The Dog Who Saved the World Page 6

  But…there was one good thing about Clem changing, and it was this: I think I succeeded in persuading him not to tell Dad about Dr. Pretorius, and it was all down to his beard. Sort of. Let me explain.

  He was full of questions, and the main one was, “Why is she so secretive? If I’d invented something like that, I’d want everyone to know.”

  “I don’t know, really. She says she’s got something even better to show us soon, but right now I think she’s probably scared that someone will steal her idea.”

  And then I added something that—not to sound boastful or anything—was utterly and completely brilliant, and I didn’t even plan it. I looked at the floor, all sorrowful, and said, “I know it was wrong, Clem. I really should have told a grown-up. But…I think you probably count as that now?”

  Clem took off his glasses and held them to the light to check for dirt and smears. It’s something he does a lot. “Perfect vision required, eh?” he said, obviously flattered by me calling him an adult, and I nodded.

  “So she says. It’s why she can’t test it herself.”

  “She’ll need to figure that out if it’s to be commercial. Two-thirds of people wear glasses, you know?” He picked up a wrench from the bench and turned back to the rusty old campervan that he and Dad had been working on, which meant our conversation was over.

  “You won’t tell Dad?”

  “Not for now. But be careful.” He actually sounded like a grown-up then.

  Now I could worry about something else instead. The vicar had said Ben was sick. What was that all about?

  Everything, as it turned out.

  I couldn’t worry for long, though, because that evening was Mum’s memorial.

  Mum: the mother I never knew.

  “Mum’s memorial” sounds like it’s some big event, but it’s just a little thing we do every year, mainly for Dad’s sake, I think.

  Mum died when I was very little. We have lots of photos and a video clip shot on Dad’s phone, so I know what she looked like. In the video, I’m lying on a playmat and I am giggling and trying to grab the toy that Dad is dangling above me.

  There’s music playing in the background: a song called “You Two” from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Dad is singing along.

  “Someone to care for; to be there for.

  I have you two!”

  Mum’s there too: she’s pretty, with long hair in a ponytail and a big smile. She’s laughing at Dad’s groany singing voice, and he’s laughing too. Then Clem comes in, and he looked so cute when he was five—especially his chubby knees—and joins in the song.

  Which makes Mum giggle more, and the camera pans up to her face with this big smile and then the picture stops.

  So I suppose it’s not really a memory, is it? It’s a video clip, shot on Dad’s phone. I’ve seen it hundreds and hundreds—maybe even thousands—of times.

  “Cow flu” they called it: that’s what she died of. Eleven years ago, the virus was carried across the world on people’s shoes, in their fingernails, in their stomachs, in infected meat and foodstuffs, and milk. Thousands and thousands of people died, most of them in South America. Thousands more cattle had to be killed to stop it from spreading. Millions of gallons of milk were poured away while doctors and scientists worked around the clock to develop the vaccine: the special injection that would halt the spread of the disease.

  They did discover it, of course. Eventually. But it was too late for Mum. She became one of twelve people in Britain to die of cow flu.

  (It was also how Dad met Jessica. Every year Dad raises money for the new biobotics research unit to investigate diseases. It’s where Jessica works and, as Dad says, “One good thing leads to another….”)

  So Mum’s ashes are buried beneath a cherry tree in the field where the cows usually are. I know that sounds a bit weird, burying someone near cows when they died of cow flu, but Dad insisted.

  “She was an animal lover, just like you, Georgie,” he said once. “She wouldn’t blame the cows.”

  You can see Mum’s tree from our kitchen window, standing out against the sky, bent and buffeted by the winds off the sea and fertilized by the cows beneath it. Sometimes I catch Dad sitting at the kitchen table, drinking his favorite super-strong coffee, and staring at the tree. It blossoms every spring: a beautiful cloud of white like a massive spool of cotton candy, although there has never been any fruit. Dad says it’s too cold.

  Every year on her birthday, we—Dad and Clem and I—gather by Mum’s tree. Only this year Dad’s girlfriend Jessica was with us. You can probably guess how I felt about that.

  It was evening and the sun was lower and cooler.

  “She’s looking good,” said Dad as the four of us proceeded up the field toward the tree. Dad always refers to the tree as “she.”

  She’ll be losing her leaves in a week or so….

  She’s done well to withstand that gale….

  That sort of thing. I think it’s because he likes to imagine the tree as being Mum, but I’ve only just realized that. I mentioned it to Clem about a year ago, and he just rolled his eyes as if I’d just said that I’d discovered that honey was sweet.

  The vicar from St. Woof’s was already at the tree when our little group got there. He’d come over the back way.

  We’re not exactly religious, but the vicar is an old friend of Dad’s from way back, in that way that adults can be friends even though they’re years apart in age. Dad was one of the last people to go to St. Wulfran’s Church before it closed down.

  That evening the vicar was wearing his vicar stuff—the black tunic with the white collar—under his zip-up jacket.

  We gathered beneath the tree’s leafy branches, looking back down the hill toward the sea, and we did exactly what we do every year.

  1. Dad reads a poem. It’s always the same one: Mum’s favorite, Dad says, by someone ancient called Alfred Tennyson. It starts like this:

  Sunset and evening star,

  And one clear call for me!

  And may there be no moaning at the bar,

  When I set out to sea…

  I don’t really understand it, even though Dad has explained it to me. It’s about dying, basically, which is sad, but Dad has a nice voice and I like hearing it.

  2. The vicar says a prayer with old-fashioned words. I have heard this every year now and can almost remember it all: Almighty God, we pray for Cassandra, and for all those whom we see no longer…Then my favorite bit: and let light perpetual shine upon them. I mouth along with the words when I can remember them.

  3. Then Dad takes out his Irish pennywhistle and Clem his big old tenor recorder that he got as a prize in elementary school. They both play an old hymn called “Amazing Grace.” Under any other circumstances it would sound awful: the high-pitched whistle and Clem’s squeaky and inaccurate playing. But somehow, on that cool evening in summer, the tune is perfect, rising above Mum’s cherry tree and floating off into the wind and down to the ocean.

  And all the while, Jessica has this face on like she’d rather be anywhere else.

  While the vicar was saying the prayer, I cracked open my eyes a little and saw her: eyes wide, gazing around everywhere, not praying at all. Then our gazes met for a second, and she just stared at me. I’m sorry to say it, but I hated her at that moment.

  At the end of the music, I was startled to see that the cows had gathered round us in an almost perfect semicircle. Their huge eyes watched us and their tails flicked over their creamy brown flanks.

  Dad took the pennywhistle from his mouth. He wiped his eyes and smiled. “Hello, girls,” he said to the cows. “Come to join in?” As if answering him, one of them mooed softly, while another lifted its tail and deposited a loud, splattering cow pie on the ground. It made us laugh, except Jessica, who flinched in horror.

&n
bsp; There was one more tradition. In turn, Clem and I stood with our backs against the tree trunk. Dad took out a pocketknife and cut a notch in the wood to indicate our heights, and we compared. Clem had grown about six inches in the last year. Me? Hardly anything.

  Dad smiled as he folded up the knife. “Ah, don’t worry, dear: you’re due for a growth spurt. You’ve plenty left in you yet!”

  And that was it: Mum’s memorial.

  Dad clapped his hands and turned to the vicar. “Right, then, Maurice. You comin’ back for a drink?”

  The vicar looked surprised, although it’s the same every year. “Now you mention it, Rob, that sounds good.” But then he took out his phone and read something on it. “Ah. Maybe not.”

  “Problem?” said Dad.

  The vicar pursed his lips and looked to the sky. “Probably not. I’ve got to meet a vet. Another time, eh, Rob? God bless you all. Don’t worry about me—I’m fine to walk.”

  He saw the look on my face.

  “Is it Ben?” I said, immediately aware that I hadn’t yet asked him about it. Then I added, “Is it Mr. Mash?” I was scared of the answer I might get.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Georgie. And Mr. Mash is fine. For now,” he said, before turning and stalking off purposefully in the direction of St. Woof’s, muttering to himself.

  For now!

  It turned out that the vicar meeting a vet was the start of everything bad I have ever known.

  Right. I think you’re nearly caught up, in terms of the things you need to know.

  It’s now the last week of term, and everyone—including the teachers—seems to be going a bit crazy.

  The day after Mum’s memorial was no-uniform day: you bring in £3 for charity and you can wear anything you like. The Lee twins came dressed as Thing One and Thing Two from The Cat in the Hat. Ramzy came in his uniform. He said he’d forgotten, which seems unlike him. And Mr. Parker, the new headmaster, wore a kilt during assembly, which made everyone laugh when he did a little dance.

  Ramzy’s eyes were nearly popping out. “He’s wearing a skirt!” he whispered to me. I tried to explain but it was hard.

  He hissed, “So do all Scottish men wear them?”

  “No! Not all the time! Mostly never, I mean…” I was silenced by Mr. Springham’s loud throat-clearing and a stern look.

  It all meant no one was really listening when Mr. Parker delivered yet another lecture about Disease Transmission Risk.

  All I picked up was CBE—something-something Ebola—and with a mouthful like that, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t really make the connection with St. Woof’s, like I should have done.

  After school, I was dying to tell Dad about Mr. Parker’s kilt and I practically ran home. It was the sort of thing that would make him laugh his deep, coffee-scented laugh, and he’d have a few funny lines of his own to add as well. Only, when I got in, Jessica was sitting at the kitchen table along with Dad and Clem. She wasn’t normally home from work this early (which usually suits me fine), so something was up….

  “Georgina,” she said, bringing her sharp elbows up to rest on the table. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.” I have to hand it to Jessica: she doesn’t beat around the bush. I suppose this is a good thing, but sometimes I wish she wasn’t so blunt. Sharp and blunt: that’s Jessica. The deflation of my mood, which had begun when I saw her, was instant. I felt as empty as a popped balloon.

  She said: “You know I’ve been working a lot lately.”

  I nodded. Like I said, Jessica works at a medical research laboratory attached to the hospital, helping develop vaccines. She’d been working late for weeks recently, and on weekends.

  “All vacations have been canceled for the next month. It’s an emergency—this CBE thing is getting out of hand, and, well…they need all the expertise they can get.”

  I’m sorry to say that my first reaction was not concern about a deadly disease—there had been plenty of scares before. But there it was again: CBE. You don’t hear of something ever, and then suddenly it’s everywhere.

  But I didn’t know what the letters stood for, or why it was bad, or where it came from—nothing really.

  No, my first reaction was entirely selfish. “Does that mean you’re not coming to Spain?”

  Dad piped up. “We’ll still go to Spain, love. It’s just that Jessica won’t be able to come.”

  I composed my face into a slump of disappointment, which was the absolute opposite of what I felt. This was to be our first foreign trip in years. I’d bought two new swimsuits already, one with my own money. I had told myself that Jessica’s presence was a small price to pay.

  And now I wouldn’t have to pay it! Beneath the table my feet were doing a little jig of delight.

  “It’ll be OK, love,” said Dad, and he leaned across to give me a little hug. “I promise Clem and I won’t be too boysy.” He winked at Clem who, bless him, winked back.

  I was thinking: Where’s the bad news? It’s all good news so far….And then Dad said, “There is one more thing.”

  Uh-oh.

  Dad took a deep breath and, very quietly, murmured, “No more St. Woof’s.”

  I did this odd thing where I looked first at Dad, then at Clem, then at Jessica, and then all the way around again. Their faces were different: Dad’s eyebrows were practically fused together in anxiety—he knows what St. Woof’s means to me. Clem’s eyes were cast down into his lap. At first, I suspected him of having snitched on me, but then he looked up over his glasses and gave the tiniest shake of his head, which said, Not me. Jessica’s face was cold and hard, like marble.

  Dad was speaking. “I’m sorry, Georgie, but it’s just too risky. It’s only temporary. I’ve spoken to Maurice, and he understands.”

  I was hardly listening. I was staring at Jessica’s expressionless face, and she stared right back at me. Eventually, I said to her, “This is you, isn’t it?”

  And Dad said, “Georgie, love, it’s not—”

  I wouldn’t be stopped. “First I have a dog, and then I can’t keep him—because of you. Now I can’t even see him—because of you!”

  “It’s not about me,” said Jessica quietly. “It’s about you, Georgina. It’s about keeping you safe.”

  “And since when did you care about that? You’re not my mum,” I spat.

  Dad said: “Georgie, that’s enough.”

  I pushed my chair back noisily and stomped toward the kitchen door, passing Jessica, whose blank face had not changed.

  “I’m sorry, Georgina,” she said. “But this CBE thing is serious.”

  This CBE thing.

  “I don’t care!”

  I should have, though.

  * * *

  —

  Later that evening, Jessica was sitting on the sofa, looking at the television, though the sound was turned down. She’s been doing this a lot lately and she didn’t even notice at first when I sat down on the other end of the sofa.

  I wasn’t “making peace,” you understand, but the you’re not my mum thing was perhaps a bit much. And it was Dad who had told me that I wasn’t to go to St. Woof’s. It wasn’t all Jessica.

  When I’m upset, I can cuddle up to Dad: he has a big, comfortable belly and warm, strong arms and fat fingers and he always smells of, well…of Dad. Even if I wanted to cuddle her, Jessica is just not cuddly. Not at all. She’s not skinny so much as rigid, and her hands are cool to the touch. She’s all edges, really, whereas Dad is curves. She always smells of the soap she uses at work. It’s not a flowery soap—it’s more medical.

  I leaned forward to pick up the remote control, and there was this awkward moment when Jessica thought I was leaning in for a cuddle.

  As if!

  She opened her arms to draw me in, but then I was back at my end of the sofa and she had to lower her arms a
s if nothing had happened. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was drawn thin with worry, with little lines all around. She has short dark hair, and it’s usually gelled up and spiky. Today it was just flat on her head.

  “Hello, Georgina,” she said. That’s another thing: she never calls me Georgie. “How was school today?”

  “It was OK,” I said. I had been rehearsing in my head how I’d tell them about my day, and Mr. Parker’s kilt, and the little dance he did, and Ramzy forgetting about no-uniform day, but I wasn’t going to waste it on Jessica.

  She turned her head toward the window and took a deep breath, as if she was wondering whether or not to say anything. She turned back to look at me and I saw the fear across her pale face.

  “Pass me my laptop, please. I want to show you something.”

  She typed a few words to bring up the page she had been looking at.

  INDEPENDENT NEWS CORP.

  BREAKING NEWS

  New Canine Disease “Spreading Fast,” says International Health Foundation.

  CLICK FOR MORE

  I clicked, though I could feel my hand trembling. I already knew that it would be bad news.

  HONG KONG, CHINA

  The International Health Foundation has issued a rare Grade 1 Alert, warning countries worldwide to be on the alert for a new and deadly disease affecting dogs.

  The illness is believed to be caused by a mutant virus similar to that which caused last year’s outbreak of swine Ebola (HGR-66) and resulted in the slaughter of more than half of China’s herds of domestic pigs.

  That virus posed no risk to humans, but spread rapidly through mainland Asia before scientists discovered an effective antiviral.

  Dr. Gregor Zamtev of the IHF told Independent News, “This disease—canine-borne Ebola—is potentially far more damaging. The symptoms are slow to emerge, so the disease can spread widely before it is seen.”