Still with wonder, chin cupped in his hands, Stanley gazed at the little nativity. Rocket’s body made a wreath around her brood. The puppies, all bitches, jostled in this perfect crib, their mewings and cawings, a tiny choir.
Stanley longed for Da to come. He’d love them, he’d love their gypsy coats, their splodges of colour like spilt paint, couldn’t not.
A sudden movement from Rocket jolted him. Her legs were in spasm. Something was wrong – she needed help – there must be a puppy stuck in the birth canal. It could be fatal if she’d been straining too long – twenty minutes at least had passed since the last pup. Beneath her tail Stanley glimpsed a white sac and his heart stopped: he could see one tiny outstretched paw – one foot first was dangerous. Rocket’s eyes were still intent on his and they were too brilliant, brilliant with fear. Should he run for Da? Would she be all right while he was away? He heard footsteps. Da had come. Somehow Da had known Rocket needed him.
Even in her distress, Rocket uncoiled herself in welcome, her jaws half open in a valiant smile.
‘Tinkers’ dogs. Thieving dogs, that’s what they are.’
Rocket’s eyes never left Da, but the pistol whip of his tone made her smile grow hesitant.
‘Quick, Da, something’s wrong.’
Da grunted. He made no move for a second, then grunted again and knelt. He leaned forward and with one finger inched the tiny limb back in. Da waited. Minutes passed. Rocket shivered, then as she contracted, Da pulled the towel from his son’s knees, ready for her. This time there were two tiny paws, two tiny folded limbs, and between the tips of two fingers Da held them and began to pull with a hold so sure that he seemed not to be pulling at all. The drawing out of the puppy was imperceptible; the movement of Da’s arms in an arc across the belly, towards Rocket’s head, imperceptible.
There it was: a sightless, soundless bundle. Da laid it between Rocket’s forepaws. Watching his father, a tentative smile formed on Stanley’s lips. Da rose. His fists clenched and he turned his head away from Rocket’s shining head. He shifted and stood hunched under the lintel, eclipsing the light, throwing Rocket into darkness.
‘It’ll never live . . .’
The puppy was there between Rocket’s forelegs, but it lay still and silent and she’d made no move towards it. Stanley must do something. With a pounding heart he gathered it up and held it cupped in the palm of one hand. He rubbed it with a corner of the towel until the downy coat was clean. It was greyish white from nose to tail, the only puppy to have no markings, and Rocket’s only son.
Stanley heard a sort of snort from the shadows behind him and hesitated, stalled by the force of Da’s scorn. Rocket lifted her snout, brows arched, dark eyes bright and questioning. The plain white pup lying in the palm of Stanley’s hand was too still. Rocket nosed the palm that held it. He must do what Rocket trusted him to and save this puppy. He lowered it to his lap and with hurried, panicky fingers, pulled some cotton from his tin box and tied a knot around the cord. Feeling Rocket’s eyes follow his every movement, he cut the cord on the far side of the knot and placed the pup beside Rocket. The others mewed and cawed and sucked, but the weak pup was still motionless, inert. Amidst the strident mews and bleats, that tiny body was silent, lifeless.
Rocket nuzzled the puppy to separate him from the sibling scramble, to stir him to life. She licked and nosed him but after a little while, her head sank, disheartened.
A few seconds passed.
Again Rocket raised her head and nosed the weak one. Stanley’s breath stopped as she opened her jaws and picked him up. Hampered by the freight of bodies tugging at her, she clawed her way to Stanley and placed the pup on his lap. Stanley hesitated. Rocket nudged the lifeless bundle closer, eyes intent on the boy’s face.
Rocket was asking for help. Stanley’s fingers began to move before his head knew what to do. He’d already lifted it to his ear. It wasn’t breathing – there was no heartbeat. He must move fast – the book said blocked airways could cause this, that you had to act quickly. There was no time to be squeamish. Stanley raised the tiny pink nose to his face, joined his own mouth to the minute nostrils and sucked. Nothing. He sucked again. That was it. Such a tiny amount you could hardly tell. He spat, then held the little body to his ear. Still nothing. He must get it breathing. With the pads of his thumbs, he rubbed it all over, rubbed again, then held the pink nose to his own mouth to suck again and as he did, it squirmed and cried.
Stanley held out Rocket’s son in the cradle of his palm. Her tail rose and fell with soft slapping as she sniffed and licked and sniffed and licked. She looked up at Stanley and her jaws opened and the warmth in her eyes felt like sunlight to the boy.
‘It’ll never be any good. It’ll never live unless you’ll be giving it a bottle.’ Da kicked the door open. ‘All of ’em. Manky Gypsy dogs, all of ’em.’ His voice boomed. Stanley shivered in the rush of damp air, his toes and fists clenching. ‘No one’ll take ’em. Only the tinkers’ll have your manky half-breeds.’
He tramped away. Rocket’s head followed her master’s steps, her tail faltering, then falling and lying still. The footsteps stopped. Da’s voice blasted out as though to rattle and shiver the stars above. ‘If the Gypsies won’t have ’em tha’ll drown ’em.’
24 July 1917
Lancashire
Stanley collected the child’s bottle from the draining board and, casting an apprehensive look towards the door, filled it with Lactol. There’d been no more talk of drowning but he lived in fear of Da’s threats. He fetched the white pup from the kennel. The extra vitamins were doing him good; the pup would survive, whatever Da said. Every day all of them were heavier, their eyes open now, their bodies still soft and helpless and sleepy. Stanley settled down at the table.
The front door banged open. Stanley started, lifted the pup to his chest. Da saw it and scowled. One of his lightning rages was about to strike. Stanley’s arm tightened involuntarily around the puppy.
‘I should’ve drowned ’em. They’ll only end up shot. The police are out there collecting every mangy half-breed dog from every street in every city in the land, and do you know what they do? They shoot ’em. Bang.’
Da’s rage had collapsed as quickly as it had erupted but weeks had gone by and he hadn’t spoken a word. His absences from the house had grown longer, and his silence somehow more malevolent.
The white pup was tugging at Rocket’s blanket, trying to wrest it out of her basket, his unsteady legs skating and slipping on the worn slabs. That little tail would be long and feathery like a Laxton dog’s. Stanley grinned, remembering the dog on Rocky Brow. It was a good thing Da didn’t know the sire was a cross-bred dog. Stanley knelt. The pup abandoned the blanket, bounded forward and hurled himself at Stanley. Stanley put his nose to the pup’s and they kissed like Eskimos.
‘It’s your last day on Lactol.’ Stanley ran his fingers along the pup’s belly, down his haunches. ‘Five weeks old. Too big for Lactol. Almost time to wean you.’
‘Soldier,’ Stanley whispered. ‘Soldier.’ He’d named all of them now. Bentley was to be Tom’s dog. She had a rough white coat, speckled with flecks of tan and a tan saddle. Tom had always loved Lord Chorley’s ivory automobile, the one with the tan leather trimmings. Tom would be so chuffed when he saw her. Biscuit and Socks were both tricoloured, with black upper coats and white socks. Biscuit had a tan eyepatch. Only Soldier had a coat the colour of porridge, and eyes as dark and soft as sable. Soldier would be Stanley’s own dog.