Eight
“There’s nothing like a good breeze on wash day,” Bronwyn Evans said to her husband, the rector, the next afternoon as she poured him his second cup of tea.
“Mmm hmm,” came a feeble attempt at agreement from behind a magazine.
Then, setting the magazine down beside his plate, he looked fondly at his wife.
“Sorry, darling, you were saying?”
“Oh, I was just on about how nice it is when there’s a breeze for the clothes on wash day.” She stood up. “Can I get you another piece of cake, dear?”
“No, that was lovely, thanks. I’ll just sit here for a bit and finish this article, if that’s all right with you. I know you have things you want to get on with. Don’t let me hold you up.”
She reached over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Thomas, after all these years I can tell when you’re avoiding working on your sermon for tomorrow. But you’ll get it done. You always do.”
And leaving him to bask for a moment in her warm smile, she walked to the kitchen, where she picked up the wicker clothes basket that had once belonged to her mother-in-law.
I wonder what they’d have to say about you on the Antiques Roadshow, she thought as she hoisted the basket onto her hip, let herself out the back door, and walked to her clothesline at the bottom of the rectory garden.
The rectory, church, and adjoining cemetery were beautifully situated beside the River Conwy. The bright water sparkled in the early afternoon sunshine as small ripples splashed ashore.
Light, cool gusts of wind touched her cheek, and she felt her spirits rise as she set the empty basket down and reached up to the clothesline to begin taking in the laundry.
She pulled the pegs off a fluttering towel and unable to resist, as she did every time she brought in air-dried laundry, held the towel to her nose and breathed in its natural, fresh scent. It brought back happy memories of her childhood and all the years since. As she stood there with the towel pressed against her face, she heard a snuffled, whimpering sound. Lowering the towel, she swiveled her shoulders and looked around. The garden and cemetery were deserted. She folded the towel, placed it in the basket, and took the next one off the line.
The sound came again, a little stronger this time, and she recognized it as a cry for help.
She let the towel fall into the basket and walked into the cemetery, in the direction she thought the sound had come from.
Please make another noise so I can find you, whoever you are, she thought. A moment later, she heard a little whine, and as she stepped behind a large tombstone, she saw it.
Its matted fur clung to slack, malnourished skin. Dark, damp eyes gazed up at her, knowing she was its last chance for survival. She turned and ran back to her clothesline. Without bothering to remove the pegs, she pulled at two more towels, ignoring the ping! ping! of the pegs as they released the towels and flew away to land in the grass nearby. Tossing the towels in the basket and quickly adjusting them to make a soft nest, she scooped up the basket and ran back to the shivering dog.
“Here we go,” she said as she tenderly lifted the frightened dog into the basket. “Let’s be having you.” She set its head down slowly and risked a tentative pat that she hoped would be reassuring. As her hand neared its mouth, a small pink tongue reached out and licked her.
Holding back tears and bearing the basket carefully in front of her, she walked back to the rectory as quickly as she could and pushed open the door.
“Thomas! Thomas!” she called.
Responding to the urgency in her voice, Reverend Evans emerged from his study and hurried down the hall toward her.
“What is it, my dear? Are you all right? Has something happened?”
“I’m fine, Thomas,” she said impatiently. “But look!”
“You want me to look at the laundry?”
“No! Thomas, look inside the basket.”
The rector leaned forward and peered into the fluffy folds of the towels.
“Wherever did you find it?” he asked, then, looking again, added, “What is it, do you think?’
“It’s a weak and injured dog, you ninny,” his wife replied. “Now you need to call Jones the vet and ask if he can see us immediately and then bring the car round. I’ll be waiting out front.” A few moments later, she added, “And be sure to bring my handbag with you.”
The vet’s surgery was crowded, but the receptionist waved them through and a few moments later the rector was setting the basket down on the examination table.
“Well, well,” said the vet, as he reached inside. “Let’s get you out so we can take a good look at you.”
He lifted the shivering animal from the basket and gestured to Reverend Evans to pull the basket out of the way.
Jones held up his stethoscope and set it against the dog’s chest. He inclined his head as he listened and then straightened. He ran his hands gently down the dog’s side and then felt each limb.
He stood back and crossed his arms.
“This little fellow has been neglected and he’s severely malnourished,” he said. “But I don’t think anything’s broken, and with proper care he should be right as rain in no time.”
He directed a question to Bronwyn. “How did you come to have him?”
“I found him in the churchyard,” she replied, “behind a tombstone. He was very wet. Had he been in the river, do you think?”
The vet nodded. “It’s possible, I’m afraid, that someone tried to drown him. There’s a bit of rope here attached to his collar. It might have had a weight attached to it. Unfortunately, this is not the first case like this I’ve seen lately.”
“Oh dear Lord,” exclaimed the rector. “How on earth could anyone hurt a poor little creature like this?”
“I ask myself that very question every time I see an abused animal,” said Jones. “Well, I think we have to figure out what to do next. This dog has been neglected and abused for some time, so there’s certainly no point in trying to find the owner, but it won’t be difficult finding a permanent home for him.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone who’d welcome a little chap into the family, do you?”
The couple looked at each other.
“Well, with our busy schedules we don’t really have time to look after a dog,” the rector said. “Parish business and all that.”
Bronwyn shot him a glance and touched his arm.
“But perhaps we might just take him home with us now and nurse him back to health . . .”
“That’s an excellent idea,” agreed the vet. “And please bring him back in about a week or so and let me see how he’s getting on. And of course, call me if he’s not progressing as well as you think he should.”
“Should we do anything special for him?” asked Bronwyn. “Food or anything like that?”
“Well, I reckon he’s about two years old,” said Jones, “so he can manage adult food. Start him off slowly with some high-quality kibble mixed with warm water to soften it, then some rice added. We’ll give you some free samples of the right sort of food to get you started. And make sure he always has water available.”
The rector placed the basket on the table, and Jones expertly lowered the dog into it. The rector glanced at the dog and then turned to the vet.
“What kind of dog would you say he is?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” replied the vet. “He’s a cairn terrier. A wee Scottish fellow.”