute hearing that all young dogs possess, heard a familiar voice on Sally’s phone; at first anxious, then relieved, and finally delighted.

There was nothing to be scared of any more. The Naughty Lady was going home.

Under The Old Oak Tree

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It was the first and only place that Janet and I made love.  It was wonderful, her soft, warm kisses and the incredible ecstasy as our bodies entwined were like nothing I had ever encountered before.  We met there many times, and I really believed my life was complete with her.  Like other young lovers before me, I carved our initials with my penknife, so that our love would last forever.  But that was not to be; beneath the tree she cried as she told me she’d met Rick, and had to choose between us.

Janet married Rick and they moved away with his work.  I heard that they’d had a child soon afterwards, but I never saw her again.  Despite that, I always loved her; there was to be no-one else for me.

I remained in Banford and, more than 20 years later, on most days I still walked the field where the tree had once stood.  It was long gone, brought down in a winter gale and sawn up for logs; a bench had been put in its place and I would sometimes sit and recall our times there.

One day I met a young couple there.  The girl seemed familiar, and that puzzled me, as I was sure that I didn’t know them.  She asked me if the old oak tree was around here, and I told her that she was in the exact place, but that it wasn’t here any more.  She looked troubled, then burst into tears and ran to their car, parked in the lane.  The lad followed, then came back to me.

“I’m sorry about that, what you told her gave her a shock, she’s repairing her make-up now”.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked why.

“Her Mum used to meet her first boyfriend under the tree.  She died not long ago, and it was then that she told Jane that the guy was her natural father.  Jane says she’d never spoken of it before, because Rick had loved her and brought her up, believing she was his natural daughter, but he’d died in an accident when she was 18.  Jane’s biological father was her Mum’s first love, a guy named David Roberts. Her mum died from cancer a year ago and she wanted Jane to know.  Ever since, she’s wanted to see the place and the tree – and, just maybe, find out something about David.  You see, I’m all she’s got now and I’m just trying to help her through this”.

Suddenly I knew – knew why she was so familiar.  I hadn’t realised it in those few minutes before she ran off, but she was the image of my Janet.  I asked him her name, knowing what the answer would be.  He told me, then I told him mine.  He excused himself and ran to the car.  Minutes passed, then they both came back.  Jane ran to me and we embraced; George watched, all three of us in tears.

I took them home and showed them the piece of bark that I’d cut from the fallen tree and kept – a  roughly carved heart encircling the initials “DR x JB”

I’d believed that I had no children, but now I have Jane and George.  Years back, I’d wished I’d never laid eyes on Rick, who took my love away.  But now I am so grateful to him, for caring for Jane.  Jane and George were married six months ago, and I was privileged to give her away.

Next year their first baby will be here, and I shall have a grandchild.

A Yellow Balloon

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A YELLOW BALLOON

I was twelve when we moved to Dunby.  Rosie was only young then, maybe two or three. She lived next door, with Mr and Mrs Smith – and she was lovely, with her brown eyes as deep as pools and her long, soft locks of deep auburn tumbling down like the feathers of a beautiful bird.

She and I became inseparable.  Like me, she was an only one and it became the natural thing for me to call round for her every morning in the school holidays.  We played together all day; even though she was much younger than me, I never wanted to be with anyone else.

We played in our garden, and in the Smiths’ too, which was much bigger with lots of places to hide.  And in the woods, where there were trees for me to climb (but not Rosie, it wouldn’t have been safe) and in the park with its swings and roundabouts.  She loved to jump on the roundabout while it was moving, and I had to be careful not to go too fast.  In those days it was safe, with supervision, to swim in the little river, and I learned there.  Rosie was a natural at that, she didn’t need any teaching.  And if we found a bit of old rope, or even just strong string, we’d play tug of war.

Then tragedy struck.  Mr and Mrs Smith were both killed in a car accident only five miles from home.  They had no relatives who could take Rosie and after a lot of heart-searching by my parents (and a lot of pleading from me) it was agreed that she would come to live with us.

Despite the tragic circumstances, things eventually settled down; and my life was even more pleasant with Rosie living at our house.  My teenage years passed quickly, bringing my story up to the present time.

I’m 19 now and I’m at university.  After I moved into a room on the campus, my parents decided to make their oft-discussed move to the seaside.  They now live in Westwick-on-Sea, in a bungalow just across the road from the beach.  It’s great for Rosie, now 10, and whenever It’s end of term I come back to see them all.  That weekend, I brought my girlfriend, Sally.  We’ve been going out for a couple of months now and I’d been meaning to introduce her to Mum and Dad, as I’m beginning to think this may be the real thing.  There was a special deal on the train, a second ticket for just 50p on the Thursday evening only; we students are always short of money, as you know, so I went for it.

Of course, I introduced Sally to Rosie, too.  I hoped they’d get on well but I have to say that at first, Sally was a bit cool.  I can’t blame her, I’ve probably rabbited on so much about Rosie that Sally was sick of the sight of her before she’d even seen her (if you know what I mean).  Anyway, on the Sunday afternoon Sally and I fancied a quiet time together, so we  went for a walk on the beach.  A little girl was playing happily with a yellow balloon, but she  lost control of the string and it floated off on the wind and out to sea.

The little one was crying and her Mum was trying to comfort her, without success.  There was only one thing to do – I went in to get it for her.  But the wind blew it out of my reach.  I struck out hard to swim a little closer, but then I was immobilised by an agonising pain in my right leg.  It was cramp, and I couldn’t swim another stroke.  I was having trouble, in fact, just to stay afloat – I was in real danger of drowning.

Sally, bless her, did her best.  She could only swim about fifty yards or so; and that was in the friendly atmosphere of the uni pool, in her spotted blue bikini.  Not in sweater and jeans, in a Channel swell.  But she tried, she waded in waist deep, but couldn’t reach me.

Then she saw Dad and Rosie, further along the beach.  Sally waved and called to them.  In a flash, Rosie had rushed past Sally and was by my side in the water.  With my arms locked around her neck, she pulled me clear into the shallows.  I’ll always be grateful that we’d gone swimming those years ago, and that she’d loved it and had become such a strong swimmer.  Not bad for a ten year-old!

Slowly recovering my breath, and rubbing my sore leg, I was a pitiful sight there on the sand.  But my arms were around both of my girls, who, between them, had saved me: Sally, my darling girlfriend and Rosie, my lovely red setter.