‘The Dragon isn’t here today,’ called Malcolm, pointing to the nearby stall when they entered the market. Elvis’s nose went into overdrive, and Regan tried to tughim in Malcolm’s direction. Apparently there were far too many interesting smells, so he had to stop every other centimetre to check them out. She left Elvis with Malcolm trying to teach him to give his paw on command and went to retrieve her jam from the café.
She eventually got the stall set up and Elvis settled down underneath it. She popped the loop of his lead under the leg of the stall so he didn’t wander off, because he was still meant to be resting after his operation – although everything was going very well in that regard. Regan had no stool today, because she couldn’t manage it with everything else. She had planned to do new signs for her stall at the library, but she’d not got around to it what with everything else, and she started to make a few notes of what she needed to do. Somehow the market stall had slipped down the list, and she needed to put it firmly back at the top. A few people glanced over as they walked through the market – it was a popular cut-through first thing in the morning – but, unfortunately, nobody stopped.
A few hours in, she left Malcolm minding the stall and Elvis while she went to get drinks from Penny. Along with two coffees, and milk for Elvis, she’d also grabbed a spare paper cup and a handful of coffee stirrers because she was going to offer people a taste of the jam like Ken had suggested. She was on her way back when she saw a hooded youth take a jar of jam from the edge of her stall and slip it in his pocket. With his head down he walked towards her. Regan stopped in front of him and blocked his path.
‘You’ve got something of mine.’ She sounded a lot calmer than she felt.
His head snapped up and his eyes pinged wide whenhe realised who she was. He shoved her hard in the chest, sending the hot coffee all over both of them.
‘Shit!’ shouted Regan, making a grab for his hoodie and holding on. On her shout, Elvis started barking and tried to run to her aid, but unfortunately he had the minor encumbrance of a market stall attached to his lead. Despite this he kept going anyway.
‘No!’ yelled Regan, letting go of the youth and running back towards Elvis, who looked like a budget version of Santa’s sleigh dragging the red-and-white cloth-clad stall behind him. Jars of jam toppled off the stall in all directions and shattered around him. ‘Sit!’ she yelled, but he was intent on getting to her. She raced up to him and he greeted her happily. His tail was wagging at high speed. He sniffed at her coffee- and milk-soaked jumper; his bum hit the ground and he stared up at her hopefully. Regan surveyed the devastation, with her obedient-looking dog, who was totally oblivious, sitting in the middle of it. When she thought it couldn’t get any worse, Bernice came thundering towards them.
‘What on earth is going on?’ boomed Bernice.
Regan steeled herself. ‘There was a thief, and—’
‘Did he try to make off with your stall?’ She was staring wide-eyed at the skewed stall and shattered jars. Elvis wagged his tail in welcome.
‘No, just one jar, but—’
‘I take it this thing isn’t the thief?’ she pointed at Elvis.
Regan unhooked his lead. ‘No, this is my dog, Elvis, and the thief was the same little scrote as before. All this mess ishisfault. We need to call the police so they can add it to the list of charges against him.’
Bernice shook her head. ‘We’ve dropped the previous charges.’
‘You’ve done what?’ The level of challenge in Regan’s voice even surprised her. She noted Malcolm pull back his head in shock.
Bernice’s eyes bore an icy glint. ‘He agreed to attend a diploma course in plumbing and straighten himself out, and—’
‘Well, that’s not exactly going to plan now, is it? He’s just stolen something else!’ Regan tried hard not to yell.
‘People don’t change overnight—’
‘Or at all,’ snapped Regan. She was furious. Bernice and her softly, softly approach meant the youth would never face any charges for anything – including what he’d done to Kevin. ‘You can’t just—’
‘I think this discussion is over. And you have some clearing up to do,’ said Bernice, infuriating Regan further. ‘Oh, and how much longer are those dead flowers going to litter the pedestrian crossing?’ Bernice called as she walked away.
‘Why, you—’
Malcolm grabbed Regan and restrained her long enough for Bernice to get a safe distance away. ‘You okay?’ he asked, letting Regan go. She clamped her jaw together to stop the emotion overpowering her and gave him a brief nod of reply. ‘Don’t let her wind you up.’ She knew he was right. Malcolm silently picked up a broom and started to sweep up the glass.
With Malcolm’s help, things were back to some form of normality quite quickly. She’d checked Elvis’s paws multiple times for any signs of broken glass but he seemed to have avoided it all. She stood behind her pitiful-looking stall, which now only had the six remaining jars that had survived being towed across the market by Elvis. Sheshould probably have packed up and gone home, but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her.
The little old lady made her way slowly through the stalls. ‘Ooh, you’ve sold a lot today,’ she said, with a cheery wave. Regan didn’t have the heart to tell her.
After she’d packed up her stall, which took a lot less time than usual, Regan really needed to replenish her jam stocks – she had gone from overrun with the stuff to not much at all, thanks to Elvis inventing the first mobile market stall – but she had a shift booked with the hedgehogs, so jam would have to wait. She’d made a commitment to Mrs Tiggy-Winkle; and it may have been the name, but she couldn’t bring herself to be the person who stood Mrs Tiggy-Winkle up.
She was fast discovering that being a dog owner was a full-time job. She literally couldn’t leave Elvis for a minute. She drove over to Hove and decided that someone like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle must be an animal lover and would surely understand her dilemma with Elvis. She daren’t leave him in the car because he’d taken to chewing the headrests – chewing stuff appeared to be his favourite pastime.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle – or Philistia, as she reminded Regan – was very understanding, and even had some top tips for her on how to train Elvis. Because he was so food orientated – Regan took this to mean he ate anything that wasn’t nailed down – she suggested that Regan could use his dry food as a reward mechanism, rather than giving it to him all at once in a bowl for no other reason than it was dinner time. This made perfect sense, and Regan vowed to give it a go from tomorrow. While they were chatting, Elvis was quiet, which always meant trouble: onthis occasion it transpired he had been chomping his way through a large bag of hedgehog food. Regan apologised, but Philistia didn’t seem too worried, blaming herself for leaving the bag open. Philistia shooed Elvis outside and let him have the run of the garden, where he trotted around cocking his leg on every plant. It kept him occupied and thoroughly happy.
Regan set to work on cleaning out the hedgehog cages as instructed. It wasn’t taxing, but it was helping, and that mattered to her. Philistia disappeared to answer her front door, and Regan watched as Charlie came into the garden and did a double take when Elvis barrelled up to him.
What was Charlie doing here?
They both looked at each other through the warped glass of the hedgehog cabin. He still looked handsome, even when the glass made his face all wobbly. Charlie’s troubled expression changed when Philistia appeared and ushered him inside the shed.
