Chapter One
June 1972 – Lambuck Woods
“Become a dog walker,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said.
All those well-meaning people giving me advice, oh, helpful advice they thought no doubt. After all, I was on a downer, a real Debbie Downer, as it’s sometimes called. I’d been made redundant from my job as sales assistant in nearby Tedford’s department store “Stride and Sons,”, I’d lost Jason, my hot boyfriend, (and yet, thinking about it, was that really bad luck?), um, no, being as he was a bit of a fool, albeit, a good-looking fool, the good looks of course being what had turned my head.
Rock star looks had always appealed to me, and he’d certainly had that (well, rock star might be pushing it, how about local band looks?) You know what I mean, don’t you? Long flowing hair, open-neck shirt, a medallion lying on a smooth chest, skin-tight jeans, and T-shirts or sexy leather trousers. Yeah, I know, you’re getting it, aren’t you? How could I resist? He’d wanted the split, so yeah, my heart still hurt and, yeah, I know, it will get better.
Of course there’d been the comments about my newly single state too, “Oh my God, you’re over thirty, the clock’s ticking, tick tock tick tock” but also more positive ones like, “You might meet somebody new,” and “People will notice you, take a second glance when you’re with a fluffy canine friend,” and then with a knowing look, “Gives them an excuse to approach you and talk.”
“What? I might meet somebody new whilst dog walking?” They all nodded, staring at me, their faces big frowns, as I said, “Oh yeah, great. Picture it, okay? I’m walking along, in slow motion maybe, you know, like in a film, my hair, tickled by a gentle breeze, streaming out behind me, just like a girl in a shampoo advert, a dog lead in one hand, oh, and the sun shining in a clear blue sky, no rain of course. After all, it never rains in a dream, does it?”
Excited by my story, they all nodded, “Yeah, yeah.”
And then I went in for the kill, “And a bag of very aromatic doggy doo da dangling from my other hand. So, you really think that would make for a romantic encounter, do you?”
“Oh, give it a go, Mandy,” I remember my friend Steph saying with a sigh, “Just give it a go,” And then with a shrug, “It doesn’t matter about the doggy bags, most men turn a blind eye to that anyway, and if he was a fellow doggy walker it would be no problem.”
So, do you know what? I did! Yeah, I gave it a go and got a job almost immediately, walking a cute little Jack Russell called Bungle, a service dog to Becky, who lives nearby. “He needs a break from looking after me,” she’d said, “A good long walk and plenty of treats, say, a couple of times a week?”
Just that one job opened the floodgates, and the business began to build up nicely, thank you very much. I even had some cute little cards made with my contact information in thick black letters, “Mandy Morgan, Woof Woof Walkies, Dogwalker and Pet Sitter Extraordinaire.” Yeah, okay, I might be going a bit over the top by using the word “Extraordinaire,” but you’ve got to bull yourself up a bit, haven’t you? No? I disagree. If I don’t, then I’m sure no one else will.”
And something else too, dog walking has helped me to perk up a bit. You know, being with animals, out in the fresh air, all that stuff has helped my mental health, so it’s a win-win all round, eh?
So, I’m here now with my latest recruit, a rather chubby chocolate labrador named Max, who has, for some strange reason, another dog? a squirrel? darted into the bushes and became lost amongst the greenery, so that all I can see is a rather wide derriere (chocolate labs do tend to be on the chunky side), complete with a wildly wagging tail that slaps at the leaves, making them shiver and shake.
“Max, come out now!” I said in what I hoped was an authoritative way whilst fumbling desperately for his collar, his lead at the ready, sadly to no avail for whatever he’s so intent on, there’s no getting him away as he moves deeper and deeper into the greenery, sniffing and snuffling like a pig rooting out truffles.
“Let dogs sniff,” they all say. But why, eh? I’ve heard they leave what might be known as a calling card, so is Max now sniffing, out a new acquaintance? Hi I’m Ted and I’m a Westie. I’m 3 years old and a rescue living with my humans, Monica and Stan, on Simonstone Way, Lambuck. We could meet if you like between the tea roses and the lilac …” Whatever, he’s still sniffing.
“Do you want a treat?” I ask hopefully, as the utterance of those words usually works like a charm, and he’ll run to me, eyes bugging and tail going like crazy, but the manic tail wagging and snuffling into the depths of the dry summer earth continues. My heart thumping, I carried on pursuing him, pushing my way through the bushes, my hair getting caught up in the branches, nettles stinging my bare legs and hands.
“Max!”
Briefly he stopped but then the snuffling intensified followed by a couple of sharp yips that echoed through the air and then a short silence after which, all the bushes shaking, Max reappeared carrying something in his mouth, something round and white that, with aplomb, he dropped at my feet and then gazed at me with a smile, all his little white doggy teeth on display.
“Hmm” I said with a frown, “A present eh Max?” as I bent and picked up the object, staring at it curiously, not knowing at first what it is, and then with a shriek dropped it to the ground in horror where it rolled over and over coming to a stop face up so all its crooked teeth and deep eye holes on display.
“A skull?” I screamed, putting my hands to my face, “Oh my God, Max, you’ve found a skull?” A wave of nausea came over me as I thought of the bony hand Jessica, the Border Collie, and I had found only a couple of days before. I’d hidden it away in a cupboard at home, thinking “Out of sight, out of mind.”
Tongue lolling, Max’s smile broadens, as if to say, “Yes, human, of course, and aren’t I the clever one?”
Glad I was wearing gloves, I gingerly picked it up, holding it at arm’s length, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. It was smooth, nothing sinister hanging from it, just empty white bone as if it had been licked by a pack of dogs or, chillingly, pecked clean by a murder of crows. It was so smooth and white and clean, apart from a tiny hole on the top and a thin black line running from it, that I wondered if it was real.
Maybe it was shop-bought and put here as a joke or a prank. I’d seen all manner of skulls in that groovy shop on Lambuck’s High Street. “The Tarot Cavern” I think it’s called and it sells weird and wonderful things like packs of glossy tarot cards and chubby Buddha’s, and quirky things like black cat ornaments and skulls that were not real but painted bright colours or covered in glitter, even a crow perched jauntily on the top of its cracked head.
Cautiously, I brought it closer and sniffed. Ugh, something primitive, earthy, wafted up my nose, belying the notion that it was from a shop, and, looking closer, I could see tiny particles of dirt ingrained within the bone. With a shudder, I looked inside, peering in where the neck would have been, only to see something stuffed in there.
Curious, I rooted around with my fingers, eventually pulling out a piece of folded paper. It felt damp to the touch as I smoothed it out and tried to read the typewritten words, the ink having faded a little, and the letter “E” at an odd angle and even more faded than the rest of it, “So you’ve found the skull, hip, hip hooray, now maybe you’ll look another day, and find a leg or perhaps an arm, maybe it’s in the muck on a farm? Listen for the honk of a pig and be ready to get down and dig!”
Frowning, totally mystified by this strange clue, my mind raced, imagining body parts strewn across all the local dog walking areas. Furtively, I glanced around, wondering if the skull and the clue were meant for me. Was somebody watching me right at this very moment? Somebody up to no good? A murderer, perhaps?
A shiver raced along my spine as, with a shudder, I dropped the skull to the ground again and Max went straight to it sniffing avidly and then, turned his head, and gazed at me with his big brown eyes as if to say, “Come on human, what are you going to do?”
The bony hand came to my mind again, and the strange paper stuck on it saying simply, “Now this is handy! Where’s the other, I wonder?” I pictured myself hiding it away at home with no thought whatsoever to tell the authorities, it was just a quirky find, and yet, now, having found a skull, a skull which may belong to the hand, the thought, “I should take it to the police,” ran through my mind so, bending down and grabbing hold of it yet again, I placed the offending item in my rucksack, amongst the doggy bags and the treats and put the clue in my pocket. After which, I grabbed Max and firmly attached his lead, saying “Come on, boy,” as I made my way home and then to the local constabulary with my two body parts.
***
March 1972 – Lambuck High Street and Lambuck Park – the day I met Michael Lawrence
Okay, my name’s Mandy Morgan, and I live in Lambuck, a small town near the larger city of Tedford. I was born here and, well, I like it I suppose, although perhaps I do because I haven’t lived anywhere else, and I’ve nothing to compare it with? My mum and dad (the incomparable Angie and Stephen – dad can’t abide being called Steve) live nearby as does my best friend, Stephanie, or Steph as she likes to be called. I’ve no brothers and sisters, so Steph and her siblings are like family to me. I’ve got my own place, at long last (at the age of twenty-eight, yeah, I know I’m a slow one), and I’m loving it. It’s just a small two-bedroom flat, but it’s ace!
I’m walking through Lambuck at the moment, my heart beating frantically as I’m going to collect my first dog walking job, a Jack Russell named Bungle. I think I mentioned him to you before? He’s a service dog needing a break, according to his owner, Becky, who’s confined to a wheelchair.
“He works all the time,” I remember her telling me, “He helps me by getting the washing out of the machine and putting it in the dryer, he brings me my medication and alerts me when I forget to take it as well as protecting me and the house from unwelcome visitors,” She’d gazed at him fondly, just as he’d gazed at her, “I don’t know what I’d do without my Bungle.”
“Bungle’s an unusual name,” I’d said to her, “Where did you get it from?”
“Bungle?” she’d looked at me in surprise, “Why, the kid’s programme on telly, Rainbow. Surely, you’ve heard of Rainbow?”
I shook my head, feeling, by the expression on her face, that I’d made a number one faux pas and that I might even be banned from polite society for the foreseeable future.
“Yeah, Bungle the bear, Zippy, George, and Geoffrey, their human caretaker?”
I shook my head again as suddenly Becky began to sing, rooting me to the spot, my mouth open, “Up above the streets and houses rainbow climbing high, everyone can see it smiling over the sky. Paint the whole world with a rainbow …”
“Ah yeah, I’ve heard that before,” I said happily, suddenly remembering the tune from Steph’s house and her little sister sitting on the floor, gazing with rapt adoration at the television screen, squeaky voices and raucous laughter floating around the room.
“Yes,” she clapped her hands, “I knew you’d know it. Everybody does.”
To my relief, Bungle jumped up, eager for his walk, as soon as I stepped inside the house. I’d imagined a reluctant dog hiding behind his owner, but at Becky’s insistence, “Go fetch your lead, Bungle,” off he trotted to get the lead that he laid with great reverence at my feet before looking up at me, his eyes shining and expression hopeful.
A chilly wind blew nipping and biting at my cheeks until they were red raw and my eyes streaming, as Bungle and I walked smartly along Lambuck High Street. A blue sky and fluffy clouds hovered overhead, belying the fact that there even was a chilly wind, but I was wrapped up well in my waterproof dog walking coat, gloves, and a hat, my rucksack on my back containing treats and doggy bags. Wow, what a way to make a living, eh?
Bungle wore a smart quilted coat to protect his little furry body from the elements, yet I would imagine that the admiring glances from passersby and pats from all the little adoring kiddoes were more than enough to keep him warm. Confidently, he goose-stepped along, his head held high and a pleased expression saying, “Look at me, look at me,” on his cute little face.
The park was busy with dogs running here, there, and everywhere, their walkers standing in huddles as if they were in a rugby scrum. The sweet smell of cut grass hung in the air, and a mower hummed in the distance. Children played on the swings and the slide, shouting excitedly to one another, their voices high and sweet.
Bungle showed his sinister side and began to bark at all the larger dogs, stopping their friendly advances by emitting threatening growls from deep in his throat, giving them no choice back to slink back to their owners, bewildered expressions etched across their furry faces. Even a very large black fluffy ball of a dog backed off when Bungle emitted piercing shrieks and scary guttural growls in his general direction.
“Bungle, lighten up,” I said, offering him a treat which he gobbled down greedily, whilst thinking about why Becky hadn’t told me about these strange behaviours that he was showing.
“Hey, little dog syndrome, eh?” said a voice, as I looked up and saw a man walking towards me. A quite attractive man actually, wearing a blue waterproof coat and jeans, a woolly beany hat on his head, and a green doggy bag dangling from his hand that I knew without a doubt contained doggy doo da. Yet, despite that, he came close to me with a swagger and a smile with no embarrassment at all. Maybe I was the one who should lighten up. And yeah, little dog syndrome explained Bungle’s behaviour to a tee.
“Hi, Michael Lawrence,” He held out a gloved hand which I tentatively shook, noticing that his grip was firm and tight, even though I’d only offered him the tips of my fingers. Well, I didn’t know who he was, did I? He could be an axe murderer for all I knew! “Mick to my friends,” he added with a grin.
“Nice to meet you,” I said with a smile and, as I made to move on, my heart thumping hard, remembering what everybody had said about meeting somebody new whilst dog walking, he stopped me with the question, “Well, who are you then? I haven’t seen you around here before.” His blue gaze raked me quickly from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“Um, Mandy Morgan,” I told him, “A new recruit to dog walking.”
“Ah, yes, oh, you’ll soon settle in. You’ve come at a good time. A fair number of us doggy walkers congregate here a few times a day. It’s become more of a social thing really,” He gave a dry laugh before squatting down close to Bungle, “And who have we here then, eh?”
Straight away, Bungle edged back, soft growls coming from deep within his throat. Michael Lawrence laughed, “Yep, I’m right, eh? Little dog syndrome.”
“This is my first time walking him,” I said, “So maybe he’s nervous? Or maybe I am?” I giggled inanely. Oh, if only I could stop such juvenile behaviour.
A large white poodle looking cool in a bright blue harness suddenly appeared at his side, “Ah, this is my boy,” said Michael Lawrence, “Meet Wilson.”
“Wow, he’s a gorgeous dog.” I reached out a hand and stroked his soft fur. Wilson writhed in ecstasy at my touch and smiled prettily.
“He’s a softy,” said Michael Lawrence, “A poodle trait, I think.”
“He’s lovely,” I replied and then, “Um, well, it’s nice to meet you,” as I made to move on again only to be stopped by an arm barring my way, a hand on my coat sleeve, “Hang on a minute, maybe we could have a chat, walk the dogs together. I could introduce you to the others.” He motioned with his head at the huddle of dog walkers across the other side of the park.
I’m such a pushover, there’s no doubt about it, as, despite my initial reluctance, I allowed him to lead me across the park, where I shook hands and said hello so many times to Jack and Jo and Rachel and Lynne, oh and Uncle Tom Cobley and all, it would have been easier to have made a voice recording.
We made small talk after that, and Michael Lawrence asked me loads of questions about where I was born and how long I’d lived in Lambuck. And when I told him I’d lived here all my life, he had a bit of a bragging session telling me he was born and brought up in Lindon-on-Sea, an upmarket seaside town, which impressed me no end, but got just a bit boring after the tenth telling of the tale.
“It’s the best place in the world,” he said, “And we lived in a really big house, you know, like ten bedrooms and six bathrooms.”
“It all sounds a bit too good to be true,” I remember thinking, as he harped on and on about Lindon-on-Sea so, after a couple more rounds of the park, and poor Wilson trying his best to make friends with Bungle who stoically ignored him, I said, “Thanks for that, but I must be making tracks. I have to get Bungle back to his owner.”
“Yeah,” he gave me a blindingly white smile, “How about we go for a beer sometime, eh? Do you fancy that?” He paused for a moment and, when I didn’t reply straight away, said, “Here, give me your number.” With a grin, he pulled a pad from his pocket and held a pencil poised at the ready. I didn’t want to give him my number, so I told him a little white lie. Of course, I have a phone at my place. After all, it is 1972!
“I haven’t got a phone at my place yet,” I told him.
He shrugged, “So, is there another way I can reach you? What’s your address?”
“Hmm,” I thought, “Was this guy just a little too eager? And what’s he doing with a pad and pencil in his pocket? Always on the lookout for some gullible female to fall under his spell? There was no way I was giving him my address either. I gave him a narrow-eyed sort of weighing up smile, wondering if I should bother with him or not, but the thought of the look on Steph’s face when I told her I’d clicked with an attractive man on my very first dog walk, doggy bag and all, sort of won me over.
“I’ll give you my mum and dad’s number, okay?
He nodded as I told him the number, saying each digit slowly and carefully, but just in the wrong order (I don’t think that Mum and Dad would be over the moon if they started getting phone calls from strange men). He wrote it down and slipped the paper into his pocket.
“Thanks,” He gave me a conspiratorial sort of smug nod, “I’ll be in touch, yeah? Oh, and see you, Bungle.”
Bungle snarled deep in his little throat, raising his trembling upper lip in a really good Elvis Presley impersonation. I nodded and smiled as Bungle, seemingly happy to be leaving Michael Lawrence behind, trotted along at my side, the growl in his throat decreasing as we moved further and further away.
