A Question of Pedigree Read online

  For Ann

  Helion & Company Ltd

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  Published by Helion & Company 2009

  eBook published by Helion & Company 2012

  Designed and typeset by Farr out Publications, Wokingham, Berkshire

  Cover designed by Farr out Publications, Wokingham, Berkshire

  Printed by Cpod, Trowbridge, Wiltshire

  © Frank Edwards 2009

  eBook © Frank Edwards 2012

  ISBN 978-1-906033-51-4

  Digitai Edition: ISBN 978-1-908916-71-6

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A Catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written consent of Helion & Company Ltd.

  Contents

  List of Illustrations

  Chapter One Saturday, 7am

  Chapter Two Saturday, 7.30am

  Chapter Three Saturday, 8.00am approx

  Chapter Four Saturday, 8.45 a.m.

  Chapter Five Saturday, 9.05am

  Chapter Six Saturday, 10.07am

  Chapter Seven Saturday 10.32am

  Chapter Eight Saturday, 11.15am

  Chapter Nine Saturday, 11.41am

  Chapter Ten Saturday, High Noon

  Chapter Eleven Saturday, about 1pm

  Chapter Twelve Saturday, 1.32pm

  Chapter Thirteen Saturday 1.53pm

  Chapter Fourteen Saturday 2.21pm

  Chapter Fifteen Saturday, 2.47pm

  Chapter Sixteen Saturday, turned 3pm

  Chapter Seventeen Saturday, getting on for 3.30pm

  Chapter Eighteen Saturday, nearly 4pm

  Chapter Nineteen Saturday, 4pm – all but

  Chapter Twenty Saturday, 4pm precisely

  Chapter Twenty-One Saturday, 4.18pm

  Chapter Twenty-Two Saturday, 4.35pm

  Chapter Twenty-Three Saturday, 4.53pm

  Chapter Twenty-Four Saturday, B-hour

  Chapter Twenty-Five Saturday, after the Show was over

  Chapter Twenty-Six Saturday, The Which-ing hour

  eBooks Published by Helion & Company

  Jess – the author’s English Toy Terrier

  List of Illustrations

  The illustrations have been chosen (where they seem appropriate) from Marion’s paintings of pet dogs and sketches made at dog shows around Britain.

  Jess – the author’s English Toy Terrier

  Trolleying

  Benching

  Grooming: Ann’s Bichon Frisé (Dolly Daydream)

  On trust: author’s labradors (Susie, Winnie, Tully)

  In the ring (ETT)

  Jack Russell

  Toto

  Pug

  St Bernard

  Afghan

  Lassie

  Agility

  Flyball

  Who’s a Pretty Boy? (Buster)

  It’s a dog’s life

  Chapter One

  Saturday, 7am

  Mr Brian Wiseton was tired. Tired because he had started out, many hours ago. Far too many. Yet again. Up at five. Five! AM. Why? The judging didn’t start until nine, and he wasn’t first on. Then why on earth this unearthly hour? Mr Brian Wiseton knew the answer of course. Mr Wiseton knew all the answers. In this case? Doors would be open at seven, and it made for easier parking to be early. Simple as that. Such skilful deduction was nothing to do with his name. He had had trouble enough over that since his schooldays. Brain Wise. Ha ha! Oh very funny. For teachers as well. Not so much in Junior School. On the whole he got away with it there. His had been a small school. The lot that came into the Secondary from the other places were bigger and intent on self-preservation by pre-emptive assertion. He had begun to learn wisdom.

  That had passed as all things do. He survived school. Then, in those far, far off days had next learned, as quickly, how to apply that absorbed from his peers, if not the knowledge imparted by his teachers, to the military mayhem that was National Service. A fine old jumble that had been. Those PSOs! They could no more select a round peg for any hole other than square than hide their distaste for the whole tedious job of Personnel Selection they had been lumbered with. They sat in their little Nissan shacks, doling out the places to which the six-week square-bashed material was to be sent. On their allocation depended whether you got your knees brown or your hair cut even shorter in some UK garrison town. And yet. Had it not been for them, he would not be where he was today. Not that, right then, he particularly wished to be where he was. He would far rather be home in bed, peaceful and relaxed.

  Every year it was the same. This would be, if not the last, definitely the one in which to cut down. “This” being next year. Now, here he was, once more in next year. Thinking, saying, the same thing. This would be the last. Positively the last. He had recited this creed many times. Not at first. Not when he began. But for years now. How many? Too many. This time he meant it. Really, really, meant it. No more. This was the last. Yet, even as he said it to himself, he knew that when next he looked into those eyes, he would smell the same scents of attraction. As keenly. The sounds he knew they recalled. The excitement, the tensions, the bitchiness. Oh yes, the bitchiness!

  All because of the ways of machine men. Of those handling an uninterrupted flow of soldierly raw material every six weeks, passed out by the drill sergeants and their teams. “Name?” They had it in front of them surely? “Number?” For sure they had that. “Qualifications?” Laughable. What they hadn’t asked was whether he had a dog at home. Not asked about any pet, particularly not a dog. He hadn’t, but they didn’t know that. They might have asked. “Have you got a dog at home, sonny?” They didn’t. They might also, you would have thought, have asked if his father was a copper. He wasn’t. There wasn’t one in the family. Never had been, so far as he knew. So, PSOs at their best, he found himself off to join the Military Police to be trained as a dog handler. The wonders of how to win wars.

  Such a posting had its compensations. Better than bog cleaning as a GD somewhere. You got to wear a red cap with a white top. Stripes as well. You were feared. That was useful in those days when uniform carried weight. Probably get a knife in the guts today. He wouldn’t interfere now. But then? Uniform meant something, though a drunk squaddie respected the dog more than him. He got to like his dog. Dogs. He had a way. They took to him. The ones in the barracks, but increasingly the ones on the street. Trouble was, often a stray would want to follow him back to barracks. Couldn’t be, of course. Not allowed. He wouldn’t have minded. Demobbed, he did become minded to run a kennels. At first, no more than a dream. Knowing by now not to plan on a dream, when he came out he scouted about, found an opening in a rescue home, and it began.

  His parents didn’t think much of it as a career. ‘You’ll never live off that sort of money’ his father had assured him and, being a man of principle, he directed, as fathers could in those pre-liberty days, that his son qualified in a trade. Keeping dogs would remain a side line until he was trained for a proper job. Brian became a carpenter. Suitable for his ever-growing passion, as he could do much of his work at home, in the workshop he set up in the garden. His father had helped him. ‘Less grass to cut’ he pointed out. It had worked. Brian’s woodworking skills were used less as his income increased over the
years from breeding. He settled on English Toy Terriers. Although a comparative late starter in a small market, he was successful. And happy. His parents lived to see him qualify again and again for Crufts, and lift, in one wonderful year, the Group.

  Today’s show was less prestigious. In the chill of the early morning, he staggered along with the growing flood. Pushing his trolley, keeping one eye on the case with the grooming materials and the other items perched wobbling on top, the other peering ahead to keep his tight convoy position. Hoping the edifice would stay steady. With one hand steering, one hand stretched forward balancing. Couldn’t manage a last fag before going inside even had he wanted to. He did want to. Old habits! Seeing ‘Kem’ Harriday standing in the car park watching, with that air of his, the others striving past, puffing away as though a condemned man having his last wish, didn’t help. ‘Kem’, once he moved off, didn’t join the throng. He had to overtake. No matter how solid the queue in front, no matter that his striving and dodging would, at best, gain him no more than a minute or so, off he had to go. The patient horde would spot him, usually yanking his trailer of dogs like a golf trolley caught in the rough, as though competing in a chariot race. The moral equivalent of double white lines – others taking their turn, if with suppressed impatience, along the designated entrance route – did nothing to curtail his weaving, overtaking, and cutting-in whatever the risk of collision.

  For Brian, the smoking habit, the craving, the automatic lighting-up, was fading. Nothing to do with health. It was the damned pettifogging interference, propaganda to some, others education, that finally wore you down. Not cheap any more either. Ciggies. They had been in National Service. Got a tin of fifty, free. Free! Each week in Malaya. Active service. You were encouraged. Of course, the light smoker held the whip hand come the end of the week. Stripes. A medal. Free fags. Maybe them was the days, after all.

  He was brought back to the present with a bump, a bump into the back of a large trolley, pulled by a robust-bottomed woman also guiding three Afghans on three leads held in her other hand. His forward-looking eye had failed him. The hound group was on at the same time, in another part of the Hall. A bit of a contrast with the Toys! Not like Crufts, of course. A day for each group there, more or less. But one had to qualify somewhere, and here was popular venue. What was not so popular with exhibitors was the way in. Over long. Now the convoy had come to a halt. One of the Afghans had stopped to do the necessary, pulling onto a grass spot between parked cars. To her relief as the dog’s. Those small sawdust exercise areas inside weren’t much cop. All right for small ones, but not for things that size. No apology. They all knew what they, and all the others were about. Stopped, his balancing hand was free to reach down and rub his banged shins, caught by his braking cart. More scabs; would last for weeks. The woman paid no attention to him but pulled a little to one side as she struggled to get a nappy bag out of her – bosom? So it seemed. He wouldn’t be surprised. Keep necessities where they are handiest! The flow restarted. On! Push this trolley; hang on to that bag. Get a little irritated and you’ll end up dead. Of heart strain.

  The qualifying circuit was in full swing. For him, old hat. For many others, still the knives-out must-win stage that he had once known. So, why was he here? Because the dogs thrived on it. Say what you will, they did. Amazing ability, dogs, to adapt to the ways of humans. Hang about for hours awaiting their brief turn in the ring. Placid beneath the probing hands of the judge; oblivious to the tensions in the people with them and surrounding them; calm in the company of their competitors. Wonderful things, dogs. They deserved their day. Shows like this were a good experience. All the paraphernalia was there; all the trimmings, the procedures, the performance. Hours in their travelling crates, or boxed in expensive metal cages made to fit the large estates and the four by fours. With release came the need to spend a penny, do the necessary, best before it was heigh-ho for the exhibitors’ entrance.

  Another break in progress. As he approached the entrance, someone, he couldn’t spot who or exactly where, met with a small catastrophe. Those behind shuddered to another jerky halt. An irritation too far. It was a chilly morn. The entrance too far from the car park. A shorter route could easily be designed. Exhibitors deserved better treatment. Let the paying public do the walking. This time he was near rammed from behind. He turned, spotting other well-known faces in the throng, to be greeted by Matthew.

  “Hi there old sport. Can’t keep away then?”

  “No more than you.”

  This was the better part of the whole thing. There was a good camaraderie to be had. Avoid the wound-up desperates and the prancing primadonnas and you had good company. Good for a chat. A knowledgeable natter. A pint later. Matthew and he went back a long way. Both were going to make this the last year. Again.

  “Bringing Polly?”

  “Not this time. She’s already in.”

  Brian knew that well enough. If you are already set for Crufts why risk embarrassment by not winning because of a biased, ignorant, or out-of-class judge. Then again, why turn up a chance to add to the dog’s, and your, glory? One more certificate for the wall. Buy another rosette. Another tenner on the price of her puppies.

  “Got Goldie. Her first in Juniors. She’s out of puppies now. And Stan. Thought I’d give him a run. Needs another Post Grad win, but with Agnes Thorpe as the judge I’ve not much hope.”

  “You aren’t the only one. Quite a few complaints since the last show. Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “She should stick to spaniels. Knows something about them I grant you. But it’s who you know isn’t it.”

  The wisdom of this statement was not tested as the trail of trolleys got under way once more. Brian’s concentration was bent on keeping his trolley upright as he wriggled his way through the converging flows, each pushing to squeeze into the Hall. Thank the Lord it wasn’t raining. Mind you, there was a benefit for the small dogs if it did. Still made early morning doings a bit of a struggle, especially for the white coated fluffies like the Bichons, but once under way they were sheltered in their wheeled chariots; the larger ones got wet. And dirty! Whatever the weather, though, there was a need to get there early enough for remedial grooming. Another reason for the early start. Had to be done. One never knew with judges what would carry the day. The wisdom of Mr Wiseton had many mansions.

  Inside the hubbub grew. Not from the dogs. Some grunts and a few yelps, but it was too early for the fly-ball teams to arrive. You knew at once when they did. No keeping their excitement quiet, but at this hour it was the trailer brigade who had the floor. Hand over the documents, find out where to go by buying a programme. That niggled Brian. You’d have thought one of those could be included in the expensive entry fee. Got a free one at Crufts so long as you handed in your voucher by twelve thirty. Then off to find one’s bench. The dog benches were clearly labelled, differentiated by breeds. All emblazoned with that well-known dog food’s colourful logo. His was in the fifth of the six rows. Benches were already filling up. Grooming tables were being created from the unfolded trolleys as the dogs were slotted into the serried ranks of compartments. He found his. As yet, either side was empty. He looked at his programme. The number up from him was Ambrose Graveney. No trouble there. A bit on the cold side. Did everything by the book and kept a stiff upper lip whatever the result. Probably showing Roley. A nice dog. Just, to Brian’s mind, a little too long in the leg to be a truly perfect example of the breed, unlike his Jenny and Mike. The number down from his was Susan Goodlife. Knew the name. Couldn’t quite place her. That scrawny redhead he had met at Stafford? Soon know. She wouldn’t be far away. He had the space and time to organise himself before either got in his way. Always worthwhile getting up early.

  Opposite him would be others of his breed. He would find out who in due course. The print was too small and the chance of a bit of space too precious for him to waste time looking them up in the booklet. At his back were those Bichons. Rather exuberant little beasts that took far more
grooming than they were worth. He thought. He would never say so aloud. The Bichons brigade could be fierce in the defence of their darlings. Always more of them as well. Growing in popularity. His little ETT was in something of a decline, to go by recent competition numbers. Somewhere about sixty in total today he quickly reckoned. Seven, with Mike, in the post-grad, but only three in Jenny’s novice group. All the more chance to get that certificate. Brian’s brain could count. Something like eighty Bichons. Their owners seemed to be all in. A keen crowd. The owners clipping away with the fanaticism of panners in a gold rush. Everywhere was a-buzz. So much activity! He was about to set up, still with no immediate companions, not even opposite, although the bottom end of his fifth row was already well occupied, when, well, he thought he would just sit down for the moment. On the bench. The two dogs were content, still, in their travelling crate. They would all be busy soon enough. Just for ten minutes. While he got his breath back. Eased his feet. Rubbed that chafed shin. Just for a few minutes before the pressure really began to mount. Ah! And Mr Brian Wiseton gently dozed off, lulled by the subdued chatter and the steady clipping going on around him.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, 7.30am

  Ten minutes? It couldn’t have been ten minutes. Never! Two. At most. Surely? So much to do! Awakened with a bump, a shock sharper than running into a wandering Afghan carriage, Brian Wiseton woke with that cold, slightly sick feeling on coming-to from a deep doze. He had read that the artist Salavdor Dali had said something to the effect that if you were holding a five pound note out straight in one of your hands, as you fell asleep, then by the time it reached the ground you had slept enough. Time to awake refreshed. Brian felt far from refreshed. That bump! Shock. His head hitting his chest perhaps? Should never have closed his eyes. What was he thinking of? Getting here early because there was so much to do. Not like some. Stole a march on Ms Goodlife, as he had Ambrose Graveney. Time to take advantage of it.