The Sheepdog

              

Sheepdog’s Excerpt from my novel Forever Shales

We arrived later that day, in a somewhat mud-spattered carriage, at 15 Darnley Road. I gazed at the old place, which was set a bit further back from the road than the newer, terraced dwellings, called villas, which lay close to the road.  It looked to be quite large, though the narrow end fronted the road, and the actual front of the house was set a short distance back, somewhat behind the terraced villas. Edmund attached my lead to my collar. We went along the path and up the steps, and there he lifted the heavy knocker – tap-tap . . . tap-tap. The front door opened almost immediately.
     “Oh, Master Edmund! Welcome home. Your father is waiting for you in his study,” said an excited Armstrong.  The housemaid then stooped to fondle my face, and she greeted me thus: “Shales, you lovely dog. Aren’t you handsome . . . the handsomest dog in Hackney?  And Darnley Road, as well as Cassland Road!”
     I jumped on her, and nearly head-butted her on the nose.  I was excited and could hardly contain myself.  After wiping her face with the hem of her apron she unhooked my lead, which she carefully hung next to Edmund’s hat, and without a backward glance I trotted off to explore the new residence. I discovered it had lots of rooms, but best of all, the furniture was familiar, as well as all the ornaments and carpets. It had obviously been fetched from the Cassland Road residence. A short time later, the men who’d driven the removal van began to empty it of its contents and carried the entire lot into the house. Jessie gave orders as to where each large item was to be placed, and Armstrong dashed about with a duster and a pot of polish. The other sisters peered into the straw-filled crates and removed the packed items. There were a lot of silver-framed photos as well as piles of loose ones, stacks of books, boxes of music sheets, and a lot of china, silver, and glass.
      The house was in a happy mood, and so was I.

* * *

I’d only been living in Darnley Road a couple of days, and hadn’t even had the opportunity to leave the confines of the garden and have a proper walk along any of the nearby streets and roads, when news came about Thomas. I’ve already told you that Thomas, Maud, and their baby had returned to their home in Bush Hill Park about a fortnight previously. A telegram of the utmost importance arrived at our new residence concerning him. It was early evening, and the family had just finished their dinner, and we had all withdrawn to retire and let our meal settle. Silly me, I’d had my hopes up that Thomas was summoning me to go and visit with him, seeing that we had moved away from Wayletts. Why I had ever thought that, I do not know. It is what I had hoped the telegram would reveal. Augustus waited for Armstrong, our housemaid, to leave the room and close the door behind her. The telegram was held lightly in his hand. When he opened it, which he did with great solemnity in front of the family, he first read it quietly to himself, and then handed it over to Edmund to read aloud.
     “Oh, dear!” Edmund moaned, angling the paper to get the best light from the ceiling-lamp. “It’s from Maud, and she says here that Thomas has been taken ill and that a doctor has been summoned.”
     He looked at his father, and appearing to be uncomfortable, rubbed the back of his neck. From the tone of his voice, I knew my own disappointment, so I flopped down rather heavily upon a familiar carpet that had resided at the Cassland Road residence, wondering what was to happen next. I feared that Thomas was once again in trouble, and I looked about for someplace to hide.
     Augustus sternly looked at Edmund as if he were in any way responsible for his own brother’s ailment. “Thomas has been working this week while we have been removing ourselves from Stanford Rivers, but you went over to the office today in Stoke Newington to see how things were. Was he not there?”
     He sounded angry, and I cringed inwardly at the harsh tone of his voice. I wondered if I ought to slither away to the next room, or to blend in with the pattern of the carpet and listen to Thomas’s fate.
     Edmund looked guilty as he replied, “No, Father. Well, I mean yes, he had been there up until today, but I understood he was coming in later. I had no idea he was so ill, and I’m as surprised as you are.”
     All eyes, including my own, were upon Edmund, whose handsome face looked rather worried. Poor Edmund had wanted to keep Thomas in his father’s good books . . . Forever Shales is a 472 page historical novel written by me, Deborah Berkeley. Signed copies can be purchased at Our Mother’s Keepers, 85 Water Street, Windsor, or at www.Amazon.ca.. Published by Melrose Books.com

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