The elderly businessman was the last to leave the carriage. He put his papers back into his briefcase in an orderly way, refurled his umbrella, moved over to the mirror for a glance at his tie, and – crunch! The heel of his shoe had trampled something on the floor that should not have been there, and part of which was glass, from the sound of it. This time the woolwork picture suffered more than a crack to its glass. The whole glass was smashed and ground – with dirt from the floor – into the representation of whatever it had been – you could hardly tell now. The frame, too, was utterly broken.
The man looked down in irritation as well as in dismay. He really could not be held responsible. The picture must have belonged to one of the other two passengers, but they were both lost in the streaming crowds by now. He would make himself late if he concerned himself with the further fate of this – this – well, the thing was only a wreck now, anyway. He was going to leave it; and, because he did not even want to think of it, he pushed the thing a little way under one of the seats with his foot. There, a not quite emptied ice-cream carton dribbled over it, completing the destruction of what had once been a picture.
You could hardly blame the cleaner, who came later to sweep out the carriages, for thinking that this was just a bit of old rubbish, dangerous because of the broken glass. The cleaner put it with all the other rubbish to be burnt; and it was.
So the little woolwork picture had gone at last – in its own good time, as Mrs Fitch would have said. During its existence it had given pleasure to a number of people, which is mainly what things are for. It had been lovingly worked by the little girl who lived in the city of Chihuahua and who owned the Chihuahua called Chiquitito. Willy Fitch had found it in a curio shop in a Mexican port – and how it got there from so far inland remains a mystery – and it had pleased him, so that he bought it to take back to his mother as a present. The gift had pleased Mrs Fitch, partly because it came from her son, no doubt; and, much later, she had given it to her grandson. It was true that to Ben himself the woolwork picture had brought bitter disappointment. Now the possibility of its ever having an effect of any kind upon any human being again seemed gone. For the picture itself was gone – broken and utterly destroyed.
As old Mrs Fitch would have said, What’s left? It seemed, nothing.
8. – and a Beginning
Ben did not go straight home from Liverpool Street Station. This was the last day of the boys’ summer holidays, when Mrs Blewitt always gave them a treat. That was why she had brought Frankie and Paul to meet Ben. They all went straight to have baked beans on toast in the station Help-Yourself that overlooks the comings and goings of the trains. There they discussed what they should do with their afternoon. They all – including Ben – suggested and argued; but it was Paul’s turn to decide, and he chose the Tower of London – partly because of the ravens.
Ben enjoyed the Tower without foreboding. He said to himself, ‘And I’ll have time to think afterwards …’
After the Tower, Mrs Blewitt took them to a teashop, because she said she had to wash that dank old air out of her throat and voice at once. Then, talking, they went home; and there was Charlie Forrester helping May to fry sausages, and they were both very excited because Charlie really thought he’d found somewhere for them to live when they were married. Charlie worked for a building firm that specialized in the conversion of old houses into flats, and his firm had got him the offer of a flat in a house they were beginning to work on in North London. Cheap, too, for the size – it would be a larger flat than they wanted. But if Dilys would really come and share the flat and share the expense – and Dilys was nodding and laughing – and get her new job in North London … Mrs Blewitt listened, watching the sausages bursting but not liking to interrupt, and anyway thinking sadly that North London was a long way from South London. But, as Charlie said, the air was good because that part of London was high – ‘and within reach of Hampstead Heath, Mrs B!’
So, above the spitting of the fat in the frying-pan, Charlie and May and Dilys were telling about the flat in North London, and Frankie and Paul were telling about the Tower, and Ben was just thinking he’d take his suitcase upstairs to unpack quietly, by himself, in the bedroom, when – he remembered. He hadn’t put it into the suitcase, after all. He hadn’t – he touched his pocket, but knew he hadn’t – put it back into his pocket. He must have left the little picture in the railway compartment.
He set down his case and made for the door. But he met his father coming in from work: ‘Here! You’re not going out, Ben, just when we’re all ready to sit down to a hot meal!’ And his mother heard, and made him come back. And his father wanted to hear all about his stay with his grandparents, as well as about the flat Charlie had found, and about the Tower of London.
He did not tell them why he had been going out. Secretly he determined to go back to Liverpool Street Station the next day, after school. This evening it would probably have been no use, anyway – too early for lost property to have been brought in. But he would go tomorrow to get the picture back; he must have it. He must.
He had lost the picture, and so he was afraid that he had somehow lost a dog – a dog that answered to the name of Chiquitito.
That evening, as usual, Frankie went to bed first. Then Paul, ten minutes later – just so long because he was older; but no longer, because the two of them always had things to talk about. But the excitement of the day had tired them, and they were both asleep by the time Ben came. He undressed slowly and unhappily, thinking of his loss. He turned off the light and got into bed, but then lay, unhopeful of sleep, with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling-shadows cast by the street lamps outside.
But Ben, too, was tired with a long, full day, and wearied out with loss and, above all, the old longing. Even before he was ready to sleep, his eyelids fell over his eyes.
He saw nothing; and then he saw a point – something so small that it had neither length nor breadth. But the point was coming towards him, taking on size as it came. He saw what it must be. ‘Chiquitito!’ he called softly. The dog was racing towards him, appearing ever larger as it came nearer; and yet, when it reached him, it was still very, very small. He realized how small when he stretched out his hand to it: his hand looked like a giant’s against such a tiny dog.
The dog curvetted round him, knowing its name, knowing its master. Then it bounded away, expecting to be followed. So they set off together through strange and wonderfully changing countryside. For by now Ben was really entering sleep and his dreams.
This was the beginning of their companionship.
9. Wolves Die by Hundreds
Ben never fully understood the coming of the Chihuahua; and at first he feared the possibility of its going from him as inexplicably. He did not trust his own need and the dog’s responsive devotion.
He thought that material connexion was necessary – the connexion of something.
He went again and again to Liverpool Street Station to ask for his picture. He was frightened when, on his third successive visit, they told him with finality that the picture had still not been brought in: it must be accounted lost for good. Yet, when he closed his eyes on the succeeding nights, knowing that he would never see the picture again, he still saw his Chihuahua.
He thought that knowledge was necessary to give him power over it. He had worried at first that he did not know exactly what Chihuahuas were like, and liked to do. He began to frequent the Public Library again. He exhausted the resources of the Junior Library and – with the librarian’s permission – consulted specialist works in the main Library. Moving from dog book to dog book, he was gradually collecting what little information is easily available about the lesser foreign breeds.
The dog Chiquitito was companionably interested in Ben’s researches and – on the whole – most responsive to suggestion. ‘The Chihuahua is very active, alert, intelligent and affectionate,’ said one book. That very night, the dog’s actions became as swift as pinky-fawn lightni
ng; its ears cocked in alertness so constant that their muscles must have ached; and intelligence and affection henceforth marked its conduct to an exceptional degree.
Fawn, it seemed, was only one of the colours in which a Chihuahua might appear. ‘Colours are varied: white, biscuit, cream, light and dark fawns, lemon, peach, apricot, sable, blue, chocolate and black.’ Ben, reading the list, was overwhelmed by the richness, and – Non-Fiction was such a quiet part of the Public Library – shut his eyes; and there was Chiquitito in blue fur – a soft, smoky blue that was just believable. With shut eyes Ben watched the blue Chihuahua turn slowly round to show the true blueness of every part except its black collar, black markings, black nose and bead-black eyes. It seemed to fancy itself.
When at last Ben reopened his eyes, he found the librarian staring at him. Hurriedly he went back to his looking and reading. But the librarian still observed him. She did not like a boy of that age hanging about in the main Library, even if he had special permission and even if he did stick to the Poultry, Dogs and Bee-keeping shelves. Now he was reading in another book; and now – look; he had gone a greeny-white in the face. The librarian went over to him at once.
‘It says they were considered edible,’ said Ben. ‘What’s “edible”?’
‘Eatable,’ said the librarian. ‘But you feel ill, don’t you?’
‘I thought it meant that,’ said Ben. ‘Yes, I do feel rather sick. But I only feel sick: I shan’t be.’
The librarian, hoping that he was right, made him sit down in a chair, behind which she opened a window. The boy’s complexion returned to normal, and he said he would go home. He wanted to take the book out.
The librarian held out her stamp over the date-slip, and then came out with what was in her mind: ‘You know, boys of your age should be borrowing books from the Junior Library, not from here.’
‘But I told you,’ said Ben: ‘the books on my subject in the other library are so babyish.’
The librarian looked at the title of the book he wanted to borrow. ‘Dogs – there’s an excellent book which must be in the Junior Library: Ten Common Breeds of Dog in Britain and Their Care.’
‘I’ve looked,’ said Ben. ‘It was no good – truly.’
The librarian stamped Dogs of the World for him, but held on to the volume for a moment as she asked, ‘And why are you so interested in this subject of yours? Have you a dog of your own, or are you going to get one?’
Ben hesitated, and then said carefully: ‘Yes, I have a dog; and no, I’m not going to get one.’
‘If you have a dog already,’ the librarian pointed out, ‘of course you’re not going to get one. One dog must be difficult enough to look after properly, in London.’
‘It’s a small dog,’ Ben explained. ‘So small that –’ He shut his eyes as he spoke, and held them shut for several seconds, so that the librarian wondered if the child were feeling ill again. But then he opened his eyes to finish what he was saying, rather lamely: ‘Well, it’s small.’
The librarian, watching him go out with the book under his arm, still felt uneasy. She was sure there was something wrong somewhere, even if she could not put her finger upon it. She would feel happier, anyway, when he went back to the Junior Library, where he belonged.
That night, in bed, Ben read a little more about the Chihuahua in ancient Mexico. Then he turned out the light, and shut his eyes as usual.
He drifted into sleep, and then into nightmare. Paul and Frankie slept through his screaming, but his mother came. She roused him. Like a much younger child he clung to her, sobbing: ‘People with sort of toasting-forks were chasing us, to catch us and cook us and eat us. And they’d fattened us up first.’
Mrs Blewitt tried to soothe Ben by bringing him to a sense of present reality. ‘But look, here I am; and here you are, safe in bed; and there are Paul and Frankie, still asleep. No one’s chasing us all to eat us.’
‘I wasn’t with you and Paul and Frankie,’ said Ben. ‘And they did fatten them to eat them – the book said so.’
‘A nightmare about cannibals,’ said Mrs Blewitt over her shoulder to Mr Blewitt, who had followed to see what was the matter.
‘Not cannibals,’ Ben said. ‘They used to eat – to eat –’ He wanted no one to know his secrets, but his mother was close and he had been so afraid. ‘Well, they used to eat Chi– Chi–’
‘To eat chickens?’
‘No. Chi–’
‘Cheese?’
He told the truth, but not all of it: ‘They used to eat – dogs.’
Mr Blewitt said under his breath, ‘Dogs!’ Mrs Blewitt frowned at him. She made Ben lie down again, gave him an aspirin, and told him not to dream any more.
Back in their own bedroom, Mrs Blewitt said, ‘I told you what it must mean, Bill – his bringing home all those library books about dogs. And now this nightmare. He’s still hankering to have a dog.’
Mr Blewitt groaned. He sometimes felt that his five children and their affairs were almost too much for him: May’s wedding-plans, and Dilys wanting to leave home with her, too, and now Ben’s dog … Mr Blewitt loved his children, of course, but it was really a great relief, nowadays, to go off to work – to slip down the Underground, where there were hundreds of thousands of people on the move, but none of his business so long as they had their tickets and kept clear of the doors. If some of them wanted dogs and could not have them, that was strictly their affair, not his.
‘He just can’t have a dog in London,’ Mr Blewitt said, out of all patience. ‘I’ll tell him so, now and for the last time.’ He was starting back towards the boys’ bedroom.
‘No, Bill,’ said Mrs Blewitt, ‘not now; and I’ll tell him myself – when there’s a right time for it.’
The time did not come the next day, for Ben was at school in the morning and afternoon, and called at the Public Library on the way home; and, when he got home, his mother was just setting out with May and Dilys to meet Charlie Forrester and see the flat.
Ben spent the evening reading his latest book from the Library.
‘They are small –’ he read of the Chihuahua: well, yes, very, very small, especially some: ‘– pet dogs –’, well, perhaps, although ‘pet’ sounded rather womanish ‘– and very timid.’ Very timid? Ben felt shocked and incredulous. Timid – now, you might call Young Tilly timid – although Grandpa said she was really just prudent; but then, you took Tilly as you found her – you had to. The dog Chiquitito was different – not subject to imperfection.
Unwillingly he remembered that, the night before, the Chihuahua and he had both fled before the ancient and hungry Mexicans. He admitted that he himself had been terrified; but the Chihuahua – had not its accompanying him been an act of affection – of close loyalty – rather than of timidity? Was his dog really a coward? Only the evidence of his own eyes would convince him of that.
That night, when he closed his eyes, he saw a landscape even before he saw the dog in it. The scene appeared familiar and then he remembered: Russia. The whole landscape was white with snow, except for the dark woods where the wolves hid themselves. There were the sleighs covered with white woollen blankets, and men beating the woods. The wolves came out – they were much larger than Ben had ever imagined them before, huge, with gnashing teeth; and there were dozens of them – one whole pack at least. From the dark, distant woods they came rushing towards the sleighs, and in their very path stood Ben.
Then he realized that the dog Chiquitito stood beside him. This time it was black in colour – Ben had never before seen such an absolute, such a resolute black. The dog looked up at him. Very timid? The Chihuahua’s pop eyes seemed almost to start from its head in indignation; and at once it set off, with the greatest activity. It raced across the snow to meet the oncoming wolf-packs; it was like a swift moving bead of jet against the snow. It reached the wolf leader, and the black point rose to the grey mass. There was a dreadful howling, and red blood, and the wolf leader lay dead, and the black point moved on. The Chi
huahua was only a hundredth part of the size of any wolf, and the wolves were at least a hundred times as many; but it opposed them with activity and intelligence and, above all, with incredible daring. The dog was more like David against Goliath, more like Sir Richard Grenville at Flores, than any ordinary Chihuahua against several packs of wolves. Ben watched; the borzoi dogs came out from under their white woollen blankets to watch in amazement and deep respect. When every wolf of every pack lay dead in its own blood on the snowy plain, the dog Chiquitito trotted back. One ear was slightly torn.
Ben said to him, before them all: ‘Not in the least timid – never. On the contrary, bold and resolute. Very, very brave.’ The huntsmen by the sleighs, who had not even troubled to take out their hunting knives to finish the wolves off, seemed to understand, for they clapped. The dog Chiquitito modestly lowered its eyes and, under Ben’s very gaze, its whole body blushed – turned from the original resolute black through a pinky-grey to a deep peach. Then that colour slowly ebbed and muddied until the dog was its usual fawn.
And so, the next day, Ben took the dog book back to the Public Library and said that he did not want any more books on that subject, anyway. The librarian was relieved.
And that evening, when his mother took Ben aside to begin her little talk (‘You know, Ben, you had a nightmare because of all this reading about dogs’), Ben said: ‘I’ve given up dog books, this very day. One of them turned out to be such rubbish.’