Princess Phoebe (7 page)

There's quiet for a few minutes then Frank goes on: ‘Batts Wood is a good place for dumping dogs, as it happens. I've taken a few in my time when I've been calling on Alex. Good tree cover and a rescue place not far off. It saves all that messy business of drowning them.'

The van's speeding now and with every mile I know that the police must have lost us, and that I am in big trouble. If there weren't so many dogs with me the men would notice me for sure, but they are only interested in putting space between themselves and the sirens. It helps that by now it's almost dark, too. We drive on for quite a while, with neither
of them talking much. There's the occasional swearword from Frank, but otherwise just the sound of the engine and the scratch of the dogs' claws as they slide around in the back with me.

Then I hear Lennie say, ‘I need to get out Frank. The way you're driving makes me want to throw up.'

‘What?' Frank seems more upset than he has been since we set off. ‘Throw up in my van?'

He slams on the brakes and pulls over, screeching to a halt in what might be a lay-by and jumping out. The road is busy with the lights of cars and lorries passing.

‘Get in the hedge and do your thing,' Frank tells him, ‘we're nearly there anyway. I'll get out and try and see where we've got to. We might be close enough to the woods to drop that dog. It's been useless for some time ...' He gets out and goes to look beyond the hedge while Lennie, retching loudly, swears even more and staggers over to a patch of bushes.

I've got one chance only and this is it. Lennie hasn't closed his door properly; it's open just enough for me to squeeze through. I grab Princess's rough rope collar and, holding it tightly, I wriggle over towards the gap, pulling her after me as I slide out and on to the grass. Together we creep round the back of the van and across the dark road, thankfully quiet for a moment, diving into a ditch on the opposite side. I don't dare even peep over the top of the ditch but I hear Frank call to Lennie.

‘Come on Pansy, get back in! I'll need to take this bloody greyhound further along and into the wood. It's too open here, and I don't want to be seen.' Lennie's grumbling but he must do as he's told, as I hear the van door slam and the engine start up. There's a short skid as Frank pulls out on to the road. I keep my head down but they're gone in a second, and Princess and I are left alone.

I look at my watch by the light of the next car headlights and see it's coming up to midnight. Hours before morning light. . I've got no phone, no money, spare clothes or food, and I have no idea where I am.

As each set of car headlights pass and light the road, they leave me less able to see in the blackness after they've gone. I try to get my balance on the side of the ditch but trip over something and one of my legs slides off down the bank, landing in a stream of cold water at the bottom. Then my other leg catches on a thorny branch and I feel the pain of a sharp scratch as it comes free and I slide down again.

My legs start shaking but I try to stand firm. Poor Princess is wobbling about too, feeling for something to hold on to. The water is gradually seeping into my socks and trainers and, within seconds, my feet are frozen. I try not to cry but tears are coming.

Sinking down on to the side of the ditch, with my wet feet tucked under to hold me from slipping again, I feel a cold nose push under my arm and a soft head against my chest. I cuddle my dog and we lie down together, waiting for morning to come.

It's the longest night of my life. Neither Princess nor I can sleep; she's watchful, and I am terrified. I don't dare think what might live at the bottom of the ditch.
Rats? Snakes
? And what about Frank and Lennie –
supposing they miss Princess and decide to come back and look for her? What would they do to me if they found us
? I want my big brother, or Mum, or even Dad who would be so angry with me, or Jan, Margaret –
anyone
. I resolve to be nicer to the twins if I ever get back alive.

At long last dawn comes and what starts as a grey light turns quickly to sunrise. I look and feel like rubbish. My trainers are heavy with water and my jeans and t-shirt are stained with mud and grass.

I guess that a mucky 11-year-old girl walking along a main road with a greyhound at the crack of dawn might attract attention, and decide to get away from the road as soon as I can while it's early and there are hardly any cars.

At least my parents won't be worried because they aren't expecting me home. And I have my Princess with me. She and I set off along the road together, as I let go of her rope collar.
Where to look for help
? It doesn't feel safe to try for a passing car. Up ahead I can see a lane leading off to the right, about 100 metres away, and I aim for that. Turning
down it, I see that it goes winding off, away from the view of the main road.

The hedges that line the lane are green and summery, and sparrows are darting about all over the place, looking for bugs and caterpillars to eat. . They take no notice of me and Princess and our troubles.

We walk for a while, until we come to a bend where the hedges are higher and a band of trees makes the lane appear shady and dark. There's a cottage up ahead, and bobbing about in the garden I can just make out the bent shape of a white-haired old woman. I blink my tired eyes as I try to see what's ahead of me. It is a witch. I've seen her picture before, in a book in Jan's bedroom. The cottage is the same, too. Jan's witch ate children, especially girls because they taste the best. I shake my head to try and clear my brain. Princess is staring ahead, her ears and hackles up.

Moving to catch hold of her I trip over a bump in the lane as she avoids my hand and dashes off, disappearing through the bushes and into the witch's garden.

‘Princess!' I call in alarm.

‘Oi!' The witch's voice, loud and angry, is the next thing I hear as I limp after my dog and come up to a gate where the woman, no longer bent and not looking nearly so old, is glaring at me in indignation.

‘Your dog's after my chickens!' she says. ‘Come and get her out of here please, at once!'

I mutter something about being sorry and, keeping my head down in case she knocks me out on the way past, I hurry through the gate she's holding open. The lady gestures towards the back of the house, from where I can hear the sound of squawking hens. I follow the noise and there's Princess, charging up and down the length of a wire chicken run while a gang of hysterical birds flap around in
a panic. I drag her away, which isn't easy with only Frank's old bit of rope round her neck.

The woman appears beside me. ‘What on earth are you doing child?'

‘I'm sorry,' I say again. ‘She was too quick for me.'

The woman is rather wild looking. She has hair that flies all over the place and she's wearing a flowery dress hitched up around her middle with a bit of string. There are no witch's shoes, but a pair of navy blue wellies. She's wearing gardening gloves.

‘I asked you
what
you're doing,' she says again, sternly. ‘You don't live round here, do you, and it's six o'clock in the morning. Were you hoping to steal my eggs?'

I stare at her in amazement.

‘No!' I protest.

‘Are you quite sure?' She looks at me suspiciously.

‘Quite sure,' I say. I have a vision of omelettes. ‘How would I cook them?'

That doesn't convince her, and she goes on. ‘We've had quite a few thefts round here lately. So if you aren't after my eggs, what
are
you after?'

‘Nothing,' I say.
How can I explain
? I'm exhausted and frightened. I back away from her and stand looking at the ground.

I suppose I shiver a bit because all of a sudden she says in a kinder voice,

‘Why don't you come into the house and I'll get you a drink. Bring your naughty dog and we'll see if we can begin our conversation all over again.'

I don't want to go into her house. She might grab hold of me and tie me to the cooker and torture me or something. By going in I'll be trapped for sure.
But what else can I do
? Then I think of Princess. Surely my dog will bite the woman if she tries to hurt me. So I keep hold of Princess
and follow the lady through the back door and into a large kitchen. Cautiously, I look around.

The woman points to a chair and tells me to sit down. I perch on the edge of it, in case I need to run, and let go of Princess. I can't see any tying-up rope and the kitchen is really messy, which makes me feel better, more at home. There aren't any nappies or fishing maggots on the table but there's piles of other stuff – books, gardening magazines, plant pots, and biscuits. There's also a large dog bed with smelly looking blankets in the corner, and a number of bowls and chewed dog toys on the floor. An ancient-looking sheepdog is lying curled up on the blankets. It takes no notice of us.

‘That's Phoebe,' says the woman. ‘She's very old indeed, and doesn't usually get up until lunchtime.'

Princess helps herself to Phoebe's water, then has a quick nosy around before settling down in a spot on the floor where the sun's coming in. She must also feel at home, because she quickly falls asleep where she's lying.

The woman asks my name and tells me she's called Mrs Henderson.

‘So, Ellie,' she says, ‘are you going to tell me about yourself and what you're doing here?' I look at her and decide that she isn't much like a witch at all.

‘Are you running away from someone? Cruel father? Wicked stepmother? Or if it really is my eggs you're after – you've only to say and I'll give you some.' She smiles, and I relax a tiny bit.

‘Frank,' I say.

‘Frank?'

‘Frank wants my dog and I don't want him to take her,' I say, tears coming as I see that Mrs Henderson has a kind expression and is listening to me carefully. ‘If he keeps her I'll never get her back. If she's any good at catching hares
he'll sell her when he's won money betting, and if she isn't any good he'll dump her. He'll never give her back to me.'

‘Who's Frank?' asks Mrs Henderson, ‘and why won't he give your dog back if he stops wanting her? And, most of all, why has that brought you here?'

‘He just won't, because he's mean,' I say, ‘and I'm here by mistake.'

‘I'll put some bread in the toaster,' she says, ‘and if you want to you can tell me the whole story. If not, at least tell me enough to give me
some
idea of what a very muddy girl is doing in my kitchen with a greyhound. I wasn't expecting you, you see.' She smiles again, and then goes over to the corner and takes some slices of bread from a packet, dropping them into an old toaster and banging the knob down about ten times to make it stick. Like our toaster at home.

I watch, feeling hungry in spite of the chance that she might suddenly turn on me and eat me up. I know I'm being silly, but my brain feels woozy, and her voice sounds as if it's coming from miles away.

‘Honey or cheese?' She says it a few times before I hear.

‘Just butter, thank you.' I don't like honey and you never know with cheese. Mrs Henderson pours out some squash and puts it down in front of me, together with two slices of lovely looking buttered toast. I eat both bits quickly and risk a smile back at her.

‘Thank you,' I say.

‘Well now,' she sits down next to me. ‘Go on.'

So I tell her my story, or nearly all of it. I don't want her to think that Frank might really own Princess, so I miss out the bit about him saying she's his dog. Mrs Henderson's eyes go wide when I tell her about being in Frank's van when the cops came. And then about Lennie feeling sick. I also talk about the poor greyhound who was going to be thrown out into the woods overnight by the two men.

‘Can we go and look for her?' I ask, pausing in my story.

‘No,' she says, ‘my friend Joan works at the rescue centre and I can ring and let her know another greyhound has been dumped. It happens all the time round here so people are used to finding them, but I suppose it's better than when they're shot or drowned. What I have to concentrate on, is what to do about you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'll have to take you back to your parents, of course,' she says. ‘There are laws about stealing children and I don't want to be accused of stealing you. I'll go and get the car out and take you home. Finish your drink first though,' she adds, and smiles in quite a friendly way for someone who's planning to land me in a load of trouble.

‘Oh, you don't need to worry because they won't be expecting me,' I say quickly, ‘you could just take me to Jan's and they'll never know I've been gone.'

‘That's completely out of the question,' Mrs Henderson says.

‘
Please
!' I beg her. I can't begin to imagine what Mum and Dad will say if I pitch up in a strange woman's car, brought back from who knows where after a night not spent at Jan's. They'd go nuts.
And what about Princess
?

‘And I don't know what to do about my dog,' I say, hearing my voice go shaky. ‘If I go home with Princess, Frank will come and take her back.'

‘You must leave her with me,' says Mrs Henderson at once. ‘I'm not about to send a dog back to that shed you've been telling me about. Phoebe here is a rescue dog, and came from a miserable life. She'll be glad to have your Princess to talk to for a while. It might perk her up.'

I'm not too happy about leaving Princess. In fact, I can feel a lump in my throat starting already. How unfair to have her back then lose her again so quickly. But it's a
solution to my problem and I know Mrs Henderson is being a star to offer help, even though she doesn't know me at all. So I thank her enthusiastically.