By Martin Pearson
“He is definitely dead,” announced Doc Willoughby, in matter-of-fact tones.
“Obviously!” snapped Philomena Bucket testily. “But other than that, what’s wrong with him?”
The Doc peered down at the pile of bones heaped before him on the floor.
“Miss Bucket, I am neither a veterinarian, nor an osteologist. I suggest you try and find someone who is. Otherwise, you would be well advised to deposit these remains in a suitable ossuary or, better still, throw them into the sea.”
“But Doc,” there was a hint of panic in Philomena’s voice, “this is Drury we’re talking about here.”
“Precisely,” replied the Doc. “I rest my case.”
The curmudgeonly physician stamped off into the foggy morning, leaving Philomena tearful and helpless as she stood over Drury’s motionless form.
“I’m afraid that I have nothing to suggest,” said Reggie Upton. “I have had plenty of experience with dogs in my time; you know, fox-hounds, beagles and the like, but as far as dogs who are already dead, m’dear… well, much as I liked the old chap, I fear he’s beyond help.”
“But this is ridiculous,” wailed Philomena. “Drury is probably the oldest creature on the island. Nobody knows much about him, but he seems to always have been here. He can’t be dead… well, not dead again, anyway.”
It was true. Drury was the dog who had refused to recognise the fact that he was no longer alive, and had been resident on Hopeless for an extremely long time. Grandparents told sleepy children bedtime stories that featured tales of Drury’s mischief – tales that they, themselves, had heard as infants. The awful possibility that the old rogue might not be around anymore was unthinkable (except, of course, to the cheerless few, like Doc Willoughby, who had no time for him).
A tear rolled down Rhys Cranham’s cheek; he could hardly believe the news. Was Drury, really properly dead? He had been the Night-Soil Man’s faithful companion, accompanying him on his rounds for over ten years, ever since Rhys took over from his late, lamented predecessor, Shenandoah Nailsworthy. Life would not be the same without the old, osseous hound, rattling along at his heels in the misty moonlight.
Philomena had been pondering Doc Willoughby’s words. If she had to come to terms with the fact that Drury was really gone forever, then she wanted to make sure that his bones were treated with respect. They certainly would not be tossed into the sea. What was the other thing the Doc had said? Deposit his remains in suitable ossuary. That was it. Unfortunately, she had no idea what he meant.
“Ossuary?” said Reggie. “Why, yes, as far as I’m aware it can be a room or container in which bones are stored. Are you thinking of something like that for our dear friend?”
“I am, now you’ve told me” said Philomena, sorrowfully. “I’ll ask Seth Washwell to make a suitable box for him. We’ll keep him somewhere in The Squid and Teapot. I’m sure that the Middlestreets won’t mind. Drury loved it there. I know that if he’s in The Squid, his bones will be safe.”
The old soldier had to turn from her and blink away his tears. He had only known Drury for the few weeks that he had been on Hopeless, but the dog had joined him every day for the past month for his morning walk (or flâneuring, as he called it). He would miss him dreadfully.
Seth was only too pleased to be able to do something to mark Drury’s passing. Being not only the proprietor of the island’s sawmills and foundry, but also a skilled carpenter and blacksmith, he had all of the resources necessary to make a splendid ossuary-box, fashioned from his finest timber and finished with ornate, wrought-iron cornices. Drury’s bones were laid upon his favourite blanket, and, amid tears of farewell, was placed reverently in a corner of one of the attics, immediately above Philomena’s bedroom.
Philomena’s walks seemed empty in the days that followed. She had lived on Hopeless for some years now, and nearly every afternoon and early evening, before the inn became busy, she and Drury had wandered deep into the mysterious Gydynap Hills, sharing adventures and enjoying each other’s company.
A week had slipped by since Drury’s bones had been laid to rest. Everyone was still coming to terms with his not being around, half-expecting him to come bounding in at any moment and causing havoc. To make things worse for Philomena, she had been sleeping badly. Any sleep she had managed to get was fitful and filled with unpleasant dreams. Tonight, however, was different; slipping easily into a deep slumber, she found herself back in Ireland, sitting in Granny Bucket’s cottage. Granny was in her rocking chair, smoking her clay pipe. Angus, her old mongrel-dog, lay stretched in front of the fire, snoring contentedly. Philomena had seen this scene a hundred times before, when Granny was alive. On this occasion, however, Reggie Upton, in the full regalia of a comic-opera general, and Rhys Cranham, looking very relaxed in a cream-coloured lounge suit and matching Panama hat, had joined them.
“Ah, you three must love Old Angus to death,” Granny mused, blowing smoke-rings up the chimney. “It’s nothing but walk, walk, walk, morning noon and night for the poor old fella. No wonder he’s dog-tired.”
Granny laughed at her own joke.
“Angus has been dead this past twenty years,” Philomena explained to Rhys and Reggie. “But don’t you think he’s looking well on it?”
“Oh yes, but we expect even dead dogs get tired,” replied the pair in unison. They were holding hands.
The words echoed in Philomena’s dream, dragging her to wakefulness.
“Even dead dogs get tired,” she repeated to herself, then suddenly things began to make sense.
For a month, or more, Drury had spent virtually every hour of the day and night being taken for a walk. Having all the instincts of a flesh-and-blood dog, it would never occur to him to refuse the chance of an amble out somewhere. Drury had just been tired. Dog-tired. Dead-tired.
Even dead dogs get tired!
In a sudden panic, Philomena dashed up to the attics. She could hear the scraping before she reached the top of the stairs. Grabbing a crowbar from a pile of tools stacked against a wall, she prised up the lid of the ossuary-box, expecting Drury to leap joyfully out. He did not do so, but stood looking balefully, and accusingly, at her.
“Oh Drury, thank goodness. I am so sorry. We thought you were dead… or, you know, properly dead and not coming back.”
She wrenched open the side of the box, allowing him to walk stiffly out.
When she made to put her arms around him, Drury growled and, moving out of her reach, made his way unsteadily down the stairs.
Philomena put her head in her hands and sobbed.
“What have I done,” she wailed. “Will he ever forgive me?”
