Each week we are serialising Vic Barlow's new book From Rags to Bitches on wilmslow.co.uk . Here is the third chapter. If you missed previous chapters these can be viewed by clicking on the 'From Rags to Bitches' tag below.
From Rags to Bitches
Chapter 3: Rex hits the trail
As we tramped the fields and streams without any sight of our elusive 'prey' Granddad's confidence in Rex began to wane.
"We'll tek a look in that spinney, but keep that bloody dog on the lead. We dunna want him scaring everything off before we get there."
Assuming his General Custer role once more, Granddad crept forward in the failing light, gun at the ready. The eerie silence was suddenly shattered as a cock pheasant broke cover.
Granddad swung his trusty 410 skyward. Bang!
The rotting rope binding me to Rex snapped, and with a howl that could be heard from grandma's kitchen Rex bolted in the exact opposite direction to the rocketing pheasant.
"Did you hit it Granddad?"
"I would have done, had it not been for that bloody daft dog howling like a banshee."
('Bloody' was Granddad's expletive of choice in my presence, although I suspect he knew others.)
"I'm pretty sure you shot before he started howling Granddad."
"I'll shoot him when we catch him."
"You'll have to be quick Granddad."
"Why's that then?"
"Rex has just dived in the river."
"He's done what?"
"Jumped in the river. I think your gun scared him."
"I'll bloody scare him when I catch him."
"Come on Granddad, he's drifting away on the current."
"Can't 'e swim?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, he'll have to bloody learn."
"Quick, before Rex drowns."
"Whose daft idea was it to bring him anyway?"
Grabbing both stick and gun we stumbled our way through the snow; Granddad ruddy-cheeked and sweating like a pit pony.
"Where is he... where did you say he went in the river?"
"Right here Granddad."
"Well, he's not here now."
My heart sunk like a drowning Labrador.
"He could have been washed away," I said, heartbreak and panic vying for supremacy.
"Dunna upset thi' self our Victor. Rex'll be alreet."
Granddad's use of my christian name told me the only thing likely to save Rex was a North Sea trawler.
"But Granddad we have to find him," I sobbed.
"Now then young 'un, we'll get him."
"Do you swear, honest?"
"When have I ever told thee a lie?"
"Well, there was that time you told me the fire brigade was draining the River Dane (sob) and you said Mrs Ollerenshaw wouldn't notice that arrow stuck in her back door (sob) not to mention the Germans you 'surrounded' (sob...sob...sob)."
"Reet... reet... don't go on. We'll find thi dog. All we need is a strategy." (That word again.)
"I'll walk down to that felled tree and cross t'other side o't' river. Thee walk down this bank and we'll see if wi can spot him."
After forty cold, anxious minutes scouring the river in the fading light Granddad called off the search.
"I'll go to that shallow bit and come back over to thy side o't river," said Granddad, noting my bitter disappointment.
He stepped boldly into the water moving confidently towards me until he slipped on a large stone and lost his footing toppling headlong into the river.
"Give us thi stick," he called, waving a frantic arm towards me.
Beside myself with worry, I swung the thumb stick towards him.
"Get owd of that big tree root," he shouted, grabbing for the stick.
I hooked my left arm through the tree root and held the stick firmly in my right hand.
"Reet...now stand still while I pull miself up."
"Granddad, your wellie is sailing away. Shall I go after it?"
"Not unless you want to tell your Nan how I drowned."
I hung on for dear life while Granddad slowly hauled himself to safety.
Hugging him in sheer relief I began to shake.
"Tha's gone into shock," said Granddad, pulling my coat collar up to my ears. "Where did I put that coffee?"
Searching his soggy pocket he produced the flask. "Ere, tek a drink o' this to warm thee up."
I sipped then gulped the wonderful warming brew.
"I'll save some for you Granddad."
He brushed away the flask.
"Drink it up, thas earned it saving thi Granddad's life."
I guzzled the hot coffee greedily.
"What are we going to do about your wellie, Granddad?"
"I'll tell yer what we're going to do, Lad. See that white plastic sack stuck in t' bottom o' that bush?" I nodded. "I'm going to mek miself a boot."
With the precision of an experienced shoemaker Granddad fashioned himself a knee-high boot by twisting the plastic sack around his leg tying it at the top. "Right Lad, time to head home."
"But I can't get up Granddad."
"Course tha can get up it were me as fell down not thee."
"I feel dizzy."
"What duss mean dizzy?"
I tried to stand up but I fell down giggling.
"Ish no good, Granddad, I can't do it...hic."
"Bloody 'ell, I forgot there were whisky in that coffee..."
Before I could question the relevance of whisky to my unsteadiness Rex dived on top of me out of nowhere. Taking Granddad's hand I scrambled upright as overjoyed as Rex at our reunion.
'Good God," cried Granddad wafting his nose. "Where the hell as he been?"
The smell of poo was overpowering.
Rex's whereabouts remained a mystery until we spotted a sign further along the footpath pointing to the sewage works...
"Maybe Rex's nose isn't as good as you thought."
Despite his soaking Granddad chuckled.
We barely noticed the snow falling as we trudged homeward, wet, cold but, oh, so happy to be reunited after our Great Adventure.
Granddad, squelching up the road in one wellie, accompanied by a drunken nine-year-old with a dog stinking of excrement remains the most popular story at family gatherings to this day.
(To be continued...)
Photo: Granddad and Nan Sample.
