I’ve included the last scene of the book. It’s hard to read it and stay dry-eyed – and you definitely need a hankie if you watch a DVD of the old film. It all seems a bit corny and old-fashioned now, but the ending is still powerful enough to have me in floods of tears.
THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
Everyone was silent and preoccupied. Suddenly Elizabeth stood up. ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘Listen, Daddy – I can hear a dog barking!’ Complete and utter silence fell as everyone strained their ears in the direction of the hills behind. No one heard anything.
‘You’re imagining things,’ said her mother. ‘Or perhaps it was a fox. Come along, we must start back.’
‘Wait, wait! Just one minute – you’ll be able to hear it in a minute, too,’ whispered Elizabeth, and her mother, remembering the child’s hearing was still young and acute enough to hear the squeaking noise of bats and other noises lost for ever to adults – and now even to Peter – remained silent.
Elizabeth’s tense, listening expression changed to a slowly dawning smile. ‘It’s Luath!’ she announced matter-of-factly. ‘I know his bark!’
‘Don’t do this to us, Liz,’ said her father gently, disbelieving. ‘It’s . . .’
Now Peter thought he heard something too: ‘Shhh . . .’
There was silence again, everyone straining to hear in an agony of suspense. Nothing was heard. But Elizabeth had been so convinced, the knowledge written so plainly on her face, that now Jim Hunter experienced a queer, urgent expectancy, every nerve in his body tingling with certain awareness that something was going to happen. He rose and hurried down the narrow path to where it joined the broader track leading around the hill. ‘Whistle, Dad!’ said Peter breathlessly, behind him.
The sound rang out piercingly shrill and sweet, and almost before the echo rebounded a joyous, answering bark rang around the surrounding hills.
They stood there in the quiet afternoon, their taut bodies awaiting the relief of suspense; they stood at the road’s end, waiting to welcome a weary traveller who had journeyed so far, with such faith, along it. They had not long to wait.
Hurtling through the bushes on the high hillside of the trail a small, black-tipped wheaten body leaped the last six feet down with careless grace and landed softly at their feet. The unearthly, discordant wail of a welcoming Siamese rent the air.
Elizabeth’s face was radiant with joy. She kneeled, and picked up the ecstatic, purring cat. ‘Oh, Tao!’ she said softly, and as she gathered him into her arms he wound his black needle-tipped paws lovingly around her neck. ‘Tao!’ she whispered, burying her nose in his soft, thyme-scented fur, and Tao tightened his grip in such an ecstasy of love that Elizabeth nearly choked.
Longridge had never thought of himself as being a particularly emotional man, but when the Labrador appeared an instant later, a gaunt, stare-coated shadow of the beautiful dog he had last seen, running as fast as his legs would carry him towards his master, all his soul shining out of sunken eyes, he felt a lump in his throat, and at the strange, inarticulate half-strangled noises that issued from the dog when he leaped at his master, and the expression on his friend’s face, he had to turn away and pretend to loosen Tao’s too loving paws.
Minutes passed; everyone had burst out talking and chattering excitedly, gathering around the dog to stroke and pat and reassure, until he too threw every vestige of restraint to the winds, and barked as if he would never stop, shivering violently, his eyes alight and alive once more and never leaving his master’s face. The cat, on Elizabeth’s shoulder, joined in with raucous howls; everyone laughed, talked or cried at once, and for a while there was pandemonium in the quiet wood.
Then, suddenly – as though the same thought had struck them all simultaneously – there was silence. No one dared to look at Peter. He was standing aside, aimlessly cracking a twig over and over again until it became a limp ribbon in his hands. He had not touched Luath, and turned away now when the dog at last came over, including him in an almost human round of greeting.
‘I’m glad he’s back, Dad,’ was all he said. ‘And your old Taocat, too!’ he added to Elizabeth, with a difficult smile. Elizabeth, the factual, the matter-of-fact, burst into tears. Peter scratched Tao behind the ears, awkward, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t expect anything else – I told you that. I tell you what,’ the boy continued, with a desperate cheerfulness, avoiding the eyes of his family, ‘you go down – I’ll catch up with you later. I want to go back to the Lookout and see if I can get a decent picture of that whisky-jack.’
There will never be a more blurred picture of a whisky-jack, said Uncle John grimly to himself. On an impulse he spoke aloud.
‘How about if I came too, Peter? I could throw the crumbs and perhaps bring the bird nearer?’ Even as he spoke he could have bitten back the words, expecting a rebuff, but to his surprise the boy accepted his offer.
They watched the rest of the family wending their way down the trail, Tao still clutched in Elizabeth’s arms, gentle worshipping Luath restored at last to the longed-for position at his master’s heels.
The two remaining now returned to Lookout Point. They took some photographs. They prised an odd-shaped fungus growth off a tree. They found, incredibly, the cylindrical core of a diamond drill. And all the time they talked: they talked of rockets, orbits, space; gravely they pondered the seven stomachs of a cow; tomorrow’s weather; but neither mentioned dogs.
Now, still talking, they were back at the fork of the trail; Longridge looked surreptitiously at his watch: it was time to go. He looked at Peter. ‘We’d better g—’ he started to say, but his voice trailed off as he saw the expression on the face of the tense, frozen boy beside him, then followed the direction of his gaze . . .
Down the trail, out of the darkness of the bush and into the light of the slanting bars of sunlight, jogging along with his peculiar nautical roll, came – Ch. Boroughcastle Brigadier of Doune.
Boroughcastle Brigadier’s ragged banner of a tail streamed out behind him, his battle-scarred ears were upright and forward, and his noble pink and black nose twitched, straining to encompass all that his short gaze was denied. Thin and tired, hopeful, happy – and hungry, his remarkable face alight with expectation – the old warrior was returning from the wilderness. Bodger, beautiful for once, was coming as fast as he could.
He broke into a run, faster and faster, until the years fell away, and he hurled himself towards Peter.
And as he had never run before, as though he would outdistance time itself, Peter was running towards his dog.
OSBERT
by Noel Streatfeild
Noel Streatfeild was one of my favourite authors when I was young. I’ve collected copies of her books for years. You might have read her brilliant book Ballet Shoes or perhaps seen special reprints of The Circus is Coming or White Boots or Tennis Shoes. They’re all fantastic family stories aimed at eight-to-twelve-year-olds – but she also wrote occasional books for younger children.
I like a quirky little book about a dog called Osbert. He’s a black poodle – but his hair has forgotten to curl. I love his special shaggy look, but he’s considered not smart enough to go to a stylish wedding with his family. However, Monsieur Toto, the ladies’ hairdresser, comes to the rescue.
It’s a sweet story – though if I ever had a poodle, I’d give him a simple all-over lamb cut.
OSBERT
It was the day before Aunt Cathy’s wedding. Everything glistened and gleamed with excitement. Then the blow fell. Father said: ‘We must get some neighbor to take Osbert tomorrow.’
Osbert had been in the family since he was a month old. When first he had come to the house it had been thought that maybe he would develop into some kind of terrier. As he grew, it was discovered he was mostly black poodle whose hair had forgotten to curl. He was as much a part of the family as the children. It was impossible to think of him missing anything that was going on. Peter gasped.
‘Goodness, Dad, that’s an awfully mean th
ing to say even in fun.’
Ann, the eldest, left the breakfast table. She put her arms round Osbert’s neck.
‘Don’t you listen, old man, of course you’ll be here for the wedding.’
The face of Andrew, the youngest, was red as a geranium with indignation.
‘And you’re going to have a great big slice of wedding cake all to yourself.’
The next youngest, Jane, looked severely at her father.
‘If anyone but us was listening they might think you meant it.’
Their father hated the children to think him mean, but Osbert was really a very queer-looking dog to attend a smart wedding. He put on his most off-to-the-office-don’t-stop-me-now look.
‘It’s no good arguing. Osbert is to be away all tomorrow. I leave it to you to fix.’
The children went into committee.
‘Fancy,’ Ann said, ‘not inviting him just because he’s homely.’
Peter kicked angrily at the table leg.
‘A fat lot of guests would be coming to this wedding if everybody who was homely wasn’t invited.’
Jane sighed.
‘If only he had curly hair like other poodles.’
Ann jumped.
‘Fetch your money-boxes.’
Andrew asked: ‘What for?’
Ann skipped with pride at her good idea.
‘To take Osbert to the hairdresser.’
Monsieur Toto had been doing ladies’ hair all day. He was hot, and glad it was time to shut his shop. Then his doorbell clanged. He did not look round to see who had come in.
‘I’m closed. If you wish anything, come in another day.’
Peter, as the eldest male, was carrying the money. He laid it down slowly. It was a most impressive sight. The entire savings of four money-boxes for nearly a year. Four dollar bills, two half-dollars, seventeen quarters, thirty-seven dimes, and ten nickels.
Monsieur Toto turned at the clink of money. Ann’s words fell over each other.
‘All this is for you if you will make Osbert beautiful.’
‘Which is Osbert?’
The children did not speak. They pointed. Monsieur Toto gulped. There was a glassy look in his eyes. The children said all together: ‘Curls.’
Monsieur Toto was tired. Osbert had a great deal of hair and all of it very straight.
‘That is impossible.’
Jane gave a despairing howl. She knelt by Osbert, the tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Darling, darling Osbert, he won’t do it. He won’t do it.’
Monsieur Toto hated to see a child cry. ‘Let me hear exactly why you wish Osbert curled, but, mind you, this is discussion only. I promise nothing.’
It was the wedding morning. The sun shone, men came and arranged flowers and silver bells. The children’s mother fussed in and out of the kitchen. Aunt Cathy ran about arranging her wedding presents. Happiness could be felt like a soft wind. Only the children could not enjoy the day. They could think of nothing but twelve o’clock. At twelve o’clock Monsieur Toto had said Osbert might be fetched. It was a difficult job, for at twelve o’clock the girls should be putting on their pink bridesmaids’ dresses and the boys their best suits. It had been decided that Peter was the one most easily to be spared. They hoped their mother would be so busy fussing over the girls she might not notice that he was not there.
Their mother did notice, for at one o’clock relations would arrive.
‘Where,’ she asked, ‘is Peter?’
The children did not answer, so she called their father. He asked, too: ‘Where is Peter?’
Ann saw they had to confess.
‘He’s gone to fetch Osbert.’
Father’s voice for once was angry.
‘Fetch Osbert! But I said Osbert was to go to a neighbor.’
Ann nodded.
‘I know, but we . . . we thought . . .’
There were feet running up the path. Peter opened the front door, but did not himself come in. Instead, in walked a dog who, for a moment, nobody recognized.
Monsieur Toto had done a wonderful job. He had given Osbert a permanent wave. Where once had been lank hair were now little tight curls. He had shampooed him with a very expensive shampoo. He had clipped him. His legs now seemed to be wearing ebony cowboy trousers. His tail had been shaved except for the very tip where there was a bunch of curls. Parts of the rest of him had been clipped, but not his head. On that was a festoon of curls tied with a yellow bow. In the bow was fastened a spray of orange blossom.
The wedding started. When every guest had arrived, a photographer came to take pictures of the wedding group.
The bride and bridegroom.
The groom’s father and mother.
The children’s father and mother.
Ann and Jane, gorgeous in pink.
Andrew and Peter, curiously tidy and washed. But what held the eyes of all the guests was the center of the group. Sitting in front of the bride and groom and trying not to look self-conscious was Osbert. A paragon of a dog. Glistening, yellow-bowed perfection.
The guests forgot their party manners. They even forgot to say, ‘Bless the bride.’ Instead, there burst from them a thought they could not hold back.
‘Surely that is the most beautiful dog in the world.’
A DOG SO SMALL
by Philippa Pearce
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.