Lantana Lane (18 page)

The taxi-driver—as Aunt Isabelle freely conceded, when she was relating all this—did his best, but his difficulty was that wherever he set his foot, there was a child, a dog or a kitten beneath it. The third eldest child was more agile, and, seizing a broom, gained the sink, and proceeded to swipe at Jake with such effect that most of the crockery was dislodged, and fell to the floor with a crash which penetrated the virginal daydreams of the second eldest child who, however, was varnishing her nails, and did not wish to be disturbed. She therefore thrust her head through the bedroom window, which commanded a view of the next-door verandah, and yelled to the eldest child, who was there exchanging badinage with her boy-friend, that she better come and do something about the damn kids and the bloody dog before they wrecked the place. This summons was heard by the taxi-driver, and so enraged him that he took time off to burst in upon his daughter and demand why the hell she didn't come and do something herself. The kitten, perceiving another open door, dashed through it, leapt upon the dressing-table, and upset the bottle of nail varnish so that Jake—who was the usual three jumps behind—received its contents on his back. The taxi-driver and his second eldest child dived to capture him, but he, feeling a sticky trickle between his shoulder-blades, braced his paws firmly, and shook himself with such vigour that they found themselves liberally bespattered with the varnish, which was of a deep magenta shade named Seduction.

Meanwhile, Aunt Isabelle had been borne into the passage upon a surge of children, and as the kitten emerged from the bedroom—closely followed by the incarnadined Jake—she, with great presence of mind, opened the front door, taking cover behind it as the hunt streamed through. When she stepped out on to the verandah, she found that the third eldest child (still armed with his broom) was dodging to and fro at the foot of the steps while Jake dodged to and fro at the top; the taxi-driver, emerging just behind her, saw the quarry thus momentarily and comparatively immobilised, made a grab at him, trod on some marbles belonging to the third youngest child, stumbled, and hit his nose against the verandah post, causing it to bleed profusely.

Aunt Isabelle says that from this moment his active participation in the affair ceased. He sat down on the top step to nurse his nose in his handkerchief, and for some little time her attention was necessarily concentrated upon him—for, as she explains, she is anxious to perfect her knowledge of the local idiom, and she was busy committing to memory certain words and phrases which she was later able to repeat to Henry, who advised her to forget them again. Presently, however, an increasing clamour caused her to look up, when she observed that the kitten had escaped over the fence into the street, and all the children of the taxi-driver, reinforced by half a dozen belonging to the neighbours, and also by the boy-friend of the eldest child, were now involved in the chase, so that no less than twenty-eight hands were trying to seize Jake (“. . . an attempt the most difficult, owing to the grease.”).

Proceedings were at this stage when the taxi-driver's wife erupted through the front door, demanding shrilly of her husband whether she might not slip up the back lane to place a bet without all hell breaking loose, that damn dog, not a cup left, the floor swimming, talk about H-bombs, and what did he care if she had to do all the washing again? . . .

It was at this moment that Aunt Isabelle realised she held trumps. The fourth youngest child, and the third eldest had at last secured Jake by falling on him; they were all three lying in a heap, panting, and Jake's expression conveyed very clearly that he had had a whale of a time, and would willingly have continued the entertainment had he not been too exhausted. Her heart went out to him. Here, without doubt, was the perfect companion for a spirited little boy. (“. . . for say what you will of Jacques, he possesses the
élan,
the
joie de vivre,
to a degree unparalleled.”)

She therefore tapped the taxi-driver on the shoulder, and got down to business.

“You wish to dispose of this animal—yes?”

She relates with the warmest admiration that he lifted his nose from his handkerchief, and said : “Five pounds.” She begs her hearers to consider this reply, for does it not, she asks, reflect that spirit which, in two world wars, earned for his countrymen the reputation of not knowing when they were sunk? It was
magnifique.
She saluted him. But she could not perceive the necessity for parting with five pounds, or even fivepence, so she addressed herself to the realistic sex, enquiring whether she was right in supposing that Madame would be prepared to part with this dog which, though handsome, and perhaps even valuable, seemed to require more room than he was here able to command? . . . Madame replied with intense feeling that she wanted neither hide nor hair of the great, clumsy galoot, and the sooner someone would take it out of her life, the better she would be pleased. Aunt Isabelle courteously expressed her satisfaction at finding herself in a position to gratify this wish; she would make no charge for removing the animal, but would be enchanted to do so as a favour to Monsieur and Madame. Monsieur would, of course, convey her—with her dog—to the railway station in his taxi, and if, in the circumstances, he insisted upon waiving the question of his fare, she would gracefully accept his generous gesture.

The taxi-driver looked up at her over his bloodied handkerchief, and said:

“Lady, you win.”

Aunt Isabelle arrived at the station in the best of spirits, for although the taxi-driver and his family were not engaged in taming the wilderness, they had provided her first encounter with the indigenous population in its native habitat, and she had found her brief encounter with them stimulating. Moreover, she was quite enraptured by Jake, and discerned in him qualities which clearly equipped him to play a major role in her pioneering drama. It was not only as a playmate for
le petit Tony
that he would prove invaluable. He would help Henri bring in the cows; he would defend the lonely farmhouse against bushrangers and maddened buffaloes—both of which had figured largely in the books she had consulted; and if Tony should become lost (a misfortune which these same authorities presented as practically routine for all small boys), he would guide searchers to the rescue. In short, one could not look at him, immature though he still was, and fail to recognise a dog destined for heroic adventures.

Her parting with the taxi-driver was amicable, for he had thought things over, and come to the conclusion that it was, after all, worth a good deal to have a few hundred miles between himself and Jake. So (not entirely without ulterior motive) he produced from his pocket a length of cord which he reckoned she might find handy for a lead, and then, having accepted the small
pourboire
which she thought proper to offer him, wished her luck, and drove away so fast that his tyres screamed.

Aunt Isabelle, retaining only her fur coat and a small suitcase, delivered the rest of her luggage into the hands of a porter, tied a handkerchief round Jake's neck, fastened the cord to it, and made her way to the ticket window. Here a sharp-faced official sharply informed her that the last passenger train to Rothwell had departed ten minutes ago, and there would not be another till to-morrow at nine fifty-three; but in about an hour there would be a slow goods with one passenger coach attached, and she could go by that if she liked. Aunt Isabelle was delighted by the prospect of travelling in a goods train, and made haste to protest that if Monsieur contemplated providing a passenger coach solely for her convenience, it was most courteous of him, but quite unnecessary, for she would think nothing of making the journey in an open truck, particularly since she was accompanied by her dog which, though young, was of immense courage and devotion, and would with ferocity defend her against any outlaws who might hold up the train.

This was, of course, a bad blunder. The official, leaning forward to stare down at Jake with cold disapproval, replied that he didn't know anything about anybody holding up trains, but passengers were pribbetted from travelling in trucks, and animals were pribbetted from travelling in passenger coaches, so if she didn't want to pay no fines she better put the dog in the guard's van, and if it bit the guard there'd be compensation.

This rocked Aunt Isabelle. She felt that such pernicketty niceness was misplaced in a rugged, pioneering land. But she immediately resolved that Jake should on no account be parted from her, so she cunningly beamed acquiescence, and declared that she would first take him for a little walk—accompanying these words with a glance so archly meaningful that the official was quite covered in confusion.

She then retired with Jake to the Ladies' Room, and considered their perilous position. A moment's reflection persuaded her that it would be advisable to assume a disguise, so she changed into her boots and boiler-suit; but as there seemed to be no way of disguising Jake, she realised that he must be concealed. Fortunately not many ladies had occasion to enter their sanctuary during the next hour, for he disliked being suddenly extinguished under the fur coat; however, in the intervals between these crises Aunt Isabelle began teaching him to beg, and as their acquaintance improved they found each other increasingly congenial, so the time passed pleasantly enough.

When the train at last came in, she took her suitcase in one hand, bundled Jake—swathed in the fur coat—under her other arm, and, after some wary reconnoitring, stepped out on to the platform, only to find herself confronting an ominous looking person in a peaked cap, who had suddenly emerged from another doorway. She did not falter (“. . . for, as we say in France,
toujours l'audacel
. . .”) but undoubtedly she owed much to her disguise; for the sharp-faced official had circulated among his colleagues a warning that an old girl would probably attempt, in contravention of By-Law No. 688
9112
, to sneak a dog into the passenger coach, and as a result of this, the peaked cap was keenly looking out for her. But the description with which he had been provided did not at all tally with her present appearance; nor was any dog visible. So his gaze passed over her without suspicion, if not without some small surprise occasioned by her curious gait. The fact was that Jake, struggling against suffocation with the strength of a mastiff, was slipping down from beneath her arm, thus compelling her to assume the role (“. . . for the theatricals I possess a natural gift. . .”) of one afflicted by lameness, convulsive spasms, and advanced curvature of the spine.

Thus she was able without molestation to find the passenger coach, and take possession of an unoccupied compartment. She observed the little door in one of its corners, and noted it as providing a last, desperate line of retreat, but judged it wiser for the moment to seat herself innocently by the window, with Jake—still firmly parcelled—on her lap. She opened the folds of the coat now and then, in case he should want to breathe, but dared not allow him to emerge, for the peaked cap was still vigilantly patrolling the platform.

It was not until the train was about to start that this person suddenly smelt a rat. No elderly lady of the kind described to him had appeared . . . but had there not been something fishy about that old bag with the boots . . . and the suitcase . . . and the lump of coat bundled beneath her arm? . . . Might not a suitcase contain a change of attire? . . . Might not a coat conceal a dog? . . . He began to stride purposefully towards the passenger coach, and Aunt Isabelle, who had been keeping a close eye on him, immediately recognised disaster.

There was nothing for it but the last ditch. Clutching Jake in her arms, she leapt for the little door, entered, slammed it, and shot the bolt home. But the situation was still extremely tricky, for Jake struggled free as she did so, and the notion of holding parley through the closed door, and indignantly denying all knowledge of a dog, could not, she feared, be seriously entertained in view of the fact that he was putting on a barking turn which suggested not one dog, but half a dozen. In that bitter moment, with defeat staring her in the face, her eyes lit on the basin, and the button above it which said : PUSH.

(“. . . I do not hesitate. I push. The basin descends itself. I seize Jacques. He is downside up, but what would you . . .? There is no time to make the adjustments. In my haste to close the basin, I nip his tail. This I regret, but freedom is all. It is done—he is safe. He is also silent; I think he is perhaps a little confused. With my heart between my teeth, I open carefully the door a small crack—and what meets my eyes? . . . Thrust through the window, I behold the head of the Persecutor!”)

Good, strong, dramatic stuff, no doubt—yet we feel that this title leans towards overstatement. True, the peaked cap promptly demanded what the lady had done with that there dog, but the question, aggressive as it was, emerged in a curiously apologetic tone. Aunt Isabelle was quick to detect this, and no less quick to understand the cause. (“. . . the prudishness of the Anglo-Saxon temperament is well known. . . .”) She therefore moved swiftly to attack, and was enquiring in an outraged voice whether, in this country, passengers of the female sex might not retire themselves without being subjected to vulgar intrusion, when a large, red-faced man appeared at the elbow of the now quite sheepish Persecutor, and signified his desire to enter the compartment.

Aunt Isabelle at once modified her role to meet this new situation. She now became a poor little old lady who, though courageously determined to resist oppression, was only with difficulty mastering her terror and restraining her tears. She bravely expressed astonishment that one whose duty it was to promote the comfort of travellers should, instead of opening the door for Monsieur, continue to incommode him by standing in the way and talking nonsense about dogs, when it must be evident to anyone in possession of his eyesight that the compartment was entirely innocent of dogs, unless, indeed, it was supposed that she had a dog packed in her suitcase, or concealed in her handbag, and as for the
cabinet,
she felt a certain natural delicacy, but if she were to be spared no humiliation let all the world observe for itself that no dogs whatever. . . .(“. . . and here I fling wide the door, but hearing that Jacques is now making some small squeaks, I begin to weep loudly, thus rendering them inaudible to our enemy. . . .”)