The Banker's Niece 8: Black Dog 1

Spring 1978

‘Black Dog,’ laughed Jane. ‘What sort of a name is that?’

    ‘A Devon one,’ said Rick.

    It was Sunday morning and they were in the Mini (Clubman), travelling at speed – as they always did when Rick was driving – through what Rick called ‘the back roads’ to the village where he’d been brought up and where his parents still lived, so that Jane could meet them for the first time.

    He always travelled by the back roads if he could. He called them the ‘proper Devon’. Jane called them lethal.

    They were always covered in slippery mud. They were one-vehicle wide (if that). Deep shade could turn to bright sun or vice versa in a second and blind you. They twisted like sidewinders and you never knew what you might find round the next twist – a horse, a dog, a deer, a tractor, a child, someone on a bicycle. Occasionally they were so steep Jane wondered if she would have to get out of the Mini and push.

    At first she used to hang on to the door handle and put her hands over her eyes whenever anything scared her, both of which actions annoyed Rick. He saw them as a form of back-seat driving.

    ‘I have rights, even as a passenger.’ she would retort. ‘Especially as a passenger because I feel so powerless.’

    ‘No you don’t,’ said Rick. ‘You just have to trust me.’

    So now she simply shut her eyes at intervals and hoped Rick didn’t notice.

    ‘Why’s the village called Black Dog?’ asked Jane.

    ‘There’s a legend,’ said Rick.

    ‘Ooh,’ said Jane. ‘Tell me.’

    Rick was good on legends. They’d been to Dartmoor a couple of weekends before and as they drove home in the dusk – with the moor black and deserted – Rick had told her about the ‘hairy hand’ that clawed at cars on exactly that stretch of road. They’d laughed together but when Rick wasn’t looking Jane made sure her window was properly closed.

     ‘A young girl was walking home alone in the dark through a wood. She was very frightened,’ began Rick.

    ‘Ooh,’ shivered Jane. She used to have to do the same after school. She knew exactly how the young girl felt.

    ‘But a black dog appeared and walked with her all the way. As soon as she arrived at her door it vanished. Ever since it’s reappeared to help any village girl who’s frightened and alone.’

    ‘Ohh, that’s lovely,’ said Jane.

    Rick laughed and swerved round a pheasant that was standing, bemused, in the middle of the road. He almost drove the Mini up the bank and Jane hoped he didn’t hear her sudden intake of breath.

    ‘Remind me about your family,’ she said to distract herself from Rick’s driving and because a minute ago they’d passed a sign that said ‘Black Dog 2 miles’ and her stomach was starting to flutter.

     ‘Only Ma and Pa will be there today,’ he said. ‘Brother’s in London climbing the greasy pole in the police and last heard of Sis was living in a tepee in Wales.’

    ‘A tepee!’ said Jane.

    ‘It’s a sort of tent.’

    ‘I know what a tepee is. I just thought it sounded, well, rather fun.’

    The nearest she’d got to the alternative lifestyle was being asked by a schoolfriend to go grapepicking in Spain the summer they finished their ‘A’ levels. She didn’t go. She was too keen to leave home and start earning her own money. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the right decision, given what happened in London. Never mind. She was making up for it now.

    ‘Rather you than me,’ said Rick.

    And he was the one who’d been living in a hovel.

    ‘So, what do I call your parents?’ she asked.

    ‘Peggy and Philip, of course,’ said Rick. ‘What else?’

    Jane made a face. She wasn’t used to calling grown-ups by their first names.

    ‘And what are they like?’ she asked.

    ‘Ma’s born and bred in Black Dog,’ said Rick. ‘She was one of six children and the first of her family ever to go to grammar school. She works in the accounts office of a local building firm.’ He sounded so proud of her.

    Jane tried to absorb that information. Peggy couldn’t sound more different from her own mother, who’d travelled the world as a child with her diplomatic father then studied at Oxford University and the Sorbonne in Paris. Since marrying at twenty-four she’d not had a job.

    ‘And your father?’

    ‘He’s a bastard,’ said Rick.

    Rick had said that before but it still gave her a jolt. She’d never realised that you could criticise your parents. It was so ungrateful after all they’d done for you, wasn’t it? Even Shakespeare commented on it, on the awfulness of the ‘thankless child’, and he had to be right, didn’t he?
    She'd never been allowed even to disagree with her parents. They called it 'contradicting' and, along with 'fussing', was one of the worst things she could do.

    ‘Why d’you say that?’ she asked.

    ‘Ma did everything,’ said Rick. ‘Went out to work, looked after us children, paid the bills, cleaned the house. While Pa pretended to be a writer, disappeared whenever he felt like it and saw other women. Then, when she complained, he shouted at her.’

    ‘Ugh.’ Jane felt sick.

    She wondered what sort of a monster she was going to meet.

    ‘He is a bit better now, though,’ said Rick, as if regretting his venom. ‘Well, he’s got a job anyway.’

They reached the outskirts of the village and Rick turned into a street of large modern bungalows, every one different and every one immaculate, with velvety lawns, gleaming windows and fresh paint on all the walls.

    ‘Wow,’ said Jane.

    She knew what her mother would say about them. She’d call them ‘common’. Houses like clothes should be of the best quality, but battered. Being immaculate was vulgar. Nouveau riche.

    Jane thought of her parents’ Victorian mansion with its draughts, unpredictable plumbing and frightening creaks and groans, and knew which sort of house she’d prefer.

    Rick made a face. ‘I know. They’re a bit much, aren’t they.’

    Jane looked at him in surprise.

    ‘Pa’s choice. His family gave them some money. They moved here after we all left home.’

    ‘Were your father’s family rich then?’

    ‘They ran a chain of local shops. Thought they were the bee’s knees. Disapproved of Ma. Called her a “dance-hall pickup”.’ He snorted.

    But Rick’s parents still married, thought Jane, in spite of family disapproval, and by the sounds of it his mother although of lowly origin was the better person.

    ‘What sort of a place did you live in before?’ she asked.

    ‘A proper Devon cottage,’ said Rick. ‘In the village high street, next door to Grandma and Gramp, Ma’s parents.’

    She wondered what sort of a house she and Rick would live in, when they acquired somewhere of their own.

    Rick slammed the brakes on and stopped outside one of the smaller bungalows – matching blue-painted gutters, downpipes and garage door.

    Leaping out of the car, he led her round to a side-door and into a bright blue and white kitchen. There at the sink was a female version of Rick. The same green eyes, the same generous mouth and the same fluffy hair, only hers was blonde not brown.

    She came towards them, wiping her hands on her apron, and patted Rick on both cheeks. ‘Dear boy.’

    ‘This is Jane,’ said Rick putting his hands on Jane’s shoulders and pushing her forward. ‘We love each other and we want to get married.’

    ‘I can see that,’ said Peggy.

    She touched Jane on the cheek. ‘Dear girl.’

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