The Peppermint Pig

by Nina Bawden

  Aunt Harriet said, ‘We can’t stay too long, Hetty. Better pass the time of day with the old fellow before we go, I suppose. How’s he been?’

  Hetty didn’t answer for a minute. Poll saw her round face grow sober and somehow chilled under her flaming hair as if the sun had gone in. She said, ‘No better, nor will be, this side the grave,’ and Aunt Harriet put her hand out, over the table, and Hetty clasped it.

  They got up and carried the tea things indoors. Poll offered to help but Aunt Harriet told her to play with the puppies and she guessed that the ‘old fellow’, whoever he was, disliked children. The door was left open and she could hear Aunt Harriet talking and a low, whining grumble replying, but all she could see when she craned her neck forward was the end of a bed with a patchwork quilt on it.

  She tickled the puppies. The curly one decided her hand was a good toy to play with and attacked it in short, prancing rushes, his little teeth sharp as needles. She laughed and wiggled her fingers and he stalked them, stiff-legged, growling like a small engine.

  ‘Like to take him home, Poll?’ Aunt Harriet said.

  Poll’s heart missed a beat. Had she misunderstood? But when she looked up, Aunt Harriet was beaming down, the bumps of her cheekbones hard and shiny as apples. She said, ‘Birthday present.’

  Poll’s birthday had been two weeks earlier. Mother had given her a satchel, Theo and Lily a blue china duck full of chocolates, and George had made her a pop gun from an alder stick with the pith removed that shot acorns or small balls of wet paper as ammunition. And the aunts had given her gauntlet gloves for the winter…

  Had Aunt Harriet forgotten? She said, reluctantly, ‘You gave me those gloves.’

  Aunt Harriet laughed. ‘Do you want him, or don’t you?’

  Poll felt giddy with happiness. But she couldn’t quite trust it. Aunt Harriet was given to impulses. ‘Never looks before she jumps,’ Aunt Sarah said. It seemed rude to question her kindness, but Poll knew that she must. She asked, ‘What about Mother?’ – and dreaded the answer. Mother had always said, no more animals! They couldn’t afford extra food and all the scraps went to Johnnie.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, I arranged it,’ Aunt Harriet said.

  Poll picked up the puppy. She was too full to speak. When Hetty said good-bye to her, she could only smile weakly and dumbly. As they set off down the lane, she felt ashamed. She managed to whisper, ‘I didn’t say thank you.’

  ‘Your face was enough, I dare say,’ Aunt Harriet said, rather shortly. Poll thought she seemed sad about something.

  She said, ‘Is your friend’s husband ill?’ and Aunt Harriet nodded.

  ‘Dying, the miserable man, and punishing poor Hetty for it. Hates her because she’s living and breathing and he won’t be much longer. If I were her I’d tell him a thing or two but she’s too soft-hearted. It’s always the soft ones get hurt in this world and it hurts the rest of us watching them.’ She looked at Poll. ‘Thought of a name for your puppy?’

  Poll shook her head.

  ‘Hetty’s a Scotswoman. Hetty Macgregor. Why not call him Mac?’

  Poll tried it out. ‘Mac?’ she said, and the curly puppy wriggled excitedly and buried his cold little nose in her neck.

  Mother said, ‘Your responsibility, mind! Any puddles or messes, you clear them up!’

  Poll said, ‘I’m so happy I could die. Theo always wants to die when he’s miserable but I feel like that when I’m happy.’

  ‘Don’t make much sense that way round,’ Theo said. ‘Can I hold him?’

  ‘He might wet on you. He has on me, twice. And he’s hungry. Can he have some milk, Mother?’

  Mother put a saucer of milk on the hearth. Mac started to lap but stopped when Johnnie came to investigate. The huge pig terrified him; he staggered back to Poll, squeaking, and tried to climb up her legs.

  ‘Go away, Johnnie, you’ve scared him,’ Poll said.

  ‘Poor old Johnnie,’ George said. ‘He was here first. Come here, poor old pig, she doesn’t want you.’ He sat down and scratched Johnnie’s neck and blew into his ears, until he grunted with pleasure.

  ‘I’m not pushing Johnnie out,’ Poll said. ‘It’s just that Mac is only a baby and I have to look after him.’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ George said. ‘Off with the old love, and on with the new!’

  ‘Don’t tease her, George!’ Mother spoke sharply and George looked at her. They looked at each other and then, as if some unspoken thought passed between them, at Poll. George said, ‘Sorry, Poll,’ and Mother said, ‘So I should hope!’ and went to the scullery.

  George pulled Johnnie’s ears, watching Poll. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

  Poll said, ‘Silly Mac, you’ve got to get used to our Johnnie,’ and put him down. This time, when Johnnie came up to him he wasn’t so frightened, just rolled over exposing his soft, beating drum of a belly. Johnnie nudged him with his flat nose and settled down in his rightful place on the hearth; the puppy sniffed at him, then, greatly daring, pounced on his comfortable stomach. Johnnie grunted and Mac started to play, dancing round him, nipping his ears and yapping excitedly. Johnnie seemed not to mind these attentions and when he grew bored and stood up to go, he looked back at the puppy from the door of the scullery as if to say, ‘Why not come along, take a look at the garden?’ and little Mac cocked his head on one side and trotted after him.

  ‘I knew they’d be friends,’ Poll said. ‘Didn’t you know they would, George?’

  But George didn’t answer. He hadn’t moved from his chair and was watching Poll with a worried, abstracted expression as if he were too absorbed in his private thoughts to pay much attention to his sister’s new puppy. Was he pretending not to be interested because he was jealous? Poll knew she would have been, in his place, but George wasn’t like that. ‘George hasn’t a jealous bone in his body,’ was what Mother said, and Poll had always thought this a silly remark. How could bones be jealous? Perhaps George was just in a funny mood.

  She noticed, the next day or two, that George made more fuss of Johnnie than he had done for ages. He had often complained that the pig took up too much room and was always occupying the hearth when he wanted to stretch his long legs out. Now he not only didn’t complain, but came home every day with some titbit for Johnnie; an apple, or a handful of acorns. Poll began to think that even if George wasn’t jealous on his own behalf, he might be jealous for Johnnie, now she had the puppy.

  A week later something happened that made her quite sure of it. Breakfast was over and she was having a last game with Mac before she went off to school, throwing a cotton reel on a string for him to pounce on with fierce little growls, when George said, ‘What about saying good-bye to Johnnie before you go, Poll?’ And when she looked up, surprised, ‘Well, poor old pig, you’ve been neglecting him lately.’

  She said, ‘Don’t be stupid,’ but he had made her feel guilty She loved Johnnie, of course she did, but he was old and fat now and Mac was more fun to play with. She picked up her satchel and went up the garden to make amends. But although the hen-house gate was open, he didn’t come trotting eagerly out as he always did.

  Mother was at the back door. ‘Hurry up, you’ll be late. Annie’s come for you.’

  She said, ‘Johnnie,’ impatiently, but he still didn’t come out of the hen house.

  Mother frowned as she kissed Poll. ‘First time he’s not come when he’s been called in his life.’

  ‘Just lazy,’ Poll said. She shouted, ‘Good-bye, you lazy old pig,’ and ran off to school.

  And when she came back, he was gone.

  She hadn’t known – for the rest of her life she was sure she hadn’t known – and yet, when she came home, she knew what had happened before anyone told her.

  She was late for tea. She came in with Annie, their pockets full of acorns they had collected for Johnnie, and her family was at the table already: Lily and George and Theo and Mother with Mac on her lap. Only one missing. She said, ‘
Where’s Johnnie?’ – and, in her heart, knew the answer.

  Mother said, ‘Oh, Poll.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  Poll’s tongue was clumsy and dry in her mouth. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  Mother shook her head, apparently speechless. She put Mac down and went to the dresser to get a plate for Annie.

  Lily was braver. ‘He went to the butcher this morning.’

  Poll said nothing.

  Lily said, ‘Darling Poll, we couldn’t keep him for ever. A great pig, eating his head off! You knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think she did!’ George’s voice shook with anger. He looked at his mother, accusing her. ‘You should have explained. Oh, that was wicked…’

  ‘Shut up, George,’ Lily said.

  Mother put the cup and plate on the table, and sat down again. She said pitifully, ‘It never seemed the right time. She was so ill, and then it got harder. I was sure she must know, all her friends keep pigs, don’t they? You’ve got a pig haven’t you, Annie?’

  Poll said slowly, ‘Johnnie was different. You always said he was different.’

  ‘I told you, Mother!’ George said.

  She looked at Poll. ‘I’m sorry. I truly am sorry. It’s been hard for us all. We all loved the old pig…’ Her voice trailed away. Her head drooped but she lifted it with an effort, smiling sadly. ‘I should have talked to you, Poll. But I thought – well – I thought it might be easier for you, this way. For me too, I suppose. You know what you are! I’m sorry if I was wrong and I hope you’ll forgive me. Sit down now and have tea.’

  Poll shook her head.

  George said, ‘I don’t suppose she’s exactly hungry I know I’m not! And I know another thing, too! I’ll never eat bacon again as long as I live.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Theo said. He got off his chair and ran from the table.

  ‘Nor pork, neither!’ George raged. ‘Nor sausage. If any bit of Johnnie comes into this house, even so much as a trotter, I’ll never eat at this table again! I’ll leave home, so help me, and go to Australia!’

  Lily said coldly, ‘There’s not much chance of your eating Johnnie, George. We owe the butcher.’

  ‘Oh.’ George looked down at his plate. He muttered, ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, you know now,’ Lily said. ‘How d’you think poor Mother’s been managing? Have you ever asked? I’ve not noticed you holding back!’

  George was silent.

  ‘Just like a man,’ Lily snorted, and went round the table and put her arm round her mother. Mother took her hand and held it against her cheek.

  George cleared his throat. ‘I could have left school. I could have got a job and brought money home.’

  Mother whispered, ‘Your education is important, dear. Sarah thinks you may get into Cambridge.’

  ‘To hell with Cambridge,’ George said. ‘To hell with Aunt Sarah!’

  No one answered that shocking remark. Mother patted Lily’s hand and sat straight in her chair. Lily went back to her seat and poured tea. She said, ‘Even if Poll isn’t hungry, perhaps Annie is. Sit down, Annie.’

  Lily didn’t look at Poll. None of them looked at her. Poll moistened her lips and said in a soft, amazed voice, ‘Annie said Johnnie was different. Everyone said he was different.’

  She sat on the log pile at the end of Aunt Sarah’s garden. She stared straight ahead of her. Her eyes were hot and dry; the burning lump in her throat too solid for tears. When Annie came, finally, she made room for her on the logs but took no more notice of her.

  After a while, Annie said, ‘I don’t like it when our pigs get killed, either.’ And added, after a pause, ‘But there’s always plenty to eat, pig-killing time.’

  Poll looked at her then. Annie’s face was thin, like her mother’s.

  She said, timidly, ‘Are you angry, Poll?’

  ‘Not with you,’ Poll said, and knew, suddenly, that she wasn’t angry with anyone. She had thought for a bit that she hated her mother but there was no point in that. People ate pigs and so pigs had to be killed. If they weren’t, people went hungry.

  Annie said, ‘I’ve got a bit of cake for you, Poll. Do you want it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Poll said.

  She ate the cake, every crumb, because Annie had brought it, but it tasted like ashes.

  As all food did from that moment. Like ashes or sawdust; horrible, choking stuff that dried up her throat. Even the thought of putting something in her mouth and swallowing it down to her stomach began to disgust her.

  She ate no supper that evening, no breakfast the next day, no midday dinner. For tea, Mother cooked her an egg in the way she liked it best, coddled in a cup with thin strips of toast to go with it, but even this favourite dish made her sick as she looked at it. Mother said, ‘You’ll sit at that table until you do eat it, my girl,’ but when Poll was still there, half an hour later, she took the cold egg away without saying a word and sat down and started to make a rag doll for Mac out of an old shirt of George’s.

  Lily came to her room after she’d gone to bed and said, ‘Please, Poll, you haven’t eaten for days, don’t punish Mother this way, it’s so cruel.’

  Poll said, ‘I’m not! I can’t eat, not won’t.’

  ‘Will you drink a glass of milk, then?’

  She brought the milk and Poll tried to drink it but the first sip made her gag. Lily took the glass as she doubled up, retching. ‘My inside’s closed up,’ she sobbed. ‘Really, Lily!’

  Theo said, ‘You’ll die if you don’t eat. How d’you think Father will feel, when he comes home, if you’re dead and buried?’

  ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘Of course he is. Mother’s had a letter.’

  Poll shrugged her shoulders. Father would never come back. Blood will out, was what Mrs Bugg said. And Aunt Harriet, Some people are foot-loose. Father had left them like Grandpa Greengrass had left him when he was young. She didn’t blame Father any more than Aunt Sarah had blamed Grandpa Greengrass, but the knowledge was like a sad weight in her chest. Heavier because only she knew it.

  She sighed and said, ‘Poor Mother.’

  Aunt Sarah took her for a walk. She was weak because she had not eaten for seven days and was glad to hold Aunt Sarah’s hand. They went down Station Street and Aunt Sarah stopped in front of the butcher’s and said, ‘Look, my dear, those are dead creatures hanging there and you must face up to it. They have to be killed so that human beings can live and grow strong. We are carnivorous animals. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poll said. ‘We eat meat.’ And fainted dead away.

  She rather enjoyed all the fuss. Someone bathed her forehead with water and when she got home she lay on the old sofa in the front room and George brought Mac to amuse her. The puppy made her laugh when he played with his rag doll, running round the room, growling, its head in his mouth and then bringing it to her and looking up, head on one side, eyes bright as buttons, inviting her to play tug-of-war.

  George said, ‘You should take him for a walk, the poor chap needs exercise. There’s a blue leather collar and lead in the saddler’s. You could buy that.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘Earn some, then!’ George laughed as if a bright idea had just struck him. ‘Tell you what, you eat this pear and I’ll give you twopence.’

  It was quite a small pear, yellow, with a red blush where it swelled out at the bottom.

  George said, ‘We could draw up a scale of charges. Twopence for a pear, threepence for a glass of milk. Sixpence if you eat a whole plate of dinner. Though you’ll have to work up to that gradually or you’ll make yourself ill. People’s stomachs shrink when they’ve been starved for a bit.’

  She ate the pear and George gave her two shiny new pennies. The next day she had another pear and a glass of milk and a sticky bun which made sevenpence altogether. She ate her dinner and George paid her eightpence for that because she had a second helping of pudding.

 
; By the time she had earned enough to pay for the collar she had begun to feel ordinarily hungry again and went on eating without being paid because George said he had run out of money. The collar fitted the puppy and although he hated being on a lead to begin with, sitting down front paws braced when she tried to get him to walk, she coaxed him gently and quite soon he was scampering along, dragging her after him until she was quite out of breath. ‘Silly dog,’ she scolded, ‘why can’t you be sensible and walk to heel like old Johnnie?’

  Mother said, ‘Pigs have more brains than dogs, didn’t I tell you?’

  She looked at Poll shyly. She had often been shy with Poll since Johnnie was killed. As if she felt she had done something wrong and was afraid Poll would never forgive her. It made Poll feel uncomfortable and ashamed as if she had done something wrong. She wished she could think of something to say to comfort her mother, and not just about Johnnie, but about something much worse that she knew and that Mother didn’t. Father had left them and one day when they all grew up and went away too, Mother would be quite alone. Sometimes, when she seemed especially happy, singing while she was washing up in the scullery, or laughing at some joke of George’s, it made Poll’s heart ache to think how lonely and sad she was going to be. She wanted to hug her and hold her close then, but she didn’t. Mother would only say ‘What’s that for, all of a sudden?’ and she wouldn’t be able to tell her for the same reason that Mother hadn’t explained what was going to happen to Johnnie. You kept the saddest things hidden from people you loved.

  Poll said, ‘Do you remember when you put Johnnie into that pint beer mug, how funny he looked?’ and her mother laughed as if she was relieved about something and touched Poll’s cheek with her finger that was rough-tipped with sewing.

  The walnuts were ripe in the avenue at the back of the church. An old woman sat there during the week to chase the boys off, but on Sundays she stayed at home and after church they lagged behind their aunts and their mother and filled their pockets when no one was looking.