A Dog So Small by Philippa Pearce

  For some time after the wedding, Ben had to stay in hospital. But he began to have more visitors, and not all from his family. The elderly woman whose car had knocked him down could hardly be counted even an acquaintance. Ben knew that he should apologize to her for the accident, admitting that it had all been his fault; and he did so. She began saying something about his walking into the road with his eyes shut, but then burst into tears. Ben tried to comfort her, but she continued to cry into her handkerchief. She left him a box of chocolates.

  Then a policeman came. He sat with his helmet off, by Ben’s bed, talking in a hushed voice. When Ben said that he was sorry and that the accident had been his fault, the policeman gently said, ‘Yes.’ He left Ben with a copy of the Highway Code – although nowhere in that is there any warning against trying to cross the road with your eyes shut.

  Sooner or later, Ben knew, his mother would question him about his strange action on that terrible Christmas Eve. She would have connected his behaviour then with other behaviour, reported from school or observed by herself. In her anxiety she would press him for an explanation. He wanted to explain, but knew that he must not: his accident and May’s wedding had been enough trouble to the family without reviving his old longing for a dog. And, unless he began by speaking of that, he could never explain.

  At last, the question: ‘Ben, dear, I want you to tell me something. On Christmas Eve, why were you trying to cross the road with your eyes shut?’ He fobbed his mother off with some half-truth about aching eyes on that afternoon. ‘But, no, Ben, tell me …’ He could not, because he must not.

  However, when she cried a little, in a kind of despair, he went so far as to tell her one thing clearly: it would never happen again. He promised. With this simple but absolute assurance Mrs Blewitt had to allow herself to be satisfied.

  Never again would Ben close his eyes to see a dog too small to be there: that dog had vanished at the traffic lights on Christmas Eve, just as the woolwork dog had vanished one day on British Railways. Those two dogs gone, he was left with a third – no-dog: Ben had no dog.

  13. A Trip for Ben’s Bones

  Mrs Blewitt had been taken with the idea of Ben’s going to his grandparents as soon as he was well enough. The hospital had suggested their convalescent home by the sea, but that sounded unhomely and bleak to Mrs Blewitt, especially at this time of year. And Ben wanted to go to the country, he said.

  To begin with, Ben would need to have breakfast in bed and other attentions which old Mr and Mrs Fitch could not be expected to undertake. So, first of all, he would come to his home from hospital. Mrs Blewitt began to get ready for him the bedroom that had belonged to May and Dilys.

  Mrs Blewitt was glad to be busy and particularly glad to welcome Ben home at this time. She missed May and Dilys more than she had ever foreseen in the excitement of the preparations for the wedding, the wedding itself and the goodbyes afterwards. Now there was no one to talk to about the affairs that particularly interest women and girls. Soon after the wedding, at teatime, Mrs Blewitt had been about to speak of the Spring Sales, when she stopped herself with a cry: ‘What’s the use! With a houseful of men!’ Mr Blewitt, Paul and Frankie gazed at her dumbly, helplessly; and May and Dilys, in North London, were so far away.

  Ben’s return only made one more man in the house, but at least he was a convalescent – someone she could fuss over. In the morning, when Mr Blewitt had gone to work and the younger boys had gone to school, Mrs Blewitt would slip upstairs to Ben’s bedroom and talk with him before starting her housework; and Ben was glad of company, after all, in that large, new room all his own. He had no particular use for solitude nowadays.

  Mrs Blewitt would bring Grandpa’s letters upstairs to read aloud the bits that concerned Ben’s coming visit. The last letter had a postscript: Mrs Blewitt studied it, baffled. ‘I really can’t think what it means, Ben, except that it’s a message of some kind to you.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Ben read, in hurrying capitals: ‘TELL BEN T PUPED (9).’ He felt an emotion which he at once controlled. ‘It must mean that Tilly has pupped – had nine puppies.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mrs Blewitt. ‘Fancy! What a surprise!’ She thought a moment, and then looked at Ben anxiously, but his face was expressionless.

  ‘Do you think –’ he began slowly, and his mother at once dreaded that he would want the impossible – to have one of the puppies in London. ‘Do you think that I ought to tell Granny about losing the picture, when I go to stay?’

  ‘What picture?’ His mother had ceased to think of the woolwork picture soon after she had heard of its loss. She had never connected the picture with any dog that Ben might even impossibly hope to have.

  ‘The picture of the little girl’s dog called – called Chiquitito.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Mrs Blewitt considered carefully. ‘I don’t think you really need to tell Granny, because after all the picture was given to you for your own – it was yours when you lost it. And telling Granny may make her sad, because the picture was a present to her from Uncle Willy. But, on the other hand, she’s quite likely to ask you about the picture some time, and then, of course, you’d have to tell her. So, on the whole – yes, if I were you, I think I’d tell her before she asks.’

  ‘I didn’t think of all those reasons, but I did somehow think that I should have to tell her.’ Ben sighed.

  ‘Don’t let Granny guess that the picture was never any good to you.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The day came for Ben’s journey into the country. His mother was coming with him to Castleford on a day excursion ticket, partly to see that his bones travelled safely, and partly because she always tried to manage one of her day trips to her parents between Christmas and Easter. Besides, she had a great deal to talk over with her mother.

  The train reached Castleford in a fine February drizzle. Old Mr Fitch was waiting on the platform, with some shopping as usual, without Young Tilly, but with a large umbrella instead.

  ‘We shan’t need that, Pa,’ Mrs Blewitt said, after kissing him, ‘because we’re going by taxi.’

  ‘By taxi!’ cried Grandpa. ‘Why, whatever will your ma say!’

  ‘Just this once, because of Ben’s leg and ribs and collarbone. Bill gave me the money for it.’ Mrs Blewitt insisted. In the splendour of a taxi, the three of them drove from Castleford to Little Barley and beyond and bumped cautiously up the driftway to the Fitches’ front door.

  They were, of course, much earlier than they would have been if they had waited to take the bus, and Granny Fitch was not expecting them. She was still in her wrap-round overall dress, and had been having a little sit-down in front of the fire. She had fallen asleep.

  ‘Ma!’ Mrs Blewitt called from the front door; and Mrs Fitch woke with a start and in some confusion of mind, so that – simply and solely, without time for thought – she saw her daughter. ‘Lil!’ she cried, and Lily Blewitt ran forward into her open arms. Ben hung back in the doorway, watching, feeling forgotten and odd for a moment, as he saw his own mother become the child of her mother.

  Then Mrs Fitch held her daughter from her, adjusted her spectacles, and peered sharply at the large-faced clock. ‘But you certainly didn’t come by the bus.’

  ‘We hired a car,’ Mrs Blewitt said.

  ‘Hired a – Joe!’

  ‘It was Lily would do it,’ Grandpa said hastily.

  ‘But the expense!’

  ‘Bill paid for it, Ma.’

  ‘I don’t care who paid for it,’ said Granny; ‘and you probably tipped the driver.’

  ‘Bill gave me the money for that too. It was all because of Ben, you know, Ma.’

  ‘Ah, Ben …’ Granny shifted her attention to Ben, who now came forward to be kissed. Then Granny, forgetting the taxi at least for the time being, bade Grandpa come in, and not let all the warmth out of the open door, and put the umbrella into the scullery, open if it were wet, furled if it were dry – which it was, but Grandpa was given no chance of say
ing so.

  Grandpa did as he was told. As he went, he took from the corner of the kitchen-range a chipped enamel bowl from which rose a faint, warm, gravy smell. He saw Ben watching, and winked at him. Ben quietly left his mother and grandmother talking together and followed Grandpa into the scullery.

  ‘Where are they? Where is she?’

  Grandpa put the umbrella away, ran a little cold water into the dog-stew to cool it, set it on the floor, and answered: ‘The puppies are in the old sty down the garden, but Till’s just outside now, if I know her.’

  He opened the back-door, and there was Young Tilly waiting in the shelter of the porch. She came in with a preoccupied air – no more than an unsurprised wag of the tail even to Ben – and made straight for her dinner. She ate quickly, in large mouthfuls.

  ‘She needs to eat well, with those nine greedy pups,’ said Grandpa.

  When she had finished, Tilly sat down, looked at Ben, moved her tail again, lay down, and seemed to go to sleep.

  Ben was disappointed and a little shocked: ‘Shouldn’t she go back to them again, at once?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re all right by themselves for a bit, and she knows it,’ said Grandpa. ‘She’s a good mother, but she’s not one of these young, fond ones. She feels a bit old for pups, I dare say, and she wearies of them. Then she stays here.’

  ‘Shall we go and look at Tilly’s puppies?’ said Ben, half to Tilly herself. She only opened one eye at her name, and did not respond. Grandpa, too, said that they had better postpone going until the rain had eased off a bit. Besides, Granny was calling to them both, asking whether they expected to have their dinners carried to them in the scullery.

  Mrs Blewitt, with Grandpa’s help, got the dinner, while Ben was made to rest on the sofa. Granny, after leaving full directions, went upstairs slowly but determinedly to change into the black silk dress which she had planned to wear for this visit.

  They had hot-pot for dinner, followed by pancakes made by Mrs Blewitt. They were old Mr Fitch’s favourite, but he could not manage the tossing. Then they had cups of tea and slices of home-made cake that Mrs Blewitt had brought with her. And then the table was cleared and Mrs Blewitt spread out the wedding photographs.

  Granny pored over them: the bride and bridesmaid and page and bridegroom – ‘I only hope he wears well’ – and the guests. Grandpa took pleasure in pointing out any representations of himself – especially one which showed him wearing his hat. ‘It wasn’t wasted, then,’ Granny commented.

  ‘And this –’ Mrs Blewitt ended up with a snapshot photograph. ‘This is the house they’re living in – May and Charlie, and Dilys, too, of course. They have a flat on this floor.’

  Granny looked. ‘Well, I suppose that’s how people have to live in London.’

  ‘But they’re lucky, Ma; and I’m as pleased as they are about it, of course, except that – well, if only they weren’t so far away!’

  ‘That’s what comes to you, when children grow up,’ Granny said.

  ‘And it isn’t just that I miss them: they’re still so young – it’s Dilys I think of most, of course. They live in a nice place, really they do – hilly, so it’s lovely air, for London; but it’s all among strangers, and so far from us …’

  Granny was listening closely, nodding. Mrs Blewitt said, ‘Really, I’ve been thinking –’ Then she glanced at Ben, who was also listening. She looked out of the window. ‘It’s stopped raining, Ben. Wouldn’t you like a little stroll outside?’

  Ben jumped up and looked expectantly at his grandfather. But first of all Grandpa had been looking at photographs, and now he seemed to be forgetfully settling down to a nap. Ben reminded him: ‘Couldn’t we go down the garden for a bit?’

  ‘Ah?’ said Grandpa, drowsily.

  ‘Joe, Lil and I want to talk, so you’ll take the boy now and show him those dratted puppies.’

  And Grandpa and Ben went.

  14. Pig-sty in the Rain

  They went to see Tilly’s puppies. She did not want them to go; but, if they were going, she knew that her duty was to go too, and to go ahead. She went briskly but with a waddle, being incommoded by the swinging heaviness of the milk for her puppies.

  The sty had once belonged to some pigs, but was now perfectly clean, with plenty of fresh straw on the concrete floor and a special lamp suspended low from one corner of the roof to give a gentle heat. Beneath this the puppies had all crawled and crowded together, and lay sleeping, a large, thick, sleek blob of multiple puppy-life.

  Grandpa and Ben stooped under the corrugated-iron roof of the sty and sat down on upturned buckets padded with folded sacking. Tilly had gone in front of them, but now she stood a little to one side and behind, very quietly. ‘She’s not keen on their knowing she’s here at all,’ said Grandpa. ‘She knows they’ll be squeaking and pushing after her milk, once they do know. And they’re none of ’em starving.’

  Grandpa plunged his fingers into the heap of puppies and brought one out at random. He dropped it into Ben’s cupped hands. It just filled them – as a full-grown Chihuahua might have done, Ben thought. ‘Chiquitito!’ he said softly.

  Ben felt perfect happiness. He shifted the puppy into one hand – which it slightly overflowed – in order to be able to stroke it with the back of the forefinger of his other hand. Then he put it down and gently picked up another. The puppies varied in size, but all were sleek-coated and fat. Their colours varied too: liver-and-white, like Tilly herself, black and white, or mostly black, or mostly brown. One was as brown as if a gravy tureen had just been emptied over him; another was all-over brown, too, but lighter.

  Tilly watched Ben handling her puppies, but she did not seem to mind. If he held a puppy out to her, she began licking it with thoroughness. This was her habit with any puppy that came within easy reach – although she was so unsystematic that she might spring-clean the same one several times running and leave others untouched.

  When Ben had held each puppy in turn, he wanted to see Tilly with them all. ‘Come on, then, old girl!’ Grandpa coaxed; but Tilly groaned, wagged her tail, and would not budge from her distance. At last, with Grandpa always pushing her gently from behind, she reluctantly got up and waded forward into her little sea of puppies. At once it broke round her in eager, ruthless welcome. Puppies cried and snorted and pushed and trod each other down in a soft, squashy stampede to reach her teats. Tilly gave herself up and subsided among them. She licked some convenient ones, but otherwise paid no attention – as they paid no attention to her lickings. Over the pulsing bodies of nine hard-sucking pups, she looked at Grandpa and Ben, patiently, mildly, and she yawned.

  ‘Well, there you are, boy,’ Grandpa said, as though the interest were exhausted. It was, for him. He said he was going back to the house, before the hard rim of the bucket ended by giving him sciatica, and anyway it was beginning to rain again.

  Ben stayed on, alone, to watch. He liked being in the sty with the rain sounding on the iron roof just above his head, and the dim, warm light from the lamp, and the smell of straw and puppies. He liked being alone with Till and her feeding puppies. Sometimes he could be of help. He brought home a puppy that had strayed or been pushed beyond Tilly’s tail and was whimpering for lost food. He righted another puppy that – still sucking – had somehow got turned upside down. He unburied another – always sucking – that had been quite trampled under and out of sight by the others.

  He could bear to leave them only when he had to – when his mother called from the house for tea. He stood up to go, and at once Young Tilly heaved herself up and began to walk carefully away from her motherhood. Most of the puppies, satiated with milk, had already given up sucking in favour of sleep. The few remaining fell from their mother like over-ripe pears – which by now they rather resembled in shape. Almost without complaint they crawled back with the others into the puppy-heap under the warmth of the lamp.

  Ben went in to tea with Tilly at his heels. Granny did not notice the dog because she was looking at
the boy. She and his mother had both stopped speaking and were considering him in a way that made him know they had been talking of him. ‘He certainly looks as if he could do with better air all the time,’ Granny said, as if concluding some discussion. The remark was senseless to Ben, and he forgot it at once. His mind and all his sensations were dazed, drugged, utterly overwhelmed by puppies. But the remark had been of importance, and helped towards important decisions of which Ben knew nothing until later.

  After tea, Mrs Blewitt caught the bus back to Castleford and then the train back to London. That night, after Paul and Frankie had gone to bed, she said: ‘I had a good long talk with Ma this afternoon, Bill, about things.’

  ‘Things?’ Mr Blewitt was listening to his wife but watching the television screen.

  ‘You know, our being so far away from Dilys and May and her Charlie, and this house being really bigger than we need since they’ve gone –’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Blewitt said firmly. ‘Oh, and other things! Anyway, I’ve had half an idea in my head, and I told Ma this afternoon. She thought it was a good idea.’ Mrs Blewitt began to explain.

  Soon there was no doubt that Mr Blewitt was listening, with increasing amazement. He leaned forward, switched off the television set, and turned to face his wife.

  ‘But, Lil, have you taken leave of your senses! First a street-accident, and then a wedding, and then – then this! You take after your ma for energy, Lil, and that’s a fact! Are we never to be allowed any peace and quiet?’

  Mrs Blewitt soothed him. This was only an idea; there was no need to take any decision yet. (Mr Blewitt leant forward to the television-switch.) But the idea had many advantages. (Mr Blewitt sank back again with a groan.) She had seen those clearly this afternoon when she had talked things over with Ma. ‘As Ma said, look what good it would do Ben, for one! He’d have better air – we all should!’

  ‘I suppose it all comes down to this,’ said Mr Blewitt. ‘You and your ma have made a plan. So it’s as good as decided.’ Poor Mr Blewitt! He hated changes and moves.