Because Ben seemed somehow on his own, his grandparents Fitch had often had him to stay with them. They lived in the country in a house so small that there was not room for more than one visitor at a time; and, of the five Blewitt children, Ben was usually that one. And Grandpa had a dog – a bitch. She was called Young Tilly only because she was the daughter of Old Tilly; she was really quite elderly herself. But Tilly was still game for anything. She panted at Ben’s heels as he wandered along the driftway that ran by his grandparents’ home. He could not say why, but this was what he most looked forward to on his visits: a fine day, and going along, but not in a hurry, a stem of grass between his teeth, and the company of a dog that snuffled and panted and padded behind or to one side, or suddenly pounced into the hedgerow, in a flurry of liver-and-white fur, with the shrill bark of ‘A rabbit! A rabbit!’ and then came out backwards and turned round and sat down for a moment to get her breath back and admit: ‘Or perhaps a mouse.’
All this Ben gave up at that bitter breakfast-table when he said aloud that he would never visit Grandpa and Granny again. After all, he could not. You could not possibly accept the hospitality of someone who had so betrayed faith. In disappointment and indignation he had said he would never go there again. He would not.
Only, Ben’s indignation was flawed by a sentence – if you could call it that – at the end of the hateful birthday letter. It had been added by Grandpa after the signature – that is, after Granny had ceased dictating. There was a spelling mistake in the sentence, which made it certain that Granny knew nothing of the addition, for she always checked Grandpa’s spelling. Under Granny’s nose but without her knowledge, Grandpa had managed guiltily, hurriedly, urgently, to write a telegraph-sentence of four words: ‘TRULY SORY ABOUT DOG.’
Old Mr Fitch had written as he might have spoken from behind that gnarled hand, furtively: ‘Truly sorry about dog.’ To say so, in such a way, was almost painful – and Ben did not wish to pity his grandfather now.
Ben first knew of the telegraph-sentence when his mother made him read through the rest of his letter, after his birthday. She had also propped up the woolwork picture on the living-room mantelpiece, trying to make the family admire it. Ben averted his eyes; but his father had taken notice.
‘We always used to think,’ said Mrs Blewitt, following his gaze, ‘that the hand in the picture was the hand that did the embroidery.’
‘A woman,’ said Dilys, for they were all looking at the picture now, except for Ben.
‘A dotty woman,’ said Mr Blewitt. ‘The dog’s all right, I suppose, for a dog in wool, and the hand’s all right, but the two of them don’t go together for size at all.’
‘Perhaps a little girl did the embroidery,’ said Mrs Blewitt, apologizing for the lack of skill in proportion.
‘A little girl!’ Mr Blewitt snorted. ‘Just look at the size of the hand behind the dog! A giantess, I’d say.’
Mrs Blewitt tried to make Ben feel how lucky he was to own a picture of a dog embroidered by a little giantess. ‘I said that it was a foreign curio, Ben! Your Uncle Willy wrote on the back the name of the foreign place where he bought it – Mexico, I think.’ She took the picture from the mantelpiece and turned it round: ‘Yes: “Bought in Mexico, on his third voyage, by W. Fitch.” ’ Then she hesitated. ‘And there was something already written on the back when he bought it.’
‘Well, what?’ asked Mr Blewitt.
Mrs Blewitt simply passed the picture to him, so that he could see for himself.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Blewitt, after he had read.
‘What does it say?’ asked Paul.
‘Read for yourself.’ So the picture went from Mr Blewitt to Paul, then to May, Dilys, and Frankie. Each looked at what was written there, mumbling over it, but saying nothing. The picture reached Ben last because he had deliberately not interested himself in it. But curiosity made him look to see what none of the others would speak aloud. On the back of the picture, in a handwriting older than Uncle Willy’s, were the words:
CHIQUITITO
CHIHUAHUA
‘It’s a double tongue-twister in as foreign a language as could be,’ said Mr Blewitt.
Ben still held the picture back to front, staring at the second – and possibly the stranger – of the two strange words. Oddly, in spite of its outlandishness, it looked familiar to him. He thought that he might have seen it in print somewhere, not so long ago. Seen it, not heard it, for he had no more idea than the others how one should pronounce such a word.
‘The second word …’ he said slowly, trying to remember.
‘Ah, now!’ said Mrs Blewitt. ‘The second word was the name of some place in Mexico. I remember Willy showing us on the map.’
On the map – then that must have been where Ben had seen the name printed. Only – only, he hadn’t been studying a map of Mexico recently; indeed, he couldn’t remember when he had ever looked at one closely enough to notice any names. They weren’t even doing Mexico at school.
What did it matter, anyway? He reminded himself that he hated the little picture, as an unforgivable betrayal by his grandfather. Yet, again – ‘Truly sory about dog.’ He could almost see his grandfather’s hand writing that, his fingers clamped round the pen desperately driving it through the curves and angles of the capital letters: ‘TRULY –’
‘You know, Ben,’ said Mrs Blewitt, ‘if you went to stay with your granny and grandpa, you could find out all about your little picture. I know Uncle Willy told your granny, and she never forgets anything.’
Ben looked at the picture, but was thinking of something else: ‘Truly sory –’ He saw his grandfather saying it with furtive but true, unmistakable sorrow. He saw his face behind the curved, gnarled hand – his grandfather’s face creased all over with wrinkles, and the skin an old red-brown from his working so long in all weathers, mending the roads for the Castleford County Council. His grandfather had blue eyes, and a browny-white moustache that lengthened out sideways when he smiled. He would smile with anxious apology as he said, from behind his hand: ‘Truly sorry about dog.’
‘You might do well to take the picture with you, when you visit them,’ Mrs Blewitt said, growing bolder from Ben’s silence. Ben knew that he ought not to let his mother take for granted that he would do what he had said he was never going to do again. But he continued in silence.
Frankie spoke: ‘Ben said on his birthday that he never wanted ever again –’
‘How often have I told you not to talk with your mouth full?’ Mrs Blewitt said swiftly. Frankie’s mouthfuls were large, so he would have to chew some time before speaking. Meanwhile, ‘You could go next week, Ben,’ his mother pointed out.
Now Paul protested: ‘But that’s just what Frankie was talking about. He was just going to say that Ben said –’
‘Be quiet, Paul. Frankie can speak for himself,’ said Mrs Blewitt, ‘when he has finished his mouthful – of a size he should never have taken in the first place.’
Paul and Frankie had to be silent, but Frankie was on his last chews and gulps.
Mrs Blewitt clinched the matter with Ben: ‘So it’s settled you go, with the picture.’
‘All right,’ said Ben; and Frankie nearly choked.
‘But, Ben, you said you’d never go there again!’ he cried.
‘I can change my mind, can’t I?’ asked Ben. ‘And you’ve just spat some boiled egg on to your jersey.’
‘You go straight into the scullery, Frankie Blewitt, so that I can wash it off at once.’ Mrs Blewitt shooed Frankie ahead of her, and said over her shoulder to Ben, ‘Write now. Say you’ll arrive a week on Saturday, by the afternoon express. Grandpa can meet you at Castleford station after his market-day shopping.’
So, the following week, Ben went. He took one large suitcase, containing his oldest clothes for the country, and bathing-trunks in case the weather grew warm enough for him to bathe in the River Say. The case also held a tin of fudge, two plum cakes, and a meat pie, all home-made by Mr
s Blewitt. She always sent what she could, because nowadays Granny could manage so little cooking, and Grandpa had learnt so few recipes. In the middle of the suitcase, packed round with socks and handkerchiefs to protect its glass from further damage, travelled the picture of the woolwork dog.
Mrs Blewitt saw Ben off at Liverpool Street Station. Old Mr Fitch met him at the other end of his journey.
As the train came into Castleford station, Ben saw his grandfather waiting with the crowd on the platform. He was carrying a bulging shopping-bag in one hand, and the other held Young Tilly’s lead. She was crouching on the platform behind him, as close to his ankles as she could, and peering between them. She disliked trains, and this one – being an express – swooped and roared and rattled up in just the way she most hated.
The train, slowing now, passed Mr Fitch and Tilly, and they both caught sight of Ben at the same time. Mr Fitch began to move, but Tilly was quicker. She dashed out from behind his ankles, found herself over-bold in her nearness to the still-moving train, and dashed round to the back of Mr Fitch’s trousers again; then she came out as before, but more cautiously. Her movements brought the lead in a complete turn round Mr Fitch’s legs. By the time the train had stopped and Ben was getting out, Tilly had lashed old Mr Fitch’s legs to the platform and, at the end of a shortened lead, was trying to choke herself and bark at the same time.
Old Mr Fitch could take no step forward, and his hands were fully occupied. But Ben, approaching, saw his browny-white moustache lengthening. ‘Ah, boy!’ he said. His eyes looked bluer than ever, because he was wearing his best blue suit, which he usually wore only for chapel on Sundays. With a shock Ben suddenly knew that he must be wearing it for him.
There was a muddle of leaping dog and lead and suitcase and shopping-bag, as they greeted each other, and then they disentangled everything. They were going to leave the station. Fumbling in his pocket for his platform ticket, not looking at Ben, Mr Fitch said, ‘She put her foot down about the dog, you know. But I was truly sorry.’
‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘You told me so.’ With his free hand he took one of the handles of the heavy market-bag, and helped his grandfather carry the burden out of the station to the bus.
4. To Little Barley and Beyond
The country buses started from a special place in Castleford, a place not frequented by town buses; and, on market-day, the passengers were nearly all people like Grandpa Fitch, doing their weekly shopping. A bus crew usually knew its whole load of passengers by sight, even by name.
‘Fine day, Grandpa,’ said the driver of the Yellow Salden bus, who was leaning against his vehicle, smoking. He knew that old Mr Fitch lived halfway to Salden, by the driftway beyond Little Barley.
‘It is, Bob,’ said Grandpa. ‘Got my grandson with me.’
‘Wouldn’t know you apart,’ said the driver, and winked at Ben.
They got on to the bus. It was a single-decker, so there was no bother about taking Tilly upstairs. She crouched under Grandpa’s knees, and on top of them he carried all his shopping and Ben’s suitcase, upended. Ben himself had given his seat up almost at once to a woman with shopping and a baby.
When the bus was quite full and the driver had swung up into his seat, the conductress called down the crowded gangway: ‘Anyone not going beyond the Barleys?’ There was a hush among the passengers, for this was rather like asking whether anyone in a party had not been invited. ‘I –’ said a hesitant voice, and everyone turned round or craned forward to see who. A lady with a suitcase and no shopping said, ‘I – well, I was going just to Great Barley. The timetable said this bus went to Great Barley.’
‘Through Great Barley, without stopping,’ said the conductress. ‘Full and five standing, on a market-day, we don’t reckon to set down or pick up until after the Barleys. There’s other buses to do that.’
The lady was civilly helped off the Salden bus and directed to a Great Barley one. Then the Salden conductress asked her question again, and a third time just to be certain. Each time there was an unbroken hush. Then she rapped on the driver’s window and they set off – the five miles from Castleford to Great Barley, and straight through Great Barley, and bouncing over the two bridges into Little Barley, and through that, and well ahead of time, and everyone looking forward to early teas.
Beyond Little Barley the bus entered real countryside, with shaggy elms at the far limits of fields and meadows on either side of the bus route. A house stood quite by itself at the side of a field-track.
‘The driftway!’ cried the conductress, in case Grandpa, from behind his luggage, had not seen where they were. But he was already struggling out of his seat, with Tilly and Ben pressing close behind him.
The bus stopped for the first time since Castleford traffic lights. There was someone waiting to get on, anyway: young Mrs Perkins, who was the Fitches’ next-door neighbour.
‘I popped in twice to see her,’ said Mrs Perkins to Grandpa, as he came down the bus steps. ‘She wouldn’t let me lay your tea, though. Said she could manage. Last I saw of her was going upstairs to watch for the bus from the bedroom window.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Grandpa. He and Ben and Tilly and the baggage had got off; Mrs Perkins got on. The driver leaned from his window and said something he had been thinking out ever since his remark to Grandpa Fitch in Castleford: ‘All three so alike that I can’t tell which of you is the dog!’
‘That’s Bob Moss!’ said Grandpa, as the bus drove off. The driver was laughing so much that you could see the spasms of it in the wobbling of the bus along the road. Then Mr Moss remembered his responsibilities: the bus straightened its course, and dwindled into the distance.
Mr Fitch let Tilly off her lead, and she went ahead of them up the driftway. A little way along it there stood what looked like one house – really, two semi-detached, brick-built cottages that some farmer had put there for his labourers, long before people had thought of building houses where they might easily be connected with sewers and water pipes, electricity and gas. In one half of this double house lived young Mrs Perkins and her husband; in the other half, the Fitches. The front of the house looked over the road and its infrequent traffic. The back looked up the driftway – a rutted track that ambled between fields and meadows, skirted a wood, crossed the river by a special bridge of its own, and came out again at last – with an air of having achieved nothing and not caring, anyway – into another country road just like the one it had started from.
Evidently Mrs Fitch had seen the bus, for she was coming down the stairs as Grandpa and Ben came through the front door. The front door opened straight into the living room, into which the stairway also descended. Ben had a rear view of his grandmother in a black dress with little purple flower-sprigs on it. She was climbing down the stairs backwards and very slowly, because of stiffness in the knees. As soon as she heard the front door open, she called, ‘Don’t let that dog bring all the driftway in on its paws!’ Tilly stopped on the threshold, sighed, and sat down. Mrs Fitch reached the last stair-tread: ‘I’ve laid the tea, as you see, in spite of what’s-her-name Perkins thinking I’m not up to it any more.’ She reached floor level and turned to face them: she was a little old woman, thin, and yet knobbly with her affliction; but like some tool of iron, much used and worn and even twisted, but still undestroyed and still knowing its use.
‘Well, Ben!’
Ben went forward and kissed her, a little timidly. All Granny Fitch’s grandchildren felt a particular respect for her; so did her sons-in-law and daughters-in-law, and even her own children; even Grandpa Fitch felt it. He and Granny had been married for nearly fifty years, and they had brought up eight children – not in this tiny house, of course, but in another not very much larger. Grandpa had always worked on the roads, for the County Council, which was a steady job, but not well-paid. On the birth of their first child, Mrs Fitch had discussed the future with Mr Fitch, and he had taken the Pledge – for economy, not for principle. So he gave up his beer, an
d he gave up his pipe at the same time, and he had always given all his weekly wages into his wife’s hands. Mrs Fitch had gone out to do morning cleaning in Little Barley as soon as the eldest Fitch child had been old enough to begin looking after the youngest; and she had managed. People in the Barleys remarked that the Fitch children were cheaply fed, but well-fed; cheaply dressed, but warmly in winter and decently in summer. They had all gone to the village school, where they worked hard – their mother had seen to that. One of them, by means of scholarships, had reached a university; two had gone to Castleford Technical School. One of these had taken a job in London, where she had met and married a young fellow with a good job, working on the Underground Railway. This was Lily Fitch, who became Mrs Bill Blewitt, and the mother of Ben.
In the struggle of bringing up the children, Granny Fitch – for she always took the family decisions – had never accepted charity. Not much was ever offered, anyway, in her experience. You could not call scholarships charity: they were worked for – earned. Now Granny and Grandpa were old, and Grandpa had retired from road-work. They lived on their pension, and that was just enough. They still took no charity, even from their children. They were independent, Granny said; they always would be, unless anyone wanted to make a silly splash with expensive brass-handled coffins, when the time came.
A Dog So Small Page 2