Oh Henry!

Chapter Eight. Uncle Steve's Scam

Chapter Eight 

Uncle Steve's Scam

Jenny Bell was a bitch, a champion bitch. Today, caged, starved, and blanketed we were transporting her to the first race of the season. Uncle Steve, her trainer, had been so impressed by my show of stamina in the marathon, that he hired me as a dog walker for the princely sum of three pence per day. These walks over the fells ranged from eight to twelve miles, and to pass the time, Uncle Steve would regale me with stories of the family involvement in hound trailing. 

Apparently, my great grandfather Ulrich was the son of a German immigrant. In an attempt to befriend the natives and wisely anticipating the furor that was to accompany the outbreak of the Great War, he had wisely changed the family name from Proktor to Procter. By dint of hard work and frugal living, Ulrich saved enough money to purchase a lease on a pub. There in the confines of the smoky public bar, clients introduced him to the sport of hound trailing, the sport that became his passion. 

I was well aware that the sport was a family obsession. Old portraits and daguerreotypes bearing images of ancient relatives posing with their hounds completely covered one wall of the hall in my grandparent's house. Meticulously polished silver cups and medals, won by family hounds over the years, filled the mantelpiece over the black-leaded cast-iron fireplace in the living room. Above the trophies hung a gold framed, almost life sized oil painting of Pilot, one time winner of the prestigious Grizedale Hall trail. He was buried in the well-tended dog cemetery in the back garden. It was taken for granted that each succeeding generation of the family would carry on in the sport and maybe even eventually breed a grand champion. 

Gran was a Procter, and her brother, strangely named Cook, had bred, trained, and raced Pilot. He was an acknowledged expert and had schooled Uncle Steve in the intricacies of the hound trail. So successfully, that Uncle Steve was now the proud trainer of Jenny Bell and had guided her to forty-three victories over the three previous seasons. She now was in her prime. Could this be her championship season? Uncle Steve had his doubts.  

The first trail of the season was held in the nearby village of Kirkby, nestling on the edge of the Furness Fells and bordering on the Duddon Estuary. It was a perfect day for the race. The sun was shining, trees blossoming, daffodils were in bloom, and the fells were shining with the burnished gold of flowering gorse. This springtime display meant nothing to me. I was too concerned about the slip. So concerned that I barely said a word during the entire journey to the meet. 

"Here we are, Henry. Look down there to the left. See all the cars in the field? There must be a turn-off just ahead." 

Soon we reached a sign-posted entrance to a country lane, leading from the main road to the race site. Progress down the lane was slow as it was partially blocked by spectators and trailers with their hounds in tow, all making their way to the race enclosure. Uncle Steve stopped our truck from time to time to greet old rivals and ask how training had gone over the long winter break. Everyone showed great interest in Jenny Bell. 

"How ya doin' ,Dover? Is that dog of thine in good enough shape for a bob each way?" 

Jenny Bell, was the current Ulverston area champion and an early favourite in the betting but Uncle Steve remained tight-lipped, giving nothing away. 

Eventually we reached the wooden gated entrance. Uncle Steve, paid our admission fee, drove into the field, and parked the lorry right next to the bookies' circle. Jenny Bell had survived the trip well. She was lying relaxed at the bottom of her cage and only rose to her paws when I started to fumble with the latch. She stretched, appeared to yawn, and then offered her neck for the expected restraint. Once leashed she led me to the back of the flat bed but then had the sense to let me dismount first before she effortlessly leapt to my side.