Paws and Whiskers (26 page)

Philippa Pearce has always been revered in the children’s book world. I remember reading
Tom’s Midnight Garden
to my daughter Emma and us both thinking it a perfect book.
A Dog So Small
is almost as good – and a lovely story if you’re desperate to have your own dog and can’t have one.

I remember going to a children’s literature conference long ago, when I’d only just begun to write children’s books. I didn’t know many people there, and sat down shyly next to a white-haired lady I thought was perhaps a retired teacher or librarian. She gave me a beaming smile and started chatting away, asking me all sorts of questions and seemingly really interested. It was a full fifteen minutes before I realized she was a writer herself – but it was only when she
modestly referred to a recent television adaptation of one of her books, that I realized she was Philippa Pearce!

I was thrilled to have met her and always remember our conversation with affection and gratitude.

A DOG SO SMALL

They caught the bus by the skin of their teeth. Ben was carrying Uncle Willy’s picture stuffed into his pocket.

In the station at Castleford, the London train was already in, but with some time to wait before it left. Grandpa would not go before that, so Ben leant out of the carriage window to talk to him. There seemed nothing to talk about in such a short time and at a railway station. They found themselves speaking of subjects they would have preferred to leave alone, and saying things that they had not quite intended.

‘Tilly didn’t know you were off for good this morning,’ said Grandpa. ‘She’ll look for you later today. She’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss her,’ said Ben.

‘Pity you can’t take her to London for a bit.’

‘She’d hate London,’ said Ben. ‘Nowhere for a dog to go, near us. Even the river’s too dirty and dangerous to swim in.’

‘Ah!’ said Grandpa, and looked at the station clock: minutes to go. ‘When you thought we should send you a dog, did you think of the spaniel kind, like her?’

‘No,’ said Ben. He also looked at the clock. ‘As a matter of fact – well, do you know borzois?’

‘What! Those tall, thin dogs with long noses and curly hair?
Those
?’

‘Only one. Or an Irish wolfhound.’

‘A
wolfhound
?’

‘Or a mastiff.’

‘A—’ Grandpa’s voice failed him; he looked dazed. ‘But they’re all such big dogs. And grand, somehow. And . . . and . . .’ He tried to elaborate his first idea. ‘And – well, you’ve got to admit it: so
big
.’

‘I wasn’t exactly expecting one like that. I was just thinking of it.’

‘You couldn’t keep such a
big
dog – not in London,’ Grandpa said.

‘I couldn’t even keep a small dog.’

‘Perhaps, now,’ Grandpa said, ‘a really
small
dog—’

The porters were slamming the doors at last; the
train was whistling; the guard had taken his green flag from under his arm.

‘Not the smallest,’ said Ben, and hoped that his grandfather would accept that as final.

‘But surely, boy–’

‘Not even the smallest dog of the smallest breed.’

‘No?’

‘Not even a dog so small . . . so small . . .’ Ben was frowning, screwing up his eyes, trying to think how he could convince an obstinately hopeful old man. The train was beginning to move. Grandpa was beginning to trot beside it, waiting for Ben to finish his sentence, as though it would be of some help.

‘
Not even a dog so small you can only see it with your eyes shut
,’ Ben said.

‘What?’ shouted Grandpa; but it was now too late to talk even in shouts. Ben’s absurd remark, the unpremeditated expression of his own despair, went unheard except by Ben himself. The thought, like a letter unposted – unpostable – remained with him.

Ben waved a last goodbye from the window, and then sat down. Something in his pocket knocked against the arm-rest, and he remembered that this must be the picture. He looked up at his suitcase on the rack. It had been difficult enough to get it up there; it would be a nuisance to get it down, just to
put the picture inside. Even so, he might have done that, except for the two other people in the compartment; the young man with the illustrated magazines would probably not mind; but there was a much older man reading a sheaf of papers he had brought out of his briefcase. He looked as if he would be against any disturbance, any interruption.

Because he had been thinking of it, Ben quietly took out Uncle Willy’s picture and, shielding it with one hand, looked at it. This was the third time he had looked at it.

Still looking at the dog, Chiquitito, he recalled his recent conversation. He could not have the smallest dog of the smallest breed in the world. Not even a dog so small that – if you could imagine such a thing – you could only see it with your eyes shut. No dog.

The feeling of his birthday morning – an absolute misery of disappointed longing – swept over him again. He put the little picture down on the seat behind him, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, overwhelmed.

He had been staring at the woolwork dog, and now, with his eyes shut, he still saw it, as if it were standing on the carriage-seat opposite. Such visions often appear against shut eyelids, when the open-eyed vision has been particularly intent. Such visions
quickly fade; but this did not. The image of the dog remained, exactly as in the picture: a pinky-fawn dog with pointed ears, and pop-eyed.

Only – only the pinky-fawn was not done in wool, and the eye was not a jet bead. This dog was real. First of all, it just stood. Then it stretched itself – first, its forelegs together; then, each hind leg with a separate stretch and shake. Then the dog turned its head to look at Ben, so that Ben saw its other eye and the whole of the other side of its face, which the picture had never shown. But this was not the picture of a dog; it was a real dog – a particular dog.

‘Chiquitito,’ Ben said; and the dog cocked its head.

Children often ask me if I’ve got a favourite author. I generally reply listing the book I liked the most when I was nine or ten – but the author I most enjoy reading now is Anne Tyler. She writes gentle, quirky family stories about people who are a little odd or obsessive.
The Accidental Tourist
is probably my favourite out of all her novels. It’s got some very funny moments, but it’s essentially a sad story – the main character, Macon, has lost his son, and is separated from his wife. He’s been left caring for his son’s dog, Edward, who’s become difficult to handle.

Edward is a wonderful character – and so is Muriel, the woman who manages to tame him.