10 April 1918
Etaples
Stanley and Pistol were making their way towards the dunes. Yesterday Hamish had told Stanley that his brother James had orders to go up to the Front, that he too was going up, would be serving under James. Two brothers working together. Stanley, after so many months away from home, had still not found Tom. There’d still been no letter. Nothing from Father Bill either, from the priest with the shiny spurs. Nothing from anyone. Surely he’d hear any minute now from Tom. As soon as Lara Bird had told Tom, then surely he’d have written.
Stanley felt a wet nose in his hand. The dog was nuzzling him. The dog’s strange and immediate affection for Stanley felt at times like a burden too heavy, too great for so empty a heart, but he said with forced jollity, ‘Obstacle course. Obstacle course again for you today.’ Pistol’s brows flickered and his tail circled. In spite of himself, Stanley smiled as he handed the dog over to a kennel orderly to lead away.
Each day those tufts of new hair had grown thicker, were deepening to slate grey, but the coat was all wrong, so long and rough and unfamiliar after the trim velvet pile of Bones. That and Pistol’s slightness. Where Stanley would always expect a solid, muscular weight against his legs, there instead would be this quicksilver shadow, all limb and nose.
The signal was given and the dogs were unleashed by the orderlies. Pistol was off, soaring over the first jump, over the second, then the third and highest, a five-bar gate, with grace and joy and ease, hind legs tucked. The dog could jump like a stag, Stanley had to admit to himself; he’d never seen a dog jump like that.
They were all racing home now, hurtling down through the pinewoods, flinging themselves on to the sand and over the dunes. There was Pistol. Stanley caught his breath: the dog had a way of surprising him – that gallop was so very fast, so fast you could barely tell, now, he was a dog, his hind legs thrusting springs that reached his chin at each take-off. He was at the front, a flurry of dogs in his wake, open-jawed, legs coalescing in an eternally suspended step. He smiled as he ran, his long jaws open, silvery tail aft like a banner, those soft breech feathers flying, back arched, the endless forelegs outstretched.
‘He’s a new dog, Keeper Ryder.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Thorne had joined Stanley. ‘Took to you from the start. He’s had a rough time, though. Be gentle with him.’ Thorne paused a little before saying, ‘Remember that all he does, he does for you.’
Stanley made a sort of involuntary, snorting sound. The responsibility for this dog was too much for so numb and glazed a heart as his own, but he recovered himself and looked up and said simply, ‘Yes, sir.’
When Pistol arrived, eyes narrowed, panting and breathless and grinning, Stanley was caught up, just a little, in the dog’s silvery joy.
Later, holding a tin of apricots and some chocolate, Stanley went once again to the Post Office, just in case there was a letter. As he approached, the postal orderly raised an arm, beckoning. He looked pleased to be able to give Stanley good news, after so many days of saying a cheerful ‘Sorry, nothing today’.
Stanley’s heart was in his mouth as he took the envelope, an official one, a letter telegram, stamped ‘URGENT BEF. ON ACTIVE SERVICE’ across the top left with an officer’s stamp dated 9 April. Tom! It must be from Tom. Why had he sent a letter telegram? He’d know that the Censor would read every word. There were lots of British stamps fixed to the telegram itself, 2d for every word – lots of stamps and, for a telegram, lots of words. Stanley ripped it open.
Tom didn’t ask how his little brother was, what work he was doing, if he was safe. It was so unlike the Tom he loved; so angry - that was it - so angry. Tom didn’t want to see Stanley, just wanted him back because Da had disappeared. And that seemed to be all Stanley’s fault. ‘There is more at stake here than a puppy.’ Tom meant that something might happen to Da. Tom was more concerned for Da than for his brother.
Shocked, Stanley leaned for support against a stack of crates of provisions. Could Tom not see that Stanley had signed up because he needed to be with Tom? ‘No,’ he said aloud, furious and wounded. ‘No. I am not going home.’ He screwed the telegram into an angry ball. He couldn’t count on Tom any more than he could on Da.
Stanley marched furiously towards his tent. Too much, too much, it was too much to bear. It wasn’t his fault that Da had disappeared. He marched faster, swinging his arms, wishing he could breathe a dragon’s fire, to warn men, to warn the world, to warn Tom off him.
He reached his tent, heard chatter and laughter, and stopped. He couldn’t go in. Couldn’t go where men talked and laughed and read their brothers’, sisters’, mothers’ letters to each other. He turned, gazing blankly at the immense, lonesome sea of tents. Lost and purposeless he stood, still holding the scrunched telegram, the apricots and the chocolate. There was nowhere to be alone in a camp of ten thousand men.
Stanley drifted aimlessly along the paths he knew until he found himself at Central Kennels and he went, unthinking, to his dog’s kennel. He’d not have to talk to the dog. He could be silent and yet not be alone. If Tom didn’t want his brother, if Da didn’t want his son, the dog could have him. Stanley could belong to the strange grey dog.
Pistol was there waiting for Stanley as though he’d expected him all along, as though he’d wait all night, if necessary. Without greeting him, Stanley slumped against the kennel, and just sat, with the apricots on his lap and the telegram in his hand. Bones would have been interested in the chocolate, but Pistol wasn’t.
‘Strange thing you are,’ he said, aware how intently Pistol was watching his face, his every movement. ‘More interested in me than in chocolate, eh?’ he said amused. If he kept still, Stanley was thinking, the dog kept still; if he moved, the dog moved. Stanley tested him. If he looked to the right would Pistol look to the right? Yes. If he looked to the left, would Pistol look to the left? Yes.
‘You’d be better off thinking about chocolate than me,’ he said sadly.
Stanley covered his face with his hands, wishing his heart were not so numb.
The tin of apricots rolled off his lap. Stanley’s hand was in his pocket, gripping the matchbox he’d carried since leaving home, the one which held the reed whistle. Da had never picked up the whistle Stanley had made for him – nothing meant anything to Da any more, not now that all the love had gone out of him and the anger had come into him.
The matchbox was rhomboid now after being squished by the Mills bombs, the words ‘Bryant & May’ scarcely legible. Stanley forced it open, saw the reed whistle, saw in it the thorn trees and valleys and stone walls of home.
Miserable, Stanley put the whistle to his lips and blew, feeling the vibration of the reed. The call his da had taught him bubbled, bright and clear in the dusty air. Stanley’s longing for home ballooned. Pistol leaped up at the whistle, frantic, nuzzling Stanley. Still lost in thoughts of Thornley, Stanley shook him off, irritated.
‘Down, boy . . . Down. Inside. Kennel.’
Leaving the apricots and the chocolate on the ground, Stanley rose. Holding the reed and the telegram, he walked away, glancing back only to ensure the dog didn’t follow. Seeing the crestfallen ears, the light, graceful legs and hesitant tail, Stanley turned back and stroked the rough skin where the mange had been.