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Chapter 3
Ron Masters took a deep breath of fresh sea air and exhaled slowly. He’d always loved the coast, although Worcestershire, and Pershore especially, was his home –ifyou could say that a homeless man had a home, that is. Since Christmas though, Ron had been staying with Beverley and it was now August.
It was strange how things came about, he mused, picking up a piece of driftwood and throwing it for the poodle who, true to form, eyed it with disdain. Pepe wasn’t a stick-chasing kind of dog, despite Ron’s best efforts. The dog wasn’t too keen on balls, either. Sam, however, was, and the boy had brought his football to the beach for a kick about and was currently dribbling it up and down the sand. Every so often he’d look to Ron for his approval and Ron would give him a thumbs up.
The kid was football mad, Ron not so much, but he tried his best to be enthusiastic. Besides, the choice had been to either take Sam to the beach, or stay in the house with Beverley, who was anxiously fussing over the imminent arrival of her niece. The fussing had involved a reshuffle of the sleeping arrangements with Ron offering to sleep in the garden for the rest of the holiday. Beverley had been outraged at the suggestion, but he’d packed up his stuff anyway, cleaned the single room he’d been sleeping in, had put fresh sheets on the bed, then he’d whisked Sam and Pepe off to the beach and left her to it.
Beverley’s shock at his suggestion – a perfectly reasonable one, in his opinion – had got him thinking...
A two-week or so visit to Beverley’s Brighton home to do some training with a poodle with an attitude, had turned into eight months. It was the longest he’d stayed in one place for years. And it was most definitely the longest he’d had a roof over his head since he’d moved out of his marital home. He couldn’t continue to live in Beverley’s house indefinitely. At some point she would want to be rid of him. But each time he’d made leaving noises, she’d been adamant she didn’t want him to go.
Sooner or later, though, he’d have to hit the road, and he was worried that he’d gone soft. A comfy bed and a warm house had weakened him, both physically and mentally. It would be hard to live on the streets again. Maybe his offer of bunking down in the garden had been a subconscious acknowledgement that he needed to begin preparing himself, especially since he could so easily kip on the sofa.
‘Pepe, heel,’ he commanded, spying an enthusiastic and bouncy Springer spaniel tearing across the beach and heading directly for them. Its tail was wagging furiously, but Ron wasn’t going to take any chances with Beverley’s beloved pet. Obediently Pepe did as he was told, and the poodle even sat without being asked.
‘Good boy,’ Ron murmured as the spaniel approached, its owner haring after it, calling its name without any effect whatsoever.
‘Tink! Tink! Come here, you naughty boy!’ the man shouted, and Ron smiled.
‘Tink, sit,’ Ron said, making a noise and clicking his fingers.
The spaniel hesitated, his headlong rush halted, and he came to a stop a few feet away from Pepe.
‘Sit,’ Ron repeated, his tone brooking no argument. The spaniel sat, his tail still going nineteen to the dozen, and spraying loose sand in an arc around his wiggling bottom.
‘Wow, how did you get him to do that?’ the man huffed breathlessly as he hurried over, a lead in his hand.
He bent to fasten it to the spaniel’s collar, but Ron said, ‘You can leave him free, if you want. Pepe is friendly.’
‘Oh, right, OK. If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. I expect Pepe will ignore him anyway. He’s getting on a bit and can be quite grumpy.’
‘Tink is eighteen months old, and he thinks everyone loves him and wants to play.’
Ron ruffled the spaniel’s ears and the dog immediately jumped up on its hind legs. ‘Down. Sit.’
Tink sat.
‘I can’t believe he listens to you like that,’ the man said.
‘He probably doesn’t see you as the pack leader.’
‘That’s because I’m not,’ the chap joked. ‘My wife is.’
‘Ron, Ron, watch this,’ Sam shouted, and Ron’s gaze shifted to the boy.
‘Well done,’ he called back as Sam kicked the ball into the air, then headed it.
‘Is that your son?’ The man was also looking at Sam, who was now balancing the ball on the top of one of his feet, his expression one of intense concentration. ‘My boy loves a game of footie, too.’
‘No, he’s not mine, he’s the grandson of a friend.’ Ron tried not to think about his lack of children; it didn’t do to dwell on the past.
The guy nodded. ‘I’d better get on. I’ve got miles to go before I wear this one out. Springers are a bit lively, aren’t they?’
‘Have you tried playing fetch with him? That can sometimes work with dogs who are bred to retrieve things.’
‘Are you a dog handler or something?’ the bloke joked, and Ron’s eyes grew distant.
