The Tales of Bertie & Winnie

By Britt Gourley and Dylan Beckett

Book One of the ‘Bertie & Winnie’ Series.

It’s time for an adventure...
Bertie Longfellow is an old sea dog, a wirehaired dachshund to be precise, hiding away in an idyllic coastal cottage far from his native England. He is a bit set in his ways and wants nothing more than a little peace and quiet. Having put his past firmly behind him, he spends his days in his dory or by his fireside with only a talkative budgie for company. That is, until a shy young red dachshund named Winnie Wigglesworth comes along and turns that world upside down.

A charming tale told chiefly in stories and letters, The Tales of Bertie & Winnie enchants its readers with memories of long-lost love, far-flung relatives, tantalizing royal connections, a whiff of intrigue - and the extraordinary efforts of one long dog and her friends on both sides of the Atlantic to “rewrite” it all with a suitably happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716457630

Book preview

A Note to Our Readers

We are very pleased that you have chosen to add The Tales of Bertie & Winnie to your bookshelf! In hopes that you’ll have the most delightful reading experience possible, we would like to make a few introductory remarks.

This book has been described as "a love letter to another time," and we believe that is an apt characterization. The story often references the past, and that past has important implications for the present and future. Because this is the case, the narrative does not necessarily move in a traditional, linear fashion, and various plots are intertwined. We hope that you will find this approach to be thought-provoking and pleasurable.

To facilitate uninterrupted reading, we have not provided translations for various French words and Cockney phrases in the text proper but have included glossaries at the end of the book. Additionally, we hope to satisfy our readers’ inquiring minds, so there are asterisks (*), daggers (†) and double daggers (‡) throughout the text that refer to explanatory notes at the ends of chapters. These describe places, people and objects that may be unfamiliar.

For those of you who may be curious, much of the American side of the story takes place in a fictionalised version of the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts. The village of Badger’s Bay is loosely modelled on the small coastal town of Swampscott. In particular, the spot referred to as "Bertie’s cove" was inspired by Eiseman’s Beach. Abbotsford stands in for the town of Marblehead, which lies adjacent to Swampscott. The fictional name refers to a famous Marblehead citizen, Benjamin Abbot, after whom at least two of the town’s buildings are named. Cape Berkeley bears some resemblance to Cape Ann, which is 25 miles north of Swampscott. The map on the following page should help you visualise the coastline and various spots mentioned in the book.

While London and Buckingham Palace offer the reader useful reference points for those parts of the book set in England, the exact locations of various characters’ residences and other places have been left to our readers’ imaginations. Actual locations are discussed in the explanatory notes and can be found on any ordinary map.

And now, we invite you to step into Bertie and Winnie’s world with us.

Chapter One

A Salty Dog Makes a New Acquaintance

Whap-slap-whap-slap-slap. The grey-brown blur just at the water’s edge resolved itself into two flapping ears, two front paws, and—quite a way back from these—a long tail. Wiry fur stuck out every which-way, and warm brown eyes glimmered under a pair of unruly eyebrows. Having shaken himself as thoroughly as any self-respecting dachshund would do after a bracing sea bath, Mr Bertie Longfellow glanced at his reflection in the shiny hull of his dory and flopped his left ear back into position, as it had a roguish propensity for turning itself inside out.* A self-satisfied seagull looked on from a few paces off and made a sudden, unearthly noise, as his kind are prone to do.

Cheeky fella, Bertie called out. Haven’t got a thing for you, me mate, so you may as well clear off! Go do your own fishin’! The gull protested with an ear-splitting Cawr! and strutted off, beak to the ground, in search of a hermit crab or two.

Bertie rolled himself about in the warm sand, first this way, then that way, short legs waving in the air. Nothing better to get the dampness out, he mused. He had a nice, bristly mat in the cottage to rub away any sand that lodged itself in his coat. Not ready to make use of it yet, Bertie lay on his back, letting his belly—which had gotten far too pale over the winter—darken in the sun. The corners of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly as the sea lapped playfully at his back paws, tickling him gently.

But this was one nap that was not meant to be.

His left ear, inside-out again, twitched. What was that…?

Couldn’t be.

His little cove was well tucked away, and no one ever intruded. Well, maybe the postdog. But he tended to leave Bertie’s letters under a stone on the sea wall, sheltered from the elements, than actually post them through the door.

And, blimey, why would the postdog be—whimpering? Bertie had known him from a lad, and he had never been a sniveling sort. A bit too stoic if anything. There was that one time—

Oh-oh-oh!

Too late to be thinking about that! Bertie harrumphed a bit and rolled to one side. He was getting on a bit, he reflected. It was sometimes a bit of a chore getting up on all four paws again from this position. He hurled himself to the other side and just about heaved himself up, back on his sea legs, short as they were, with only his dignity a little battered. Who’s there? he growled, a mite testily.

Now, though he hated to admit it, Bertie’s eyes had once been a bit better, and it took some doing to focus them properly. He sat up on his hind legs and gazed about, the head on his long neck looking a bit like a periscope.

But the whimpering had ceased. Only the waves lapped. Even the seagull had disappeared. Bertie harrumphed again and dropped back on all fours. Must be that wretched gull having me on, he mumbled and ambled a little stiffly across the sand towards his cottage.

As Bertie approached the small garden to his quaint dwelling, he noticed a shadow emanating from behind the rock that marked the boundary of his garden. The unmistakable shape of a similarly height-challenged dog.

Who’s there? he cried out again, grumpily. This is private property; I’ll have you know. I can’t have any Tom, Dick or Sally coming here and disturbing my peace. Show yourself.

As he got closer, he could hear that the sobbing had recommenced, and he started to feel both ill at ease and a bit annoyed with himself for shouting out. It was clear that some poor soul was in distress. Yes, Bertie did like his solitude, but he really was a very kindly old fellow. If anyone was in trouble, he certainly wouldn’t turn away—no dog is an island, after all.

Oooh! said the exasperating voice, as the sleek, red-brown body of a young dachshund shuffled out from behind the rock and appeared in front of him. I’m sorry, I, I, I don’t mean any harm, she sobbed. Her eyes were full of sorrow, ears drooping, body clenched tight.

Bertie’s demeanour changed in an instant—the young lass reminded him very much of his sister Samantha at a similar age. His frown turned into a look of concern as he cocked his head in her direction.

I’m sorry if I startled you. What’s your name? Bertie enquired.

The young lady looked up, still sniffling, but wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve while watching the older doxie carefully. I, I, I’m Winifred Wigglesworth, but my friends call me Winnie. If I had any, that is, she muttered under her breath.

Well, Winnie, my name is Bertie Longfellow, he said, offering a paw. No relation to the poet. So, what’s this all about, hiding behind my rock, scaring me half to death? Bertie wasn’t too tactful and had rather a knack of being slightly forthright in matters of the heart, having no puppies of his own. Winnie remained silent, somewhat embarrassed at having been caught crying. She looked down again at the floor and shuffled her paws in the sand, wondering what to do next.

Do you know what, Winnie, Bertie said, I’m sure I can rustle up a lovely warm brew of tea in a jiffy. Would you fancy a cup?

Winnie looked up, surprised. Looking into Bertie’s eyes under the formidable brows, she saw a different dog looking back at her, a warm and caring hound, not at all as gruff as he’d first appeared. Maybe she should agree. After all, it was the best offer she had had all day, and she didn’t have anything better to do.

Let me go and get the kettle on, then. It can’t be as bad as all that. You’ll be doing me a favour anyway, with all those tears there sure as Hades won’t be any of those darn gulls coming down. You’ve scared them half away, Bertie said with a cheeky grin.

Winnie smiled for the first time that afternoon. She didn’t agree. It was as bad, worse even, but this old sea dog had shown her some attention and had been kind. And she couldn’t help but notice that he was just as peculiarly shaped as she was. She could always run off the minute he went inside.

*Bertie’s Dory

A dory is a small, relatively lightweight, planked boat with high sides, a sharp bow, and a flat bottom. The authors have imagined Bertie’s boat to be a Swampscott Dory of a type first built in 1910 by Fred Dion. His model had sails, and it was a particularly stable and safe boat, suitable even for families. It was constructed so that it could be sailed single-handedly, just as described in Chapter 28. See John Gardner’s The Dory Book (Mystic, CT: Mystic Seaport Museum, Inc., 1987), pages 177 and 183.

Chapter Two

Winnie Explains Herself, and Bertie Tells a Tale

Is that your boat? Winnie enquired as Bertie came out holding two mugs of steaming tea. She had decided to stay on the shore, half-curled up on the bank of smooth pebbles and watching the tide come in. The sea always calmed her, the gentle whooshing noise, the changing of light sand to dark as the water passed over, the smell of seaweed left on the shore.

Bertie placed the mugs next to Winnie and then realised he would have to face the indignity of trying to hobble down to sit beside her.

Yes, it is, he replied as he contorted himself, trying to hide his discomfort, before eventually taking a seat and surreptitiously removing the rather uncomfortable pebble from under his behind.

It’s such a lovely colour, offered Winnie, shyly.

Well, now, you would think so, being a jolly red pup yourself, wouldn’t you? Bertie teased. Winnie’s ears drooped again. Now, enough about boats and such. You seemed to be in a bit of a jam just now, young lady, if you don’t mind me saying so. I may be a right old sourpup, but even I can see that things aren’t exactly tickety-boo. You don’t seem like a sniveler to me, but there you were, crying your eyes out. Oh, here - have a digestive or two. My sister keeps me well-stocked. Bertie had often found that the way to a dog’s heart was through their tummy. As a young pup he would always be tempted out of his shell with the offer of something sweet.

Winnie took the proffered biscuit and a tentative sip of tea. Well… she said, her gaze drifting toward the boat again. If only she could climb aboard and seek adventure somewhere far away from this miserable village! She drew herself up a little, ears perked. "You’re right. I don’t usually cry, or at least not so’s anyone would notice. I didn’t know you were about," she added, a little huffily.

Bertie’s whiskers quivered a bit as he fought to control a chuckle: of course, she didn’t, she had been hiding behind the rock.

Anyway, I was just trying to get away from—them, she said.

Who? Bertie asked. I hadn’t noticed any brigands in the village lately. This was going to take longer than he thought. He tucked his tail under himself and looked at her expectantly.

Well, um, my school mates, Winnie admitted. You see, I’m the only long dog in the village. I mean… I thought I was…

Bertie motioned for her to continue.

Well, they thought I was, too—I guess they’ve never noticed you. And they say the most awful things. You can’t imagine. I have very good ears, so I can hear them a long way off. I escaped here so the crashing waves would out their mocking words.

Let me see. Bertie held up his paws and ticked off his toes. Wiener, weenie, hmmm. Hot dog? Two-dogs-long-and-half-a-dog-high? Ankle-biter? He threw Winnie a sidelong glance, enjoying her open-mouthed surprise. Anything else?

She readjusted her features and lifted her chin again. "And bratwurst! she said with a grimace, ever so slightly annoyed that this odd old gentleman had stolen her thunder. As if I’m the brat! It never stops. And they’re such dunderheads, always galumphing about, panting, and drooling and boasting about how many hot dogs they can eat at the fair. Hot dogs! she sputtered. Why did anyone have to go and invent them?"

I quite agree on that point, Bertie mused. Nasty American things. Some bloke in New York, I’d wager.

This wasn’t really the sort of response Winnie had hoped for. I’ve had to listen to them my whole life, she countered. Sometimes I just want to crawl into an old badger hole and disappear. I wouldn’t even mind if I met a badger down there, either! She knew she was feeling sorry for herself, but a tear escaped. She was just so tired of it all. But...how did you know? About the names, I mean?

The old sea dog tilted his head to one side and regarded her sympathetically. I’ve heard a fair few of them in my time, he assured her. Mind you, much worse, too. Nothing fit for your young ears.

But you don’t really look like a hot dog, Winnie remarked. You’re—well—kind of shaggy. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d take this, but it had just popped out.

Oh-ho! Indeed yes. I could probably do with a trim! But my sister, now—the one who sends me my biscuits from London—she’s just such a sleek, slender one as you. Very graceful and could run like the wind when she was a pup. Carried herself like a duchess, she did, though we were poor as the dickens. All the ordinary canine rabble were envious of her. So, they’d shout nasty things at her all the time.

Even ‘bratwurst’? Winnie ventured, wincing.

Especially that. The Germans were not our friends in those days, you know, and that was meant to be a terrible insult.

Winnie sat silent, thinking.

Bertie studied Winnie’s expression as she gazed out to sea. She seemed to be perking up. Have you always loved the ocean? he enquired, changing the subject to something more convivial.

The ocean, Winnie murmured, as if startled out of a reverie. I’m not much of a swimmer with my short legs, but I do like to paddle—feel the water between my paws, smell the seaweed on the beach and the salt in the air, watch the small boats bob up and down out at sea as they drift across the skyline. I think I was born in the wrong body. I want to have nice long legs so I could swim all the way to the horizon if I wanted to!

Bertie groaned inwardly. Here he had thought he’d turned a corner with Winnie! This was going to be harder going than he thought. Have another biscuit, he offered, as he racked his brain for something to distract her from her melancholy thoughts. His gaze fell on the dory, the name delicately painted on the stern in gold script by an artist in Abbotsford. "Can you guess why I called my boat The Duchess Muriel? he asked. Winnie’s eyes widened with interest, and she shook her head. Well, then. Let me tell you."

Chapter Three

A Royal Connection

Well then, family lore suggests I may have royal blood in me. Yes, it’s true, don’t look at me like that, missy! Bertie smoothed his whiskers a little. "I was named ‘Bertie’ after Prince Bertie. Some of the more sceptical of my clan believe it was merely because my rapscallion grandfather claimed that Prince Bertie, a rather atypical royal corgi, once saved him from the Palace guards when he was searching out badgers in the Palace grounds. But my dad once showed me a portrait of the royal family from the Times—and there was a dachshund, large as life, sitting with the queen and her pups! Dad was sure he recognized his second Cousin Hans. Queen Victoria had dachshunds, don’t you know, so it’s not so odd as all that."

Winnie had stopped looking at him so quizzically and was clearly taking an interest. Good. He cleared his throat a little and forged ahead. Be that as it may, I was often around by the Palace myself in my younger days too and was always finding ways to cause mischief. One time I... actually, maybe I won’t tell you that one, it’s rather rude.

Winnie was still a little sceptical but nonetheless enthralled royalty, sitting right in front of her? Could it be? Maybe she should bend down and curtsy, she thought, her mischievous humour getting the better of her.

Anyway, I digress. Muriel, Duchess of Berkshire was a very elegant, beautiful, and intelligent corgi who frequented the royal gardens. I used to sit outside the gates and wait, just on the off chance I would see her. I remember that she had the prettiest golden-yellow collar, too.

Are you blushing, Bertie? Winnie teased.

Bertie decided to ignore the young whippersnapper’s comment. If she could come out with something like that, she was clearly improving, so he carried on.

One day she actually spotted me. I’m sure she had seen me many a time, really—I might be small, but I didn’t exactly make a great job of hiding myself. I think I actually did it on purpose to see if she showed any interest. Muriel—oh, excuse me, the Duchess—approached, and we nervously started a conversation. I think I asked something rather embarrassing about what posh food she ate. I know, I know, but it worked. We whiled away many golden hours just talking, and sometimes I’d share my tea with her, usually fish and chips. She liked common food much better than all the fancy muck they ate at the Palace, she said. Well, she probably didn’t use the word ‘muck,’ but you understand. And then one day she told me that she was actually a dorgi!

"A what?" asked Winnie, nearly choking on her biscuit in her astonishment.

Bertie chuckled. Odd sort of word, isn’t it? Her father was a dachshund, and her mother a corgi, he explained. She told me in confidence, because, as I said, the Germans were not very well liked in those days. I had wondered about her parentage, as she had silky long ears instead of pointy ones. Now, I’m thinking you’ll never guess her father’s name in a million dog years. One of his eyebrows, which truly seemed to have a life of its own, shot up, and his eyes twinkled.

Of course, I know that Winnie said, ever so slightly annoyed. That’s easy. He must have been Hans!

Bertie nodded. "Ah, so you were listening after all," he said, smiling a little at her pique. He placidly took a sip of his tea.

So, you were third cousins! Winnie gasped, as she made the connection. Golly! Did you ever tell her?

Bertie’s ears drooped a little. "Yes. But it made no difference. One day her parents happened to be strolling by and whisked her away. They didn’t like seeing her with a common rapscallion like me. Didn’t look good for the family. Of course, they had no idea that I was family. They were so hasty about it that her collar—here Bertie’s voice wavered a little— came undone and slipped under the hedge. I wriggled through the gate later and rescued it, hoping I could give it back to her."

Did you ever see her again? Winnie asked, almost in a whisper.

No. Bertie stifled a sigh. But it was probably for the best. The royals had begun to frown upon cousins—even third cousins—marrying, and even if they had changed their minds about that, they would never have believed that a scruffy scalawag like me was royal, merely on their daughter’s or my say so. And a commoner just wouldn’t have done for the likes of a duchess, of course.

Bertie could have kicked himself. Here he was, getting all maudlin like a blasted fool, and he had been trying to cheer up the poor young thing. Oh, well, it was all such a long time ago, and I have my happy memories of those afternoons. That’s quite enough for a grouchy old hound like me, he assured Winnie. And I do natter on a bit, I know. Don’t mind me.

But Bertie had an uncanny ability to tell even the simplest story with panache, and he had told this tale well.

Royal Dorgi

The dorgi is indeed a cross between a corgi and a dachshund. Queen Elizabeth’s first dorgi was a puppy born to one of her own corgis and Princess Margaret’s dachshund. There have been at least ten dorgis among the Queen’s many dogs.

Chapter Four

The Winds of Change

Winnie set down her cup. She wasn’t feeling at all sorry for herself anymore. If even this crusty old soul had his share of sadness, maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought. And to think—long dogs in

Palace! Royalty, no less! Gosh! She could scarcely believe it. If only those wretched village hounds knew that!

Bertie observed her closely from under his brows. Oddly enough, she seemed to have brightened considerably.

Winnie suddenly remembered the lovely illustration of the Palace in one of her favourite books. The caption had explained that the red, white, and blue flag, so different from the American one, flew proudly when the queen was in residence.

So, she said, No doubt about it. You must be a royal relation. Bertie smiled at her youthful enthusiasm. Is that why you have got the queen’s flag on your mast?

Oh, well not quite. That flag is called the ‘Red Ensign. It consists of a red St George's Cross on a white field with the Union Flag in the upper corner. The national flag of the United Kingdom is called the Union Jack. I’ve probably got a bit of all those countries in me somewhere and many others besides. I’m a traveller at heart, I was always looking for somewhere new to explore, a right fidgety pants my mother called me. I’d never sit still, until I came here to Badger's Bay."

I don’t have any, Winnie said wistfully.

What? asked Bertie.

Parents—I’m an orphan.

‘That helps explain a few things,’ Bertie thought.

Where do you live then—who looks after you? Bertie needed to know. Had he now stumbled upon a wandering soul like himself? Surely not, she’s not old enough, he decided.

I live with my Aunt Bea. She’s a westie, not a dachshund, Winnie explained.

A westie indeed, I’ve known a few of those in my time, cheerful types on the whole Bertie mused. Now how did you happen to live with your aunt?

Just as Winnie started to reply, a cold wind shot over the sea and the flag on the boat whipped up. The sun had hidden behind the clouds, and the temperature was dropping. The weather had a habit of being variable about these parts, as squally showers could easily come in quickly from out at sea. The pesky seagull had also returned with a few of his friends, another sign that things were going to change.

Winnie shivered. She was wearing her little checked coat, but it wasn’t really the sort of thing to keep the cold out.

Now then, I can see you’re shivering, that coat isn’t quite as warm as my fisherman’s jumper. I think it might be best if you make your way home before the heavens open? Bertie suggested.

Turning to him, Winnie said, I think you are right in a solemn tone. She wasn’t quite sure what to say next, but it just kind of spilled out: Can I come back tomorrow?

Bertie smiled. Of course, you can, perhaps I can teach you to tie a knot or something? he chuckled. He watched and waved as Winnie trundled off along the cove and up the coastal path back to the village. To his own surprise, he realised that he had welcomed the company and was already thinking about what the next day would hold.

As Winnie trotted home, there may have been storm clouds above but those that were hanging over her had disappeared. With a slight spring in her step, she made it to the pretty blue front door in no time at all. Auntie Bea was there, hovering over the stove, watching her cakes in the oven and making sure they weren’t about to burn. She was a comfortable old soul who usually wore a flour-dusted pinafore and kept her white fur out of her bright black eyes with a spotted kerchief. You look happy! What’s cheered you up, my dear? she asked.

I met a kind old gentleman at the beach today, someone who actually took some notice of me for once and listened to what I said. Winnie replied. She decided not to mention the name-calling incident, as she hated to upset her aunt.

Oh, a salty old sea dog type, lives at the cove? Bea enquired, as she closed the oven door.

Yes, do you know him? Winnie asked, surprised.

Bea stopped. Oh well not ‘in dog,’ but I’ve heard he’s a good sort. Now, let me see, I think I probably bumped into him at one time or another, well more likely I’d been stuck in a shop waiting because he was at the front of the queue telling a long story to the assistant.

Yes, that’s him! she said with a wag and a grin and went straight up to bed. Winnie loved a good storm to drift her to sleep,