Every now and then the dog trainer called out ‘Halt!’ or ‘Forward!’ or ‘Change direction!’ and the owners (but not necessarily the dogs) did their best to follow these instructions.
The Jack Russell, named Perdita, was a newcomer to the dog-training class, and her owner was none other than Ailsa Coutts from Finlay’s school. Dogs are often said to resemble their owners, and although in this case there was little physical similarity, Finlay reflected that Perdita was a model of deportment like Ailsa and had lost no time in becoming the teacher’s pet: ‘That’s a smashing wee dog you’ve got there,’ the dog trainer was saying.
At Finlay’s feet, Zigger strained on his lead, eager to join in the fun. ‘It’s all right, it’ll be our turn next,’ Finlay told him unenthusiastically. Going to these dog-training classes had been the condition his parents had insisted on when they agreed to let him keep Zigger. Boy and dog had already attended five sessions without Zigger making any marked progress, and Finlay wasn’t particularly looking forward to being scrutinised by the immaculate Ailsa.
Next to him sat Ailsa’s mother, a birdlike, breathless woman, who turned to him now and asked him, ‘Are you looking forward to the holidays?’
‘Yes,’ said Finlay. There was only one day of term left.
‘You’ll have to bring Zigger round to play with Perdie,’ Mrs Coutts said. ‘I’m sure Ailsa would like that – she’s told me so much about you!’
Just then Ailsa and the Jack Russell were walking along the strip of matting nearest to the chairs and Finlay fancied she had overheard her mother’s embarrassing remark, as she coloured slightly before moving briskly past. Finlay wondered what she had found to tell Mrs Coutts about him.
‘She said you were brilliant in that show. It was your own song, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh, that.’ Finlay had taken part in the end-of-term talent contest. He had originally put himself down to sing ‘Stone Sacrifice’ but had then decided that the song was too heavy for the battered old acoustic guitar which he had had since he was a kid. To his own surprise he had quite quickly written a song called ‘Running on the Cracks’, and had sung that instead. The song was inspired by his adventures with Leo, but the words were too obscure for anyone to interpret them at all coherently.
‘Well, Ailsa was dead good too,’ he replied. It was true. Ailsa had astonished Finlay with the ferocity of her cymbal crashes and the dizzy whirr of her drumsticks. It was fascinating to watch her usually settled curls flying about wildly as she threw herself into the performance.
‘I hear you might be going to join the band,’ said Mrs Coutts, beady-eyed with interest. Did she and her daughter spend all their time talking about him?
‘Only if I can get myself an electric guitar,’ he said gloomily.
Ailsa and Perdita returned, and it was Finlay and Zigger’s turn to pace the square, along with a poodle, an Alsatian and a low fluffy dog who was being pulled along in a sitting position.
‘Lead in the left hand, dog treats in the right hand,’ said the trainer. ‘Keep telling them they’re really good, they’re smashing, they’re awful clever, and give them a treat at every corner.’
‘You’re smashing, Zigger, you’re really good,’ said Finlay mechanically. Zigger was as usual tugging at the lead, much more interested in the poodle’s bottom than in the treats in Finlay’s hand.
‘Zigger’s so gorgeous,’ said Ailsa, once Finlay had returned to his seat. Finlay swelled with ownerly pride as she caressed one of the dog’s silky ears.
‘He’s not too bad as long as no one’s wearing a hat,’ he said.
Mrs Coutts’s eyes grew even beadier. ‘Have you tried gradual exposure?’ she asked.
‘No, what’s that?’
‘It’s getting them used to something in stages. You could try putting a hat on the floor, quite a way away from you, then moving it a little closer, and then, when he’s used to that, putting it on your knee – gradually moving it nearer and nearer to your head.’
‘That’s a good idea. I’ll try it,’ said Finlay, though he couldn’t help feeling pessimistic.
The class continued with attempts to teach the dogs to sit and stay, and to come when called – predictably successful in the case of Perdita and less so with Zigger.
‘Don’t worry – he’s just a strong individual like you, Finlay,’ said Mrs Coutts, nudging her daughter. ‘That’s what you said about him, isn’t it, Ailsa?’ Ailsa busied herself with Perdita’s collar as if she hadn’t heard.
The trainer was making his farewell speech. ‘So, do a wee bit with them every day, and your dog will come on in leaps and bounds,’ he said. Finlay privately thought that Zigger was all right at the leaps and bounds – it was just everything else that was the problem.
‘That’s us for the night then, folks. Have a Happy Christmas, but remember, don’t let them choke on the turkey bones. I’ll see youse back here in January.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Finlay to Ailsa as they emerged into the mild damp December air. He wished Mrs Coutts a merry Christmas and then let Zigger drag him home.
‘The girls are both here already,’ said his mother. Finlay couldn’t think for a moment who she meant, but then remembered that Leo and Jacqueline were coming round for Leo’s final evening before she left for Bristol the next day. Jacqueline had been characteristically mysterious on the phone when they had arranged this pre-Christmas get-together: ‘I’m like my mum. I like surprises,’ she had said. ‘But don’t get a present for me because I haven’t got you one. I’m going to wait till it’s the Chinese New Year.’
‘Everything’s set up in the sitting room,’ said Mrs Grant now. She seemed to be in on this surprise, whatever it was. ‘But I don’t know if it would be a good idea to let Zigger in.’
It was too late. Leo had opened the door and Zigger raced into the room and was demonstrating one of what the dog-trainer called the ‘bad habits which are much easier to teach than the good ones, believe you me’, jumping up and licking the two girls’ faces effusively while they did the opposite of what they should have done, petting him instead of looking the other way and pretending they hadn’t noticed.
‘What’s all this?’ asked Finlay. A chair had been set up with a kind of checked cape draped over it, and opposite it was an easel.
‘I asked Jacqueline to paint your portrait,’ said Leo.
‘And I said Leo should do it, but I lost the battle,’ said Jacqueline.
Finlay lifted the cape. Underneath it was a curved pipe, and a checked cap with a peak.
‘It’s a deerstalker,’ said Leo. ‘You’re going to be Sherlock Holmes. It’s a Christmas present for Mary.’
‘She’ll just love that!’ said Jacqueline, even though she had never met Mary.
Finlay picked up the hat. Immediately, Zigger gave a menacing growl.
‘We’d better shut him out,’ said Leo.
‘Unless I try gradual exposure,’ said Finlay in an expert tone. ‘That’s what Ailsa’s mum suggested.’
‘Ailsa – aha, I knew you were a lady’s man the first time I met you,’ said Jacqueline.
‘Don’t be daft.’ Finlay hoped that he hadn’t gone pink.
He placed the hat on the floor in the opposite corner of the room and then returned to the armchair. ‘Stay, Zigger. Good dog,’ he said. But Zigger, hearing the sound of a tin-opener in the kitchen, raced out of the room.
‘Let’s get on with the portrait,’ said Leo.
‘I hope I’m getting a fee for this modelling.’ Finlay put the cap on his head and the cape round his shoulders. He pretended to take a puff of the pipe.
‘That’s great – hold it there!’ said Jacqueline behind the easel. She laughed. ‘Actually, I don’t think you look a bit like Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t have cute rosy cheeks like you.’
Finlay thought it more dignified not to reply, and he was relieved when a frown of concentration replaced Jacqueline’s normal teasing expression.
‘Don’t you
think it’s a great idea?’ said Leo. ‘I’ve checked with the ward, and they’re going to let Mary hang it in her room.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. She’ll probably decide I’m the long-lost leader or something,’ said Finlay.
‘I don’t think so. I went to see her today and she was much more her old self, giving me all the ward gossip and beating me at pool. She’s put on a bit of weight too.’
‘It must be all the Chocolate HobNobs the Godfather’s been bringing in for her.’
‘Jim Docherty said she’s got a discharge plan. She should be out some time in January.’
‘But for how long? Won’t it just happen all over again if she refuses to take the pills?’
‘Apparently she doesn’t have to take them any more. She’s agreed to have a depot injection every month.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think it’s more or less the same stuff that’s in the pills, but injected into the body and then released slowly.’
Jacqueline interrupted them. ‘Could you two stop discussing the wonders of modern science for a few minutes – I’m trying to get Finlay’s mouth right. And Finlay, can’t you look a bit more sleuth-like?’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Think about dumplings, maybe.’
After a few minutes of obedient silence and dumpling thoughts, Finlay started to feel fidgety and hungry. He was also a little annoyed because Leo was now standing behind the easel and looking as if she was trying not to laugh.
‘I think I can stop now,’ said Jacqueline at last. ‘I’ve got the outlines – I can do the rest from memory.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Finlay joined them behind the easel.
‘No! Wait till it’s finished!’ Jacqueline laughed and tried to cover up the picture with her little hands.
‘I look about ten years old,’ said Finlay.
‘I think it’s a really good likeness,’ said Leo, ‘even if he looks more like a cherub than a detective.’
‘I can’t help that – Finlay just does look like a little angel,’ said Jacqueline.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Finlay, who had spent much of the past year cultivating a satanic image.
‘Anyway, I bet it’ll make Mary’s Christmas,’ said Leo.
‘That reminds me,’ said Finlay. ‘I’ve got something for you, Leo.’ He fumbled under the Christmas tree and handed her a small, inexpertly wrapped packet.
‘Thank you! Can I open it now or do I have to wait till I’m in Bristol?’
‘Open it now! I want to see it!’ said Jacqueline.
Leo tore off the cheap Barras Father-Christmas paper and Finlay felt a flutter of anxiety.
‘Oh, Finlay, it’s lovely!’ Leo looked quite overcome as she examined the little old book bound in maroon leather. ‘Macbeth, by William Shakespeare’ said the faded gold letters on the front.
Jacqueline nudged her. ‘What about Finlay’s present?’ she said.
Leo put the book down. She hesitated, then spoke slightly nervously: ‘Finlay, I need to explain something first. Now that I’m back in touch with Aunt Sarah, I’ve found out about my parents’ will. The money has come through, and I wanted to get you something special.’
‘I know – it’s a bag of doughnuts!’ said Jacqueline.
Leo was looking a bit embarrassed. ‘It’s a bit more than that,’ she said. ‘It’s a thank you present for being a really good detective and a really good friend.’
She reached under the sofa.
‘Sorry the paper’s not very fancy,’ she said, as she drew out a long, flat box wrapped in plain brown paper embellished with hand-drawn musical notes.
Finlay tried not to gasp, in case he was wrong. But he couldn’t be, surely. That size and that shape of box …
‘Go on, open it!’ said Jacqueline.
Finlay unwrapped the paper. He opened the box.
Inside it lay a black and silver electric guitar.
Leo – Glasgow Central
A pigeon strides boldly up to a man with a sandwich, pecks at the crumbs on the white marble floor of the station, then takes off. It flaps slowly past the ticket barrier and away along a platform into the unroofed, unwalled world.
‘That one’s no breaking any records,’ says Kenny.
‘There you go again,’ says Marina. ‘The lassie’s going 400 miles away and all you can talk about is pigeons.’
I think about the last time I travelled 400 miles. That was three months ago. I remember looking at myself in the mirror of the station loo. I probably don’t look that different now. My hair’s a bit longer, and instead of the jumble-sale clothes, I’m wearing the cosy cords and fleece which Marina bought for me at the Barras – her Christmas present to me. I don’t think Flo and Caitlin will be wild with envy but I’m hoping they’ll keep their mouths shut this time.
‘Are you looking forward to seeing your wee cousins?’
‘Well, sort of. It depends whether they’re reformed characters or not.’
‘They’d better not be so reformed that you don’t come back. Look, it’s come up!’ Marina points to the departures board.
At first my eyes go to the wrong section, the one headed London Euston. For a second our sitting room back home flashes before me. Inside the room, a little Christmas tree is competing with all Mum’s exotic plants. Dad is turning on the fairy lights and complaining that candles would be much prettier.
But there aren’t any trains to the past.
The right train is the 2.10 to Bristol Temple Meads. My eyes run briefly down the orange letters on the board: Motherwell, Carlisle, Preston, Birmingham New Street, Cheltenham Spa. The same names in reverse order from three months ago.
‘Have you got your ticket?’
‘Yes,’ I tell Marina, and silently I add, ‘No more fare-dodging, Mum.’
This time I’ve got the right ticket. And there’s a return half.
Note of thanks
I am hugely grateful to Lisa Lee for telling me the story of her family and helping me find out about the Chinese community in Glasgow, and to Dr Derek Ball for reading the manuscript and updating me about the admission and treatment of psychiatric patients. Many thanks too to Laura Irvine, the service manager at Aberlour Child Care Trust’s ROC Refuge for runaway children, for her time and advice, and to her daughter Sarah Davie for being the first teenage reader of Running on the Cracks. My editor, Cally Poplak, was inspiring and astute, and my agent Caroline Sheldon was her usual wonderfully reliable and encouraging self. Above all, my thanks go to my four brilliant sounding-boards – my husband Malcolm, my sons Alastair and Jerry and my daughter-in-law Christine, all of whom patiently and enthusiastically listened, read and came up with suggestions for making the book as authentic and exciting as possible.
Julia Donaldson
Aberlour Child Care Trust is Scotland’s largest children’s charity working with children, young people and their families across Scotland. Aberlour’s Mission is ‘To improve the lives of Scotland’s children and young people’. Aberlour provides the only refuge for young runaways in Scotland through their ROC (Running Other Choices) Service. Anyone interested in the work of Aberlour should visit their website at www.aberlour.org.uk
Julia Donaldson, Running on the Cracks
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