Dreams to Die For by Alan G Boyes Page A

three – other dogs, all springer spaniels, joined in the revelry and began playfully chasing each other. Four owners were now frantically running into the circle themselves trying to catch, scold or even plead with their respective dog to come back but this only extended the game. Cindy thought the whole thing hilarious and laughed out loud. When order and calm had eventually been restored one of the circle, a grey-haired man of medium build (whose own dog Cindy noticed had not been one of the miscreants) called out in a broad Worcestershire accent to the reassembled group, “That wasn’t very good was it? It wasn’t even very funny despite it causing a great deal of mirth amongst the spectators.” Everyone, including Cindy laughed.
    â€œI couldn’t help it,” she shouted. “I hope I’m not in the way or putting them off.”
    â€œThey’re supposed to sit still even if they are being distracted, that’s the whole point of the bloody exercise though you wouldn’t believe it by looking at this lot.” As he finished his sentence, he airily waved a long walking stick he was carrying in the general direction of the assembled group.
    â€œJoin us if you want,” he called out.
    Cindy spent the rest of the morning walking in and out of dogs that were supposed to sit still and ignore her, throwing dummies for them to retrieve, and when the dogs had been turned to face in the other direction, putting tennis balls behind bushes prior to the owner sending the dog to find them. Overall, she had been impressed with the dogs and even more with their dedicated owners. In the pub afterwards, she had learnt all about them.
    They were members of a small gun dog club, though not all wanted to shoot or even go beating, their aim was just to achieve a really obedient dog. Whilst the club itself separately ran more formal and advanced training as the dogs progressed, a few members local to the particular area went out each Sunday for what they termed informal training. The group would meet up, give two or three hours training to the young dogs, principally in obedience and retrieving, then adjourn to the nearest pub. Cindy enjoyed herself enormously and she left with an open invitation to contact the grey-haired man, whom she now knew as Don, a qualified trainer of springer spaniels, to join them again.
    Cindy turned on her computer to continue composing her third feature, “Gun Dog Stories – by those who try to train them” gleaned of course, and written down in note form with permission, from Don and his friends.
    Alan Crossland was feeling slightly more relaxed. Several days had passed and the ATU had not paid him a visit. The weekend was looming and having spent a week in the Shoreditch flat, he was looking forward to Red Gables and seeing Cindy. At 2:45pm, he said goodbye to Jane and stepped into the back of the car waiting outside the front door of his office building. He asked Jack to stop at Woodstock where he bought Cindy a large bunch of roses and was indoors just as the 6 o’clock news bulletin came on. Alan was not accustomed to buying flowers or surprise gifts as some husbands do for their wives, but a couple of colleagues had said that ‘women like that sort of thing’. As he was desperate to make his wife happy, he had resolved to do everything he could to make her feel wanted and loved since her return from hospital. Cindy put her arms around his waist and briefly kissed him on the cheek as he passed her his present.
    â€œThank you, Alan, what a marvellous surprise. You. Buying flowers?” she said, jauntily. “What
have
you been up to?” she added with a mischievous note, overly exaggerating the word ‘have’
    â€œNot much really. The flat will need a bit of a tidy up. Sandra and Susie left it in a bit of a state; those oils make a real mess of the sheets, you know” he replied drily.
    For a split second, Cindy was