Besides Davy and the dog, there were two people in for today’s show, including the unknown man who always sighed a lot. Davy waved at Miss Shasta in the booth. She’d be mouthing every line, as she did for all her films. He found a half-full bag of popcorn in the second row, which he eked out slowly. The dog didn’t care for popcorn.
The familiar story rolled out, with George Bailey ready to kill himself, believing it would be best for everyone if he was dead, and Clarence, the doddery old angel, earning his wings by showing George how things would have turned out worse if he’d never been born.
Midway through, Davy had an impulse. Keeping half an eye on the movie, he took his new pencil and began making little sketches of Miss Flint on the flattened inside of the popcorn box. He’d never sketched with a pencil before, he’d only drawn with his brooms. Wanting to sketch from real life like this was new for him. But he soon gave up in frustration. He couldn’t capture Miss Flint’s likeness. She was like the old house where George Bailey spent his wedding night. Both of them were all shadows and collapsing angles and weathered boards.
When the movie ended, and George and his family and friends sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, Davy could hear Miss Shasta singing along up the booth. As the credits rolled, she waved him out through the fire exit.
While he’d been inside, the wind had strengthened to a gale. With the strange episode of Miss Flint fading in his mind, he headed home to the graveyard through the blowing town. The thought of being able to study Renaissance Angels for just as long as he pleased hastened his feet. He would decide on the picture he’d sweep tomorrow for Mrs Fall, weather permitting. This wind would be blowing today’s magi picture to the four corners of the earth and beyond.
Davy vaguely heard the catcalls but it took the dog’s barking and the sting of a stone hitting his neck to bring him to. He stopped. On the opposite sidewalk, two town boys stood jeering. One said, ‘Yeah, we’re calling you, meathead. Parson Fall’s looking for you.’
The boys exchanged a quick glance. Davy sensed trouble and took off. They gave chase in a casual sort of way, hooting to put the frighteners up him. The dog kept running back to bark and growl at them, but Davy feared they’d kick him, so called him off. They fell back after several blocks but Davy kept running. The wind carried him along on its blast.
Davy’s home was destroyed. The line of old yews was gone. Every tree was burned to a blackened, smoking ruin.
Fear clutched him. ‘No!’ he yelled.
They’d dragged his things out first and taken what they wanted. His flashlight was gone, his thermos flask. Renaissance Angels too, they’d taken the book. The scorched rags that had been his sleeping bags smouldered in the branches. They’d made a bonfire of what they didn’t want. It had burned right down.
Davy grabbed a stick and dragged out the embers, shoving the dog from harm’s way – but there was nothing to be saved of his belongings. His drawstring bag with his few clothes, the potato sack with his sweeping brooms, all were lost. He suddenly realized that the stick in his hand was the cracked remains of one of his brooms. They must have used them as fuel for the bonfire.
For most surely a they had done this. A war party. The flurry of their bootprints marked the ground.
Davy stared at the devastation. His body shuddered with shock. And as he stood there, the quiet struck him, right in the heart. His clan of friendly sparrows was silent.
‘No,’ he breathed. He ran to search among the blackened branches, but the birds were gone. Relief made him sag for a moment. Of course. They would have fled at the first disturbance. But if they’d had nestlings, the little things would have burned alive.
Who would do this? Who could do this to him?
Rage surged up from Davy’s belly. He ran wildly here and there, yelling as he brandished the stick. ‘Come back here! Get back here, you cowards!’ As if those responsible might still be in the graveyard, crouched behind the headstones to enjoy his despair. But there was no one to answer. They were long gone. The stick fell from Davy’s hand.
He was near to Potter’s Field. He went over to his mother’s little rose bush and slumped beside it. Tears were tight in his throat. But he wouldn’t cry. He would not. Crying could not undo what had been done.
The dog, upset by his anger, had been shadowing Davy as he ran around and yelled. Now he trotted up and dropped something on the ground. It was Davy’s toothbrush, badly scorched and useless. The dog nosed it towards him, then sat. One of his ears drooped sympathetically. His eyes were anxious and soft. Davy hugged him close to his chest.
The destruction of his life was complete. This deed was no town-boy bullying. Someone wanted him gone from Brownvale. And Davy knew exactly who that was.
The wind staggered and tipped people along Main Street. In their flapping overcoats they looked like ragged crows against the storm. Davy spotted Parson Fall. He was swooping towards the police station with his coat-tails winged behind him in righteous vengeance. Davy’s captured book was clamped underneath his arm.
‘That’s mine!’ Davy yelled. In a rush of anger, he ran. He threw his arms wide, there on the pavement, and blocked the Parson dead in his tracks. ‘You stole that,’ he said. ‘Give it back.’ As he grabbed for the book, the Parson seized his ear and twisted it. Davy cried out in pain.
The dog began to bark ferociously.
‘This boy is a thief!’ The Parson raised his voice, pulpit-style, to attract the notice of passers-by. ‘You may bear witness as I make a citizen’s arrest, here and now. He stole this valuable book from the library, a book purchased with your hard-earned taxes for the benefit of all. He stole it for himself, the selfish thief.’
A little crowd began to gather around them. The dog was growling low in his throat.
‘That’s not true,’ Davy protested. ‘It’s my book. I bought it fair and square. Just ask Mr Timm. It’s mine, I swear.’
‘Liar!’ the Parson thundered. ‘We’ll march him inside to be charged.’ He began to drag Davy towards the steps of the police station and the crowd followed.
‘No, wait. Wait!’ said Davy. ‘He gave me a receipt. Look, here it is.’ He fumbled it from his pocket. ‘There’s his signature, see? And he stamped it. That means it’s legally mine.’
‘Stolen property,’ the Parson repeated. He snatched the receipt, ripped it up and threw it to the wind.
‘No!’ cried Davy.
With that, the dog lunged at Parson Fall and sank his teeth into his leg. The preacher dropped the book, screaming, ‘Seize him! Get him off me!’
Davy grabbed the book. ‘Come on!’ he told the dog. And they ran, faster than the hard-blowing wind.
Leaving the Parson sprawled on the steps of the police station, they easily dodged those passers-by who tried to grab them. And, unlike the town boys who ran after them in gleeful pursuit, Davy had tracked cats and dogs down Brownvale alleyways to learn their larger hidey-holes and dens.
He dived into one of them with the dog. As the noisy chase hurricaned by, Davy held his breath, trying to calm himself and work out what to do. Miss Shasta. She’d shelter him at the Bellevue. But then what? Make like Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera and lurk inside the movie house for the rest of his life? Drag Miss Shasta into his troubles? No, that wouldn’t do. He was someone who solved his own problems. One thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t hide like this for long, scuttling rat-like from nook to cranny around the town. They’d be calling Mr Kite to hunt him down. Once his bloodhound caught Davy’s scent, that would be it.
After a time, his panic eased. His mind cleared. There was one way out of this and only one. Davy’s life that he’d built with such care the past four years – his life of library, movies, odd jobs and errands and, above all, his angel pictures – that life of being his own man in Brownvale, it was done.
He had to leave town today and not come back.
Davy hauled great handfuls of rampant vine from the garage door. He was hampered by the stiffness of hi
s new uniform. In his opinion, he looked ridiculous. Like Norma Desmond’s chauffeur in Sunset Boulevard, in plus-fours, a fitted jacket and a shiny-brimmed cap. It didn’t help that it had been made for someone much larger. He tugged and squealed the door open along its rusted track.
He stared in dismay. Miss Flint’s car was a crank-start saloon. A few old-time autos still hacked around town, relics from the ancient past of cars just like the ancient fossils who drove them. He might have known. ‘Does it run?’ he said.
Miss Flint flapped an irritated hand. ‘Load up, hand me in and we’ll get going. We’ll have to leave the wheelchair. I’ll manage on my sticks.’
Hurrying, Davy put their meagre luggage in the boot. He stowed Miss Flint’s leather briefcase and the cloth bag she’d given him, which held only his burned toothbrush and Renaissance Angels. Then, with the aid of her two sticks and much gasping and irritation, Davy somehow got her inched from the wheelchair to the car. After wrestling with the bulk of her fur coat – a moth-eaten rug, so far as he could tell – Davy heaved her into the back seat and she was in.
Settling herself royally on the cracked green leather, Miss Flint righted her fur hat, which had been knocked turvy with the fuss. She glared sourly at him, a real lemon-sucker of a look. Her entire face puckered with disapproval. ‘There’s room for improvement,’ she sniffed. As he slammed her door, she snapped, ‘Don’t slam the door!’
Davy cranked the engine nervously, ready to leap out of the way. He’d watched old-timers crank-start and knew these cars were inclined to kick in protest, but to his surprise, the engine caught right away. He ran and hopped into the driver’s seat. ‘Now what?’ he said.
Miss Flint explained the brake and gas pedals and rattled impatiently through park, reverse, neutral and drive. She told him about the mirrors. Then she made him repeat it all back to her. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Take off the brake.’
Davy lifted his foot. They bunny-hopped forward. There was a horrible crash of something metal. ‘Reverse,’ she shouted. He clashed the gearshift and stomped on the gas. They shot backwards into the lane. ‘Brake, you fool! Brake!’ yelled Miss Flint.
Davy laid his head on the steering wheel, gasping for breath. ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ he said.
‘Nonsense. We’re already late. Forward, driver, through town. Our way lies west.’
Cautiously, Davy cranked the steering wheel to turn them around, bumping first into a wall then the garage. As he wavered them down the back lane, the car bucked and coughed like a smoker clearing phlegm.
‘Not both feet, you foolish boy. One at a time, brake or gas.’
Their road out lay on the far side of town. He drove them crookedly along Main Street. Crossing pedestrians leaped for the safety of the sidewalk. No matter. The faster Davy got away, the better. Parson Fall would be looking for him. Davy imagined being hauled bodily from the car.
As the thought crossed his mind, Parson Fall stepped in front of the car.
‘Brake!’ yelled Miss Flint.
Davy braked and froze, his heart pounding in his chest. But the Parson didn’t see Davy. He didn’t even glance his way. He was too deep in plotting dark deeds with the man beside him. It was Mr Kite.
His bloodhound snuffled the ground, straining strongly at its leash. In Mr Kite’s hand was Davy’s best shirt. They’d taken it for his scent. The Parson’s trouser leg was torn, his bandaged calf visible through the tear. As the two men hurriedly crossed the road, the preacher was limping badly. A gang of tumbling town boys paraded behind them, giddy with malicious excitement.
The blood pounded in Davy’s ears. His hands were claws on the steering wheel. They hadn’t seen him. Four feet away and they hadn’t seen him. They were looking for Davy David. But only where they expected to find him. Not behind the wheel of a car, dressed like a movie chauffeur.
‘I’d say whoever they’re looking for is long gone,’ said Miss Flint. Davy met her gaze in the rearview mirror. ‘We’re attracting attention. Drive on,’ she said. With a shaky breath, he pressed the gas pedal and they were off again.
They passed the Bellevue, where Miss Shasta in her blue silk turban balanced atop a ladder replacing the stolen marquee letters. Outside the library, Mr Timm, with a hammer and tacks, was posting the notice of closure on the door. His sparse hair haloed his head as he turned to greet Howard, toiling up the steps for his daily read of Forever Amber. Davy bid them all a silent farewell.
The gale whirled dust devils around their turning tyres. It wheeled people’s hats away down the street. Past the church they went, past the parsonage where Davy’s downfall had begun that morning. Then they sailed past the town limits and they were gone. Gone from Brownvale for good.
They were on the road now, on a journey to the sea.
The Road West
They’d gone perhaps a mile or so. Davy had slowed considerably, down to a crawl. He clutched the steering wheel, concentrating hard to keep them going straight. Driving was unnatural. He didn’t care for it at all.
Miss Flint was complaining from the back seat. ‘You’re like a tortoise, creeping along, I’ve booked a room for the night at a reputable inn. At this rate, we won’t get there till next week. Look out!’ she cried.
They hit a pothole and bounced out. He wrestled the wheel to keep them on the road.
‘I plan to die calmly and on schedule. I’ll thank you not to shake me to death. Still, no need to dawdle. Step on the gas.’
‘Step on the gas,’ Davy repeated. He dared to press the pedal a little more. People drove all the time. He’d surely get the hang of it soon. ‘Gas, right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Brakes, left. Park, reverse, neutral, drive. Mirror.’ He’d forgotten what she’d told him about the mirror. He glanced over his shoulder, ‘Miss Flint? What did you say about –’
‘Eyes front,’ she barked. Then, ‘Brake!’
Davy thumped both feet on the brake as something white streaked across the road in front of them. The car rear-bucked and stalled. In the sudden, awful quiet, he saw a small dog lying on its side.
Davy scrambled out and ran. It was the black-and-white terrier. His eyes were closed.
‘No!’ Davy fell to his knees beside him.
At the sound of Davy’s voice, the dog’s eyes opened. His head lifted. His stubby tail gave a feeble wag.
Miss Flint rolled down the window. ‘Is it dead?’ she called.
‘I think he’s hurt,’ Davy said.
‘Hurt? At that funereal pace?’
With uncertain hands, Davy felt the dog’s body. ‘I can’t see any blood, but I’m not sure what to –’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ She managed to creak open the back door, but couldn’t get herself out. ‘What’s the matter with you? I need assistance. Don’t just gawk.’ Davy ran to help and got another lemon look when he knocked off her hat. But he got her going on her walking sticks and followed as she thumped her slow way over to the dog.
‘He’s been following me around,’ Davy told her.
He helped Miss Flint lower herself to the ground and, with what seemed to Davy an experienced touch, she examined the dog with care. He licked her hand. ‘Never mind your fuss,’ she said. ‘I think he’s all right. Probably just in shock. We need to keep him warm, though. Let’s have your jacket. Come, come, Mr David.’
Reluctantly, Davy slipped it off. He covered the dog, then helped Miss Flint to her feet again. She leaned on her sticks. They stared down at the dog. He looked up at them. His stubby tail wagged in a hopeful kind of way.
‘He’s an undistinguished beast,’ said Miss Flint. ‘I can’t recall, do fleas live throughout the winter?’
‘Fleas!’ Davy mourned for his new jacket. ‘He bit Parson Fall on the leg.’
‘Good for him. I’m surprised he wasn’t poisoned. Well, pick him up. He’ll have to sit in front with you.’
‘He’s coming with us?’ said Davy.
Miss Flint was caning a slow, breathless path back to the car, with h
er fur coat dragging behind. ‘We can’t leave an injured animal,’ she said.
Davy scooped the dog carefully to his chest, carried him to the car and laid him on the front passenger seat. He settled Miss Flint in the back – ‘Don’t slam the door!’ – then got the engine cranked and running once again. When he climbed in behind the wheel he found the dog sitting up. His ears were perked, his tail a flurry of delight.
‘You faker,’ said Davy. ‘That was an ambush.’ He reached over, threw open the door and said, ‘Go on, get out.’
‘Ambushed. By a dog.’ In the back seat, Miss Flint began to wheeze. Davy turned, alarmed that all the excitement might have killed her. Her face was creased, but not in pain. She was laughing rustily. ‘Like a highwayman,’ she said. ‘He’s got character, I’ll give him that. Let him stay.’ The dog barked. ‘There,’ said Miss Flint. ‘You’re outvoted.’
Davy kicked the front bumper, batting at the billow of steam from the engine.
Miss Flint leaned from the window. ‘What’s the problem, driver?’ Her tone was tight with irritation.
Davy muttered, ‘It’s a hundred years old, that’s the problem.’ He raised his voice, ‘I don’t know, but I nearly burned myself to death just opening the bonnet.’
‘Not the radiator again. Let me see.’ He helped her out and she caned around to peer through the clouds of steam. ‘The man swore to me he’d fixed it,’ she said, coughing. ‘Aren’t people just the living end. It’s the modern way, completely unreliable.’