‘Are you sure this is legal,
Gladys?’
‘Legal? Don’t be ridiculous,
Elsie. This is my garden. I’m allowed to stroll about in it if I like.’
‘But we’re not strolling, dear.
We’re peeping through the fence.’
‘A mere technicality. It’s my
garden. I can do what I like.’
‘But it’s spying.’
‘You call it what you like,
Elsie. I prefer to call it “Neighbourhood Watch”.’
From the rear, the two elderly
ladies looked like ill-matched bookends; both bent from the waist, each peering
through a hole in the fence. Stocky Gladys, aware that bending over might raise
the hem of her tweed skirt to unseemly heights, tugged at it periodically,
although the only pair of eyes that might have observed her sensible underwear,
belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson, the dog. And he wasn’t interested in grey
knickers.
The sight of Elsie’s plump leg
encased in soft, pink tracksuit trousers, however, was a different matter
entirely. It was reminiscent of the dachshund who lived next door. Robert Louis
Stevenson pounced.
‘Get off!’ Elsie shook her leg
vigorously. ‘Gladys, get your crazed animal off.’ She whipped off her sunhat
and swiped at the pulsating dog.
‘Shh! Someone’ll hear.’ Gladys
hadn’t even turned around. She batted at the air; her arm extended behind her.
‘Gladys! Do something. Robert
Louis Stevenson, get off!’ Elsie finally dislodged the mop-like dog, which
rolled into the bushes. ‘Anyway, so what if someone hears? You said this was
all right.’
‘Well, of course, it’s all right,
it’s just that I wouldn’t want any of the neighbours to know we’re looking into
Mr Johnson’s garden. Especially Minnie Pegwell from number 6. She’s such a
gossipmonger.’
‘You still haven’t explained what
we’re looking for, dear. Please tell me we’re not spying on Mr Johnson.’
‘Certainly not! Anyway, we’re
“neighbourhood watching”, not spying, Elsie. And we’re not looking for Mr.
Johnson. I happen to know he’s not at home at the moment. But there’s
definitely someone in his garden.’
‘Perhaps it’s that grotesquely
large cat of his, dear?’ Elsie crouched and placed her eye close to the hole
she’d been peering through.
‘Horatio? Oh no. He tends not to
stay in Mr Johnson’s garden when Robert Louis Stevenson’s about.’ Gladys pulled
her skirt straight.
‘Perhaps Mr Johnson’s got a
friend staying or a relative. He must get lonely living on his own,’ Elsie
said.
‘He didn’t mention anyone to me.’
‘Why should he, dear?’
‘No reason…’
‘So, what makes you think there’s
someone in the garden? Perhaps that ghastly boy, Cyril, from number 12, climbed
over the fence to get a ball.’ Elsie peered over her shoulder, keeping an eye
on Robert Louis Stevenson.
‘No, the person I glimpsed was
tall with long hair.’
‘Cyril’s mother? She spoils that
boy terribly. It would be just like her to climb over the fence to get his ball
to save him the effort, dear.’
‘No, this was a man. A tall, dark
stranger with long hair.’
‘Did you see him in a crystal
ball, Gladys?’
‘Oh, very funny, I’m sure.’
Elsie stood up, put her hands on
her hips and pushed Robert Louis Stevenson back into the undergrowth with her
foot. ‘Bad dog!’ she said, wagging her finger.
‘Get down, Elsie, he’ll see you!’
Gladys hissed.
Elsie sighed and bending over
again, she applied her eye to the hole. ‘But where is he, dear?’
‘It’s hard to see through the bushes,
but I think he’s behind that tree trunk.’
There was silence for a few
minutes, broken only by the rattle of beads in the next garden and rustling in
the undergrowth in Gladys’s garden, as Robert Louis Stevenson got into position
for another assault on the pink-clad leg.
‘Can you see anything?’ whispered
Gladys.
‘Not really, the bush is in the
way. No, wait! I can see a pair of feet. Perhaps Mr Johnson has a new
gardener.’
‘I suppose it’s possible. He
hates mowing the lawn.’
‘Well, if he is a gardener, Mr
Johnson might want to think again. I don’t know much about health and safety,
Gladys, but I do know it’s unwise to do the gardening barefoot. Are you sure Mr
Johnson hasn’t returned home without you knowing?’
‘I suppose he could have nipped
home briefly. Oh my, Elsie, just look at that! No, on second thoughts, don’t.
Well, it’s not Mr. Johnson, that’s for sure. Look at those legs. There’s not a
varicose vein in sight. Mr Johnson’s legs are almost purple. Oh, my word, he’s
bending over. Avert your eyes, Elsie.’
‘How do you know Mr Johnson’s got
varicose veins?’ Elsie stood up and looked at her friend with a puzzled frown.
‘Get down, Elsie, he’ll see you.’
Gladys’s ears turned pink.
Elsie peered over the top of the
fence ‘Good grief! That man is only wearing beads! And they’re round his neck.’ She ducked down beside Gladys, her back to
the fence, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘D’you think he’s one of those naturalists?’
‘Aren’t naturalists people who
are interested in animals and plants? I think you mean nudalist.’
‘I mean one of those people who doesn’t
wear clothes, dear.’
‘He’s got bangles on.’
‘They’re not going to keep a
stiff breeze out, are they?’
‘Well, he might be wearing pants.
I can’t see. Can you?’
‘No, but if he were to move out
onto the lawn, we’d be able to see.’
‘Does he look like he’s the sort
of man to wear Y-fronts?’ Gladys’s voice had risen slightly.
Elsie pressed her face closer to
the hole. ‘What sort of men wear Y-fronts? Oh, my goodness, he’s moving onto
the grass. Should we phone the police?’
Gladys gasped. ‘I think we’d best
keep our eyes on him and see if he gets up to no good.’
‘Of course, he’s up to no good,
Gladys! When was the last time you saw a naked nudalist dancing and wailing in
a suburban garden? Even if it turns out he’s wearing pants?’
‘Yes, it does seem quite odd.’
Elsie moved further along the
fence to another hole and put her eye to it. ‘Shall we knock at Mr Johnson’s
door, he may be back now, Gladys?’
‘No, if he nips home, we won’t
need to warn him something’s going on in the garden. He’ll only have to look
out of the window. That chanting is awfully loud.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Elsie. ‘I suppose
it’s not the sort of thing you can miss.’
‘And Mr Johnson has very good
hearing.’
‘You seem to know a lot about Mr.
Johnson, dear.’
Gladys blushed. ‘No, not really.
I’ve just noticed he seems to be able to hear… things.’
‘How very unusual. Fancy being
able to hear things.’
‘That was said in an
unnecessarily sarcastic tone, Elsie. Have you been gossiping with Minnie
Pegwell from number 6? I admit, Mr Johnson and I may have enjoyed the odd glass
of sherry together. But that’s no reason for you to go jumping to conclusions.’
‘As if I would, dear. Still, you
kept the sherry-drinking very quiet.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Gladys.
‘It was all Robert Louis Stevenson’s fault.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me,
dear? So, what did he do?’
‘Well, he got into Mr. Johnson’s
garden and tried to make friends with Horatio. Mr Johnson called round to
complain. He said the cat had been traumatised and that I’d have to make sure
Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t escape again. Of course, I asked him and Horatio
in for tea and cake to make up for it. Then Robert Louis Stevenson came in
through the dog flap. Horatio didn’t understand he was only trying to make
friends. But for a dog, he’s such a determined little chap, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, isn’t he. I’m afraid to
say, Gladys, Robert Louis Stevenson is completely unmanageable. He’s far too
frisky for his own good. Perhaps you could get some pills for him from the vet
to calm down his libretto. Anyway, you said you had tea and cake with Mr.
Johnson. That’s not sherry.’
‘Oh well, we may have met up a
few times after that for sherry. Only to discuss fences and how to keep Robert
Louis Stevenson under control, you understand.’
There was a shriek from Mr
Johnson’s garden.
‘Oh, my word, Elsie! He’s moved
onto the lawn. And he is definitely not a man who wears pants.’
‘He’s got rather large…’
‘Elsie!’
‘What? I was going to say he’s
got rather large muscles.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right.
They’re positively bulging.’
‘I say, dear, I wonder if he’s
one of those health and fitness gurus. Mr Johnson might have got himself a
personal trainer.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Mr Johnson
suffers from lumbago when he exerts himself, you won’t get him pumping iron.’
Elsie’s eyebrow arched. ‘Really?
And how do you know that?’
‘Well, that’s what he told me,
anyway.’
‘Over sherry?’
‘Sherry or cocktails, I can’t
remember which. Anyway, does it matter?’ Gladys turned her head sideways and
pressed her face closer to the hole in the fence, hiding her burning cheeks.
‘You know, I don’t think he can be a personal trainer. Just look at those
dreadnoughts, they’d be sure to get caught up if he was lifting weights.’
‘Well, I expect he wears pants at
the gym, dear.’
‘What are you talking about? His
dreadnoughts are long, but I don’t think they’re long enough to tuck in his
pants, Elsie.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean, dear.
Dreadnoughts. Yes, you’re talking about those stringy lengths of hair. I
thought you meant his…’
‘Good gracious, Elsie! I haven’t
been looking at his… well, not much, anyway. Although looking through this
hole, his manly ensemble sort of fills your vision, doesn’t it?’
‘Indeed, it does.’
The two women were silent for a
few minutes.
‘He seems to be working himself
up into quite a frenzy, doesn’t he, dear?’
‘Mm.’
‘You know, Gladys, I’ve had
another thought. He’s got a white painted stripe on his forehead and he looks a
bit dusty. Do you think he could be a decorator?’
‘Well, Mr Johnson’s bedroom is
rather in need of a coat of paint. The skirtings are really quite discoloured,
and the wallpaper is a disgrace.’
‘Gladys! How on earth do you know
that?’
‘Oh, er, well, Mr. Johnson told
me, of course. Anyway, you could be right. But that still doesn’t explain what
he’s doing dancing “au naturel” in the garden. Why isn’t he upstairs painting?’
‘More to the point, dear, what’s
he holding over his head?’
‘It looks like a football,
Elsie.’
‘No, it’s not round enough for a
ball. It looks like… Hmm, it’s no good. I’m going to have to stand up. I just
can’t make it out through that hole.’
‘Be careful, Elsie.’
Elsie peered over the fence,
gasped, clutched her throat and sank to her knees. ‘Gladys,’ she whispered
hoarsely, ‘we need to telephone the police. That… that… person is holding a
skull over his head!’
‘A skull? Should I tell Mr
Johnson?’
‘Gladys, that skull could be Mr Johnson. But what d’you mean, should you tell him? You keep telling me Mr Johnson’s out.’
‘Well, he is, unless, of course,
he’s nipped home.’
‘So you keep saying, dear, which
makes me think that you think he’s
somewhere quite close.’
Elsie followed Gladys’s gaze to
her bedroom window.
‘Gladys Winterbottom! You hussy!
No wonder that dog’s so rampant! What an example you set for him. And no wonder
you took so long to open the door when I knocked this morning. You and Mr.
Johnson? I just don’t believe it. And to think I told Minnie Pegwell from
number 6 there was no way you’d ever…’ She swerved nimbly as Robert Louis
Stevenson sailed through the air, missing her leg by nanometres, and crashed
into the fence.
‘Oh no. You bad dog. You’ve
broken the fence again,’ Gladys said, wagging her finger.
‘Don’t change the subject,
Gladys!’
‘Quick! Grab Robert Louis
Stevenson before he gets into Mr. Johnson’s garden. Poor Horatio won't’ stand a
chance.’ Gladys dived for the dog, but he’d already slipped through the fence.
The ululation from Mr. Johnson’s
garden stopped abruptly and was replaced by a surprised screech, followed by
cries of indignation, canine grunting and rattling of beads.
Elsie and Gladys stooped to peer
through their holes and were just in time to see the skull drop to the ground.
Robert Louis Stevenson, having been thrown from the well-muscled leg, bounced
twice and came to rest against the shed. The blow had obviously done nothing to
reduce his ardour, and he gave chase to the dusty, beaded figure with swinging
dreadlocks, who was scrambling over the fence towards number 6 – Minnie
Pegwell’s house.
‘He looks like some sort of witch
doctor,’ said Gladys. ‘Well, let’s see what Minnie Pegwell makes of him.’
Gladys placed her forefingers in
her mouth and whistled shrilly for Robert Louis Stevenson.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Elsie.
‘That dog does exactly as he likes.’
A screech from next door cut
through the air, silencing the birds.
‘It sounds like Horatio is out of
luck,’ said Gladys, wincing. ‘I really must take Robert Louis Stevenson for
obedience training.’
‘It may be a bit late for that,’
said Elsie, looking up into the tree where Horatio teetered on a high branch.
‘I hope Mr Johnson’s in a good mood.’
‘Well,’ said Gladys with a
self-satisfied smile, ‘the last time I saw him, he was.’
About the author
Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles' is coming soon.
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