The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

feet as a reward. Grinning, Meli accepted the offering, and exchanged it for the remains of her sandwich. While he tucked into it with relish, she rushed to the phone and rang Cal. If she was lucky she would catch him before he went for his break
    “Hi Cal, when you go to lunch can you get a German phrase book?” There was a moments stunned silence.
    “A what?” he eventually asked.
    “You heard, we need a German phrase book.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “So we can speak the same language as Quassi.” Meli wished she could see her husband’s expression.
    “Meli, I don’t have time for games, what are you on about?” She could hear the exasperation in his voice. As she’d known he would be, he was in a sleep deprivation induced foul mood.
    “Quassi speaks, I mean, understands German. There was this old war movie on the TV and he was absorbed. He was even doing some of the commands from the SS man, and when I tried a few words, he actually obeyed me.”
    “Have you been drinking?” She was asked. Her fingers tightened on the handset, wishing it was Cal’s throat. The question was totally unnecessary.
    “Of course not. Just bear with me and buy a book.” She hung up.
    Cal was obviously still under the impression that the whole conversation had been some kind of practical joke, judging by his expression when he came in that evening, but he did hand over a small plastic bag, containing the requested book.
    “Dad, watch this,” David cried. “Kommen Sie hier.” To Cal’s amazement, Quassi trotted over to his son, his tail beating so furiously that it could have hacked down a small tree. “Sitzen.” Quassi sat.
    Cal’s mouth opened to speak, but all that emerged was a tiny squeak, like a mouse being trodden on. Scratching his head in puzzlement, he tried again. “I’ll be honest Mel. I thought you had finally flipped. And my staff thought I was totally bonkers when I asked Christina to buy me a phrase book for the dog. But..” raising his hands helplessly he submitted to the evidence of his own eyes. There was no denying that the dog understood German.
    Within minutes they were all ploughing through the book, putting an eager Quassi through his paces, only stopping when he became so overcome with excitement that all he could do was run in ever decreasing circles, barking wildly.
    “I can’t for the life of me understand how Quassi comes to speak German,” Meli commented to Barbara in the pub that evening, as she recounted the remarkable events of the day.
    “Oh, it’s not so bizarre,” Barbara replied, her grey eyes dancing as she exchanged looks with Doug. “It’s quite funny really.”
    “Funny?” Cal raised his eyebrows at her.
    “Well, you have to admit that it is. Poor dog, trying to do his best, but not understanding a word of what you said for all those months. Elsa has a wonderful sense of humour.” Her pink cheeks inflated into two cherry tomato coloured pin cushions as she tittered into her glass of G and T with such force that the contents almost bubbled over.
    “You’ve still lost us,” Meli said, trying to ignore the remarkable feat.
    Lowering her glass, Barbara sobered her expression with some difficulty. “Well, Elsa is from German ancestry, and she spent quite a lot of her early years in Germany. German is her second language. Didn’t you know?”
    Meli and Cal shook their heads in unison. Barbara slapped the table, her bangles crashing against the hard wood with the sound of cymbals. “How could you not know that?”
    How could we, Meli thought to herself, if no one told us? But she didn’t have a chance to comment as Barbara spurted on like a kettle that was fast coming to the boil.
    “Now, take Vilma, the Countess. There’s another German descendent. There seem to be a few scattered around the vicinity.” She slurped at her G & T.
    The Countess was in the other bar. Meli had seen her with Bill when she went to spend a penny. “What about Bill?” She found herself asking.
    Barbara squinted in confusion, as though one of them must be having trouble following the conversation. “Bill?”
    “Yes, Bill. Where does he come from?” In her mind Meli was wondering if Bill was short for something else; something German, like Wilhelm? After all, there was a Hitler-like look about him: cold , mean dark eyes, thick brows, ego as big as the chip on his shoulder that he was such a shrimp. All that was missing was the little moustache.
    “Bill Barber? He’s a local,