17. The Real Question

Of course, being a Londoner, he had heard of Hampstead Heath, and several times recently Charlie, May, or Dilys had mentioned its nearness to their part of North London; but Ben had paid no particular attention. He had even been on the Heath once, years before, when he was very little. Mr and Mrs Blewitt had taken their three eldest children (Paul and Frankie were not yet born) to the August Bank Holiday Fair, held on part of the Heath. There had been merry-go-rounds and coconut shies and crowds through which May and Dilys had dragged him, each holding one of his hands. That was really all he remembered.

This time there was no fair, no dense crowds of people: he was on his own on the open Heath.

For a while he would follow a path, never asphalted or gravelled, never ruled straight to any plan. The ways across Hampstead Heath are mostly tracks that go where Londoners’ feet have made them go, muddy in winter, dusty and scuffed in summer. Then he would cut across grass and through bushes to reach some point of vantage: there were no notices prohibiting it. The grass on Hampstead Heath is tough, tousled, wild, free – green and springy at the time of year when Ben trod it; later, brown and trampled and tired, longing for the repose of winter, whose damps also rot away the litter left by careless people. The trees and bushes on the Heath seem to grow where they themselves have chosen, and in irregular shapes comfortable to themselves. Ben liked them like that.

There are slippery slopes and potholes, which the wary avoid, for fear of twisting an ankle; but Ben was agile. There are marshy places in hollows, with no notices warning people that they may get their feet wet. Ben got his feet wet, and did not care.

He wandered up and down, round and round, farther and farther. He came to the slow, wide dip of heathland beyond which Kenwood House presents its bland front. He stared, and then turned away, and on. Wherever he went he saw people – plenty of people on such a fine afternoon; but the Heath is never overcrowded. The sun was hot for the time of year, and some people were even lying on the grass: elderly men on spread-out waterproofs, Sunday newspapers over their faces; young lovers in their embraces, careless of rheumatism from damp grass or dazzle from the sun. A mother sat knitting while her baby practised walking. A boy flew a kite. Children at play called to each other over wide spaces. And Ben saw dogs – dogs that ran freely, barking without correction. You were not even sure to whom any particular dog belonged until a distant shout recalled him.

Ben roved on, by a stretch of water and men fishing in it and a public house beyond. Then he climbed a slope up to a road and traffic – traffic that moved on all sides of a pond where fathers and children sailed boats. Beyond this a flagstaff and flag reared itself up; and beyond again was more grass, with bushes, sloping away to more treetops. So the Heath still went on.

But Ben paused. From the feel of his legs, he knew that he had come a long way, and he knew that the time was late from the feel of his stomach, which was empty for May’s tea. Besides, he had seen enough already; the place was big enough – vast and wild. And it still went on.

He turned round, set off impetuously back, realized that he did not know the way after all his indirect wanderings, and then saw the keeper – the first he had seen since entering upon the Heath. He must be some kind of park-keeper, from his brown uniform and the metal badge on the front of his hat. He had just strolled up one of the paths and was now standing a moment, watching the people or nothing in particular.

In the ordinary course of things, Ben would not have asked his way of a park-keeper. He did not like them. But now he wanted to lead up to a more important – a vital – question which only a park-keeper could answer with authority.

He edged up to him: ‘Please!’

‘Yes?’

‘Please, could you tell me the way to get back?’

Ben described the railway bridge, the sports pavilion and playground, the grassy hill –

‘You want Parliament Hill,’ said the keeper, and pointed his direction out to him.

Ben thanked him, set off slowly, came back, and said: ‘Please!’

‘What is it now?’

But Ben lacked the courage for the real question. He invented a substitute: ‘I wanted to know what flag it is up there – please.’

‘It’s our flag – the London County Council house-flag.’

‘Oh. Why is it flying today?’

‘We fly it every day, unless we fly the Union Jack instead. Anything else you want to know?’

Yes, indeed, if only he dared ask; but – ‘No, thank you – no – at least, that is – what do you fly the Union Jack for, then?’

‘Special occasions: anniversary of the accession of the Queen; Queen’s birthday; Queen’s wedding-day; birthday of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother; opening of Parliament –’ He was slowing up in his list, eyeing Ben.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Ben.

Now or never: if he hesitated again, the keeper would decide that he was thinking up questions just to be impertinent. He would ask Ben why he didn’t go home, now that he knew the direction. He would send him packing, with the really important question unasked, unanswered.

So, for the third time, and very quickly this time: ‘Please!’

‘Now, look here –’

‘Please – please: can anyone take a dog on the Heath and just let him run free? Are there no rules saying that dogs mustn’t do things?’

The park-keeper looked horrified. ‘No rules – no by-laws? Of course there are by-laws! We can’t have dogs getting out of control on the Heath.’ As the keeper spoke, two dogs – one in pursuit of the other – tore up the path on which he was standing. He stepped slightly aside to let them pass, never removing his gaze from Ben.

‘But how exactly must they not get out of control?’ Ben asked.

‘Biting people, mainly.’

Well, that was quite a reasonable rule: Ben began to feel cheerful.

‘Mind you, there’s one pretty severe regulation for some dogs. Have you a dog?’

It was the same difficult question that the librarian had once asked – difficult, now, in a different way. ‘I own a dog,’ said Ben; ‘but I haven’t got it.’

‘What kind?’

Ben thought of Chiquitito-Brown, and of his parentage. ‘It’s difficult to say. You see –’

‘Is it greyhound breed?’

Ben thought of Tilly and then of Toby; either of them might have some greyhound blood coursing secretly in their veins, but on the whole – ‘No, not greyhound.’

‘Your dog’s lucky. On Hampstead Heath greyhounds must wear muzzles.’

‘And other breeds of dogs, and just mongrels?’

‘Needn’t. Provided they’re kept under reasonable control, of course, as I’ve said.’

The same two dogs as before tore past again in the same pursuit, except that one was gaining on the other.

‘And no leads?’ asked Ben.

‘No. I’ve told you: provided they’re kept under control.’

A few yards from where Ben and the keeper stood, one of the two dogs had caught the other up, and they were now rolling and growling in a play-fight. Such an incident was beneath the keeper’s notice. He said to Ben: ‘Just remember, always under proper control on this Heath. And now cut along home the way I told you to go.’

Ben went running, light as air from the joy he felt. He was very late for tea, of course. Everyone had finished, except for Paul and Frankie, who were being held back from the remains saved for Ben. Everybody was cross with him: Paul and Frankie for his having come back at all, the others for his being so late. He explained that he had been walking around and forgotten the time.

They resumed conversation, and, when he had a moment free from eating cold, butter-soggy toast, Ben asked about the flat seen that afternoon: had they decided to take it?

‘Well …’ said Mrs Blewitt.

In short, they hadn’t decided. May and Dilys said it was a good flat, not expensive, especially for those parts; and Charlie said that if they didn’t take it, someone else soon would; and Mr Blewitt said that they might as well move there, if they had to move at all. But Mrs Blewitt was full of doubts. The place was poky, for one thing.

‘I didn’t see anything wrong with it,’ said Ben. ‘You said that little room was poky, but I didn’t think so. I’d like to sleep there; I like it; I like the house; I like where it is.’ He wanted them to know; he wanted to do all that lay within his poor means: ‘I’d like to live there.’

‘My!’ said May; and Charlie said, ‘You’ll soon have a voice as loud and clear as Big Ben’s!’

Everyone laughed at that; and Ben was glad that he had not spoken of wanting to live within reach of the Heath. They might have laughed at that too. His family were not unsympathetic; but they would not see the overwhelming importance of living near the Heath. Paul and Frankie might have a glimmering of understanding; but not his mother and father. His mother wanted a flat or house comfortable for the family and easy to run; his father wanted somewhere handy for his job. Of course, they would enjoy going on the Heath occasionally – on fine Sunday afternoons for a family stroll, for instance. But Ben would be on the Heath every morning before breakfast, every evening after school, every weekend, every day of the holidays. The Heath was a necessity to Ben – to Ben and his dog, the second and no less wonderful Chiquitito, Tilly’s puppy.

But nothing at all was decided yet.

There was only one more thing Ben could do to help forward his hopes. That evening, at home, he wrote a postcard to his grandfather: ‘Please keep my puppy for me. Will write more later.’ He posted the card on Monday morning; it would arrive with the Fitches on Tuesday.

On Tuesday Mrs Blewitt received a letter written by her father, with a long message for Ben. No less than three of Tilly’s remaining puppies had been disposed of: Spot, to the caretaker of the chapel in Little Barley; Cloudy to Mrs Perkins’s mother in Yellow Salden; and Mat to a friend of Bob Moss’s in Castleford.

That left only one puppy: Chiquitito-Brown.

‘Chiquitito!’ Ben whispered to himself, catching his breath at the narrowness of the shave; but he knew that he had been in time. His card must have crossed Grandpa’s letter in the post. Grandpa would be warned by now.

That Tuesday morning old Mr Fitch read Ben’s postcard aloud to his wife. Neither of them questioned keeping the puppy: it was Ben’s. ‘As long as he takes it away some day,’ said Granny. ‘That’s all.’

‘Well,’ said Grandpa, ‘it sounds to me as if he hopes to keep a dog in London, after all.’ The idea gripped him: he smiled; his fingers tapped a cheerful beat on the postcard; he was brimming with optimism and happiness for Ben.

‘All I hope is that he’s not due for any disappointment,’ said Mrs Fitch.