Our Patch by John Hutchins is a wonderful book about the adventures of a Bedlington terrier set in the north of England just before the First World War. As part of the effort to raise publicity for the saving of Bartholomew's Strip, John has agreed to write some adventures for Our Patch with characters from Weyport. We hope you enjoy them!
OUR Patch was not happy. Britain’s favourite Bedlington (well according to him) was cross - even pedigrees get crossed sometimes!
He was lying in front of fire – his favourite spot – at the Crown and Anchor pub in Weyport, for once minding his own business, and content to lie at the feet of Master Da, who was engaged above on the table in a game of dominoes with one of the regulars, Kevin Watershed.
It was obvious to Patch that by Da’s laughter and Kevin’s groans that ‘e wuz robbed’ that when it came to dominoes, his Master was knocking spots off Weyport’s oldest and dimmest ‘lad’.
‘When you promised me a night on the tiles’ said Kev, ‘I didn’t think yer meant a game of dominoes! I thought yer meant we wuz goin’ out clubbin’ and he didn’t expect you to bring yer mutt.’
The little terrier didn’t like the last comment and nipped Kevin’s ankles. Kevin yelped and knocked his pint over, much to his displeasure.
The good natured Da laughed.
‘Yer shouldn’t have called Our Patch that Kev, he knows what yer talking about. Oh and while yer at the bar I’ll have another mild, yer owe me that for the game.’
The terrier wasn’t the only ‘unhappy customer’ in the Weyport’s favourite local that night as Kev limped to the bar.
Patch couldn’t believe how stupid some two paws were but this Kevin definitely took the biscuit.
‘Did someone mention biscuit’, Patch licked his lips in anticipation but the little Bedlington could not shake off the news that day which had upset not only him, his fellow, beloved Wagstaff pack members, but, the whole town itself – two and four pawed.
His best mate Slipper, a greyhound and resident pub dog at the Crown and Anchor and who Patch had just pushed off the prized, coveted spot in front of the fire, told him that he had heard their favourite place in town, Bartholomew’s Strip, was being sold by St Bart’s, going to be dug up, and dog earmarked for posh houses to be built on that land.
Slipper told Patch that he heard it straight from the horse’s mouth as he was passing a table and heard Archdeacon Randolph talking to Honor Beezlehurst about how they could earn hundreds of thousands if the development went ahead.
‘It was true,’ thought Patch, the Archdeacon did have a face that looked like a horse and as for that horrid Honor woman, she should have been christened Beelzebub (if that was possible in the Church of England) not Beezlehurst.
Patch was not one to bear grudges but he remembered three summers ago sitting patiently in front of the her as she sat on a park bench on the Strip one sunny afternoon; he recalled she deliberately provoked him by licking a double ice cream cornet with chocolate flake and sprinkles right in front of him and despite his cutest whimper, shiver, and saddest eyes she didn’t give him one measly lick, not even the last piece of cornet. It was doggy torture and he vowed then to get his vengeance on the old she devil.
