The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

suitable redress for the occasions Elsa had done this to her.
    “What are you doing here?” Elsa raised her walking stick and shook it at her, the action inciting the dogs, who hurled themselves with fury against the flimsy wooden gates of their runs, accompanied by a manic chorus of barking and flashing of razor sharp teeth. “This is private property.” There was no recognition in her eyes.
    “It’s me, Meli from the lodge. We were looking for Quassi, remember?” Meli blurted, shying away from the dancing spearhead, hoping that her words would be heard above the baying hounds. As she stepped back she felt her trainer sink into something distinctly soft. Distracted, her eyes slid down. “Oh, shit,” she groaned, seeing her trainer half buried in the biggest dog turd she had ever seen. Lifting her foot she gave it a shake.
    “Well, he’s over there.” Meli read Elsa’s whiskered mouth as she now used her walking stick as a pointer, and jabbed it over Meli’s shoulder, almost taking her eye out with it. Turning cautiously, Meli saw that what Elsa said was true, Quassi was on the far side of the fence, the tip of his black nose thrust between the chain links, watching them.
    “Thanks, see you later.” She didn’t give a damn whether Elsa heard her or not, she was just relieved to be able to make her escape. Jogging smartly across the compound she prayed that Quassi wouldn’t do a runner. But quite the opposite, he seemed to be as pleased to see her as she was to see him, leaping up, flashing his tongue at her. Not taking any chances though, she grabbed him firmly by the collar, and together they rushed back through the trees, Meli doing her best to scrape off the stinking brown gung that was caked to her once white trainer as she went. The rain was falling heavier now, running in uncomfortable rivulets down her stooped neck. She was going to kill Mr. Swindon. If he hadn’t let Quassi out none of this would have happened. She was holding him personally responsible.
    Very carefully, Meli removed her trainers outside, and then left them there, before letting herself and Quassi indoors. She was back within minutes, armed with a bucket of steaming water, a pair of lemon rubber gloves and a scrubbing brush. Holding her nose and gagging, Meli began scrubbing her trainer. She was not even sure that she would ever wear them again, even if they were only six months old, and had cost over fifty quid. Propping the pair against the wall, she dashed indoors to quickly rub a towel over herself and change into dry clothes. Making sure all the internal doors were closed, to restrict any damage the wet Quassi could cause, she grabbed her car keys.

    Cal arrived home to find his wife in a foul temper, shoving bedding into the washing machine, hair like Tina Turner after being caught out in a hurricane, and weighed down by what must have been a huge and painful chip on her shoulder. Even the boys were respectfully quiet, and Quassi was lying in the corner, shivering with trepidation.
    “Whatever is the matter?” he asked, thinking as he did so that he might be better off not knowing.
    Swinging round, Meli pushed forward her chin, her eyes flashing dangerously as though one spark and her head would explode, taking everyone in the room with it. There were none of the niceties Cal usually received when he arrived home, like: did you have a nice day dear? Instead, she blasted a selection of the days highlights at him in short, sharp volleys between strained breaths (leaving out things like the dog turd, and the unnatural fear she’d experienced in the yard again, not wanting to be ridiculed), her voice sounding ridiculously loud and shrill, even to her own ears. Something Cal precariously seemed to agree with she noticed.
    “Your lips are twitching,” she accused brusquely. “But I fail to see what you find so funny.” Under her brutal look, similar to a box of Weedol surveying an audacious weed in a bed of prize Lilies, his look withered. “Then to top it all, I rang Mr. Swindon to give him a piece of my mind, and he denied letting Quassi out,” her voice rose to a nasal peak. “Well, who else could it have been, I asked him? And do you know what he said?” Her glittering eyes remained locked on Cal’s face as he struggled to keep his expression fixed neutrally while dutifully shaking his head. “He suggested that Quassi opened the door himself. Well, I ask you.” She threw her eyes despairingly at the