It was the time Lily’s nephew came to stay for the holidays.
Now, just to give the story a bit of perspective, believe me when I tell you that Lily isn't merely the prettiest young lady in Little Wyverton, she is the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. Her splendour has a way of filling a man's dreams with colours, scents and a general atmosphere of happiness that simply refuses to be described. Her smile, her nose, those eyebrows of hers... good heavens, I become positively emotional just thinking about her.
Now, by one of those curious balancing acts nature occasionally performs, Lily is exactly as beautiful as her nephew is spectacularly unfortunate in the looks department. The little chap, whose greatest ambition in life is to become a firefighter, possesses such flaming red hair, freckles and crooked teeth that even the village schoolmaster looks ready to burst into tears whenever he catches sight of the youngster.
So it came to pass that the nephew, one Toby Milnerton by name, arrived to spend a week with Lily and her mother. It wasn't long before the first signs of calamity appeared. The little blighter decided that it would be an excellent idea to throw firecrackers underneath the chicken coop. To describe the resulting commotion as noisy would be rather like describing the ocean as slightly damp. Feathers filled the air, chickens flew in every conceivable direction, and absolute mayhem took complete possession of the premises.
I have never had much affection for Staffordshire terriers myself. Especially not since Lily and her family's staffie, Isabella, once mistook my ankle for a garden hose, or whatever it was the wretched dame imagined it had discovered. But even Isabella lost all sense of dignity during the chicken-coop affair and promptly began chewing the tyres of the old Lagonda with admirable determination.
By the time the little menace had progressed to hurling tins of fish onto the corrugated iron roof of the shed, Lily dashed down the passage and grabbed the telephone.
"Georgie, the time to show yourself a true and proper gentleman has indeed arrived."
"Your dear mother lost her jewellery again, have she?"
"Not quite the scenario. But believe you me, you, George Bernard Adley, were born for a time such as this."
"Lily, my darling, what on earth is that noise? Renovating perhaps?"
"If we were renovating, I'd have invited you over for tea. This, however, is a matter of life and death."
"Go on. It sounds as though bombs are falling."
"That's Toby throwing bricks onto the roof of the shed."
"Bricks?"
"Yes. He's finished with the tins of fish."
"So what exactly do you expect me to do? Sort the little fellow out!"
"It's worse than that, Georgie. You don't understand. If my mother comes home and sees this chaos..." Her voice dropped dramatically. "Georgie, this is an emotional situation."
"That bad?"
"Even Isabella has started pulling the sheets off the washing line! I don't know what to do anymore. Please come... I'll bake you a sticky toffee pudding and all."
"And all?"
"Georgie!"
"All right, all right. I'm on my way."
So off I went towards the Long household, wondering how on earth one subdued a child who appeared to have been raised by whirlwinds.
When I arrived, the poor dog, never thought I'd live to apply those words to a Staffordshire terrier, was busily chewing a wheel off a wheelbarrow. Inside the house, the child had advanced to setting fire to the kitchen curtains. You know the sort: short, dainty little things that seem positively eager to burst into flames. Lily was darting from one side of the kitchen to the other, beating at the fire with anything within reach, while the youngster stood in the middle of it all spraying the garden hose around the kitchen as though the whole performance had been organised solely for his amusement.
"Didn't your late father own a belt?" I asked. "I think it's about time I gave the boy a proper hiding."
"'Owned' is the right word," she replied, yanking the burning curtain from the rail and throwing it into the sink. "Look behind you."
I turned and saw the belt lying on the kitchen floor, or rather, what remained of it. It consisted of nothing more than a few forlorn strips of leather.
"Isabella?" I asked.
"The very same."
I couldn't help smiling. The dog had quite literally saved the youngster from the hiding of a lifetime.
Just then I heard the familiar tinny tune of the neighbourhood ice-cream cart drifting down the street. Inspiration arrived with it. I grabbed the little fellow by the collar, hoisted him over my shoulder, and carried him straight out the front door.
Not five minutes later, the two of us were sitting peacefully on the kerb, each holding an ice cream.
"How on earth did you manage that?" Lily asked, taking my hand towards her mouth and calmly helping herself to a lick of my ice cream.
"I told him that if he behaved himself, he'd get to ride in Donovan's fire engine."
Lily frowned.
I merely winked.
With a generous helping of imagination, Donovan's red big old pickup truck served admirably that afternoon as Little Wyverton's very own fire engine.