It was a fine thing for a horse to go to war – that was what the master, Lord Chorley had said – a fine thing for a horse to serve in a glorious cause, in the war to end all wars, and anyway, they’d be back by Christmas. But it was May 1917 now and the War To End All Wars still raged.
Stanley huddled into the chair. After a while he slept and in his dreams he saw flocks of velvety puppies swarming and tumbling over shining cups, saw Da’s gloom lifting and floating away.
A whoosh of icy air woke Stanley. The door was open – Da outside, grim and grey as a standing stone, Rocket’s bowl in his hand. On paws light as raindrops, Rocket furled and unfurled herself around his legs. Stanley stepped forward.
‘Da, she’s b-back, she’s h-here and she’s all right, isn’t—’
Da spun round with breathtaking speed.
‘Some farm dog’s been at ’er. Half-breeds she’ll be bringing us now. Gypsy dogs, thieving, mongrel dogs. No, no respectable family has one of them.’ Stanley stood rooted in the doorway, hand still outstretched to his father.
‘We’re a gamekeeping family and there’ll be no tinkers’ dogs round here.’ Da’s right arm shot out. Rocket leaped aside, quivering as the china bowl slammed into the stone wall, shattering into brilliant white shards. Da turned and left.
Stanley knelt by Rocket and hugged her close. She licked the boy’s face and nuzzled him.
‘Tom said the war would end quickly,’ Stanley whispered, ‘and when he comes back, Da will be better . . . Tom promised he’d come soon . . .’
Rocket blinked and turned to gaze into the house after her master.
School felt safer than home, though there were only two other boys, Joe and Arthur, in Stanley’s class, most having left the minute they’d turned fourteen, taking work far away in the city factories to help their families. Stanley had been surrounded by friends once, but they probably wouldn’t come back, even when the War ended.
Miss Bird’s were Stanley’s favourite classes – Biology and Chemistry, but especially Biology. Today Stanley was tired. The bench was harder than usual and his neck hurt because of the night in the chair. Miss Bird was teaching the respiratory system in humans but what Stanley wanted to learn was the reproductive cycle in dogs.
Miss Bird loved Tom, Stanley was sure of that, sure that she was waiting for Tom to marry her. It was awkward being only half awake in Miss Bird’s classes because, being Tom’s brother, she watched Stanley so closely, but she was giving him an easier time today, perhaps because of yesterday’s search for Rocket.
How soon would the extra weight show on Rocket? How long did puppies take to arrive? Stanley had so many questions. Nothing useful was ever taught at school. Miss Bird (Lara, as Tom called her) knew so many useful things – she knew that dogs couldn’t see as far as humans, saw six times less detail, that they were colour-blind to red and green. She knew they had better night vision, greater peripheral vision, that horses’ ears could turn a hundred and eighty degrees – she knew almost as much about animals as Da, that’s what Tom used to say. Miss Bird would know about whelping and weaning.
Everyone was rushing out, cramming on coats. Biology was the last class and Stanley would have to go home now. He was always last to leave, he thought, as he picked up each coloured pencil from his desk, one by one. Miss Bird liked different colours for tubes and arteries. Joe grinned as he passed Stanley’s desk, holding up a pack of scuffed playing cards.
‘Tomorrow, Stan? Break-time? You won’t win again.’ Stanley nodded. He was lucky at cards, always beating Joe. Joe rammed on his cap and left. Stanley thought about Joe’s home, the hot tea and warm kitchen. How would things be at Thornley?
A hand rested on Stanley’s shoulder.
‘Stanley, I found this in the library and thought it might come in useful. For Rocket. Just in case, that is.’ Miss Bird was smiling, ‘It tells you everything you need to know.’ She held out a book.
‘She came home, Miss Bird, she’s back now.’
It was a funny thing, but when he spoke to Miss Bird his words didn’t dry and stick like needles – they came out as he wanted them to.
‘How was your father? Was it all right when you went home?’
Stanley looked down at his desk. Miss Bird squeezed his shoulder and said quietly, ‘Don’t forget how much he’s lost, Stanley. Give him time . . . He’s lost so much. And he’s scared. You’ll understand when you’re older. You see, when you’re your age, you’re not scared of anything.’ Miss Bird was slipping something into his satcheclass="underline" a jar of honey. She often gave him honey, knew Stanley liked honey, knew that his ma used to keep bees too. ‘Don’t forget how much he’s lost,’ Miss Bird repeated.
Stanley wanted to answer but there was something in his throat, not the dry stickiness but a lump, which wouldn’t let any words out unless tears came with them. If he waited till he got to the door, he’d have his back to Miss Bird and he’d say it then; he must tell her what hurt so much.
‘He hasn’t lost me – Da hasn’t lost me, I’m still here.’
Four weeks had passed since Rocket disappeared. Stanley’s birthday had come and gone unmarked. Only Tom had remembered. On the thirtieth, he’d said on the card, he’d be back. That was eighteen days away. These three years had passed so slowly, thought Stanley as he cycled homeward. Da was growing worse, each lonely evening with him more strained and oppressive. When Tom came home, Stanley would talk to him about Da, ask for his help.
Stanley pedalled harder. He must hurry, needed to collect the rabbits from the traps he’d set. He didn’t have much time, so today he’d just skin one and give it to her raw. Da never fed Rocket now. Since he’d smashed her bowl, that’s more or less when he’d stopped, so in the mornings Stanley would leave early and, checking the direction of the wind, set his three traps where the gorse was patterned with the criss-crosses of rabbit runs, as Da had once taught him.
Rocket was waiting for him by the door to Stable Cottage. She’d be hungry. Stanley leaned his bicycle against the wall, unlatched the door gently and pushed. It only had to open a sliver to see if Da was there. Stanley released his breath; the room was empty. He listened. The house was empty. He slipped in, took a knife from the kitchen drawer and ran, Rocket at his heels, to the glasshouse.
It was warm there, and cosy and safe. Since Oaks, the last gardener, had joined up, Stanley maintained what he could on his own, but there was so much to do at this time of year. Lord Chorley had written from London just to keep up the vegetable garden and the cutting borders, but with the big house dark and shuttered and the Chorleys away it was thankless, pointless work.
Rocket reminded Stanley about her supper with a nuzzle. Stanley looked down and saw her new sturdiness, and remembered. It was Monday today. Every Monday he measured her girth with a piece of garden twine and knotted it. Three knots last week, today he’d tie the fourth. He kept Miss Bird’s book, A Layman’s Guide to Mating, Whelping and Rearing, in the glasshouse to hide it from Da. It was propped against the window and he’d read as he worked.
Stanley tipped the chopped rabbit into a terracotta pot and watched Rocket eat, smiling to himself with a mixture of guilt and excitement. Rocket raised her head to the boy, tail swishing in gratitude for the rabbit. Stanley put his hands on her flanks, feeling them, then slipping the twine under her belly. He tied a knot. A small but definite increase in her girth. Stanley had already calculated the date. If Rocket were to have puppies, she’d have them between the eighth and the sixteenth of July. More days to count up to, the days till Rocket whelped and the days till Tom came home. Years could go by just counting down to the things Stanley wanted to happen.