There have been stories, he recalled, about the incredible homing feats of dogs like himself, such as the one who’d traveled all the way from Bognor Regis to Bath, searching for his owner who’d moved. Oh, sure, thought Sparky, don’t we wish?
Now, where was he? Stink Street. He called it that for it was home to more smells than any other single place he knew, except for marketplaces. Stink Street came close to knocking him out; it was in amongst all these old warehouses that were home to a lot of youngish snobs with good jobs and money. What he smelled was the rich odor of furs; the scent of the animals they had been ripped from still clung. New tires, cars, leather, sweetish smell of weed. Perfume. The mingling of perfumed scents strong enough to lift you off your legs.
Stink Street was a heady experience. He had to be careful of places like that; they could come to be necessary; they would not let you go. Sparky moved on out toward the river.
The door at the top of the ladderlike steps, which reminded her of an attic door, was not locked and this surprised her. Gemma pushed up one side and suddenly saw the night sky of stars and the white moon riding behind a gauzy cloud. With Richard again tucked inside her coat, she climbed out on the deck of the boat and looked around. She unzipped her coat and took Richard out so that he could see, too. The boat was fairly big; she’d never seen it before and could not imagine why she’d been put here.
“So you couldn’t get away,” she heard Richard say.
“Well, what am I supposed to do, then?”
“Get away, of course.”
There were times he just irritated her to death with his solutions to her problems. Ever since he’d got his new black clothes, he was impossibly bossy.
“It’s not impos-”
Gemma shoved him back inside her coat to shut him up. Then she got her bearings: the boat was closer to the one bank than the other. It was much closer to the Big Ben side than it was to the Southwark Cathedral side. There was one bridge fairly close; she did not know its name. Benny had shown her pictures of the next one down, and she knew it was Waterloo Bridge. Around the curve of the river was Big Ben. So she knew where she was, pretty much.
Glad the boat was still, or the river was, she walked all around the deck, which didn’t take long. There were benches with plastic cushions built in on both sides; the place where you drove the boat was toward the front. That’s where the wheel was, with glass all around like a windshield that the captain could look through to see where he was going. She would never be able to figure out how to drive it. Anyway, the boat was anchored. Over there she saw what looked like a dock. And beyond the dock, a big squarish house. So the boat probably belonged to that house and the dock was for the boat. Maybe it was too big to pull up there, so it anchored here.
Richard was getting ready to tell her to swim for it, she bet, so before he could, she said, “I can’t swim!”
“Don’t mope or you’ll never-” came the muffled words from inside.
“I don’t mope!” Gemma closed her eyes, hoping if she didn’t give her mind any new sights to see it would be better able to concentrate on her problem. Wait a minute! Her eyes snapped open. There had to be a way to get from the bank-the dock-to the boat. It was somebody’s boat and if that person could get to it, then there had to be a way.
“Good good good good!” Richard cried.
But if that was the only boat…? Gemma walked around the deck again slowly, peering over the side. A smaller boat, a rowboat it looked like, was tied to the side of the big boat. She wondered if it was okay, if it had any leaks in it, but if it had, it would already have sunk, wouldn’t it?
She shrank back. But I can’t get down there-
“You can too; it’s hardly any distance at all. Find a rope; there are always ropes on boats. Don’t just stand there.”
“I’m only nine. How can I-?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Get me out of here and I’ll find a rope!” Gemma took Richard out from under her coat and held him in front of her. While she walked, she turned him different ways so that he could inspect the deck. Slowly around the deck they walked.
“Right there!”
Not only was there a coil of rope, but it appeared to be tied, sturdily tied, to a short pole. She stuffed Richard back inside her coat (while he was still barking orders), picked up the rope and dragged it back to the part of the deck just above the rowboat. It was plenty long. She let the end down, played the rope out to the rowboat. Then she put all her weight into it and yanked hard to see if back there the rope held to the pole. Yes! Only, how was she to move the oars. She could never handle two, one on each side.
“Sure, you can.”
“Shut up, Richard! You don’t know everything!”
“Pretty much. Find something you can use for oars.”
At that moment, something in Gemma switched off and something else switched on. It was no longer a question of would she drown in the Thames, but whether she was smarter than the two women who had stuck her out here. She ran to the flat door and stumbled down the staircase. She yanked out drawers in the little kitchen and tossed stuff out-useless silverware, scissors, plastic things-things in the drawers were all anyhow-knives, bottle caps, string. She finally came to a large spatula and it made her think of the way Mrs. MacLeish made omelettes. She would draw the cooked egg back with the spatula and the uncooked would run around it. Like water around an oar. Well, it was better than nothing. Among the rest of the utensils she found a big ladle. That would have to do.
She stopped, sat down on one of the beds and chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking. Then she remembered the rolls of coins that had rolled under the bed and got down and tried to fish them out, but couldn’t reach. With her other hand she groped on top of the bed and found the ladle. With it, she got the two rolls out. Then she looked at the utensils that had landed on the floor and picked up a paring knife.
She sat up and took Richard out. “I hate to do this…”
“What? What? No knives!”
“It won’t hurt. Much. Be quiet.” She removed his clothes, turned him over and with the knife, carefully pried the stitches out along the back seam. Oh! There were protests! Then she removed half of the stuffing and replaced it with the two rolls of coins. She didn’t have anything to sew him up again, so she bound him tightly together with the string. She went over the seam again and made sure the string would hold. She shoved his clothes into one coat pocket and the stuffing into the other. Then she collected the spatula and ladle and hurried up the steps.
Sparky sneezed. It was explosive and set him down on his rump. He sneezed again and shook his head as if to render it sneeze free. He trotted over to the place in the courtyard where, in the spring, tulips grew. Whatever had been there was stone cold dead. Then he inspected a planter usually filled with primroses. It wasn’t now. He looked around but saw nothing else.
Sparky enjoyed coming to this house; he liked the forecourt. It was pleasant to sniff around in. In the distance, Big Ben sounded whatever hour it was. Sparky could count up to four. Why he could do this was a mystery to him, but for some reason the boy had taught him this trick, which had to do with the street and filling the hat with coins. You’d think he could remember the name of the boy who’d saved him from a dust bin life, but what did names matter? If you could tell you were being summoned by look and gesture, why was the name important? He wasn’t even sure what his own name was. Big Benny. Sparky loved that.