I dont need a paralysed child muttered the bride, and strode away, her words echoing like distant church bells. She never imagined what would come next.
Somewhere in a foggy English hamlet, there lived a regular old man, a touch stooped from tending his vegetable garden. On Saturdays, hed take a nip of gin, just enough to warm his bones. He nursed a peculiar dream: to have a dog, not just any mongrel, but a true-bred English Mastiff, perhaps one from the south coast or some far-off Yorkshire estate. Hed have gone clear to Cornwall or the wild hills of Cumbria if it meant bringing such a beast home.
His name was Arthur Higgs. Whether Arthur was his Christian name or surname, or both, folks couldnt quite recall. Some called him Mr. Higgs, some just Higgs, and he never bothered to correct anyone. Every evening after digging potatoes or chucking weeds, hed perch on his weathered bench, remembering days gone by. Now and then, the local teenagers would gather, lured by tales of the old village from before everything changed.
Arthur lost his wife, Dorothy, years back. Heart trouble, the doctors said. They forbade her from having children, but she longed for a baby, more than anything. She bore him a son, but the birth left her frail, and from then on, Arthur did all the housework, wouldnt even let her carry a pint of milk home. No, no, hed admonish, strict doctors orders. He cared for the boy, cooked, cleaned, nursed her when she ailed.
Dorothy would moan, Youre embarrassing me, Arthur! The women will cackleme doing naught, you slaving about.
But the women envied her, whispering, Oh, Dottie. You ought to rent us your Arthur! Let us live your life, just for a day! Shed only smile. And with a smile, she drifted from this world. He found her cold in the morning. For three days, he wept inconsolably; then, he devoted himself to his son.
The boy, at fourteen, had begun that prickly age. After his stint in the army, he wed early and settled far away, wherever hed served. Thus, Arthur lived alone, finding solace in chats with the young folks by the garden gate.
Time ticked on, and news came that his son had sired a daughter. He waited for them to visit, but work, time, one excuse then another kept them away, and he knew his granddaughter only through faded snapshots.
Villagers noted how Arthur seemed gloomy, shadowedno longer joking, no longer seated by his gate. They asked, and learned hed received a telegram: his daughter-in-law wrote to say theyd crashed the car. His granddaughter, fifteen, lay gravely ill in hospital; his son was dead.
Poor Arthur, folk shook their heads in the village pubwas there any word to soothe such sorrow? He received condolences, but they fell as lightly as drizzle. He grieved for his son, but nothing could bring him back. Harder, though, was his worry for that granddaughterso young, and paralysed, lying in a hospital ward. He loved her regardless, though theyd never met. She resembled Dorothy in her youth, if the photos were true.
Arthur nearly set off for the distant town where the girl lay, but on the eve of his departure, a car came bumping up the lane. Two women dragged in a stretcher, hardly knocking as they barged through his door. He soon realised one was his late sons wifea stranger to him. Behind, they heaved in the stretched-out figure of his granddaughter. They dumped her on the sofa and turned to leave.
Shes completely paralysed, the daughter-in-law snapped. I dont need a child like this. Ive my own life aheadI can marry again and have a healthy child!
ButIm no nurse! Arthur stammered.
She doesnt need a doctor. They cant help her. She needs a carer. Dont want the hassle? Bury her alive, for all I careIm not squandering my life for her! And with a slam of the door, she vanished.
Youre no mother, thats for sure! Arthur roared after her.
At last, he understood why his son hadnt visited, with a wife like thatfit only for market-day rows, not cosy family gatherings. How his son wound up with such a shrew, hed never know. Not now. Had he known shed abandon her own daughter, Arthur wouldve rolled over in his grave.
Now, it was just him and the girl.
Indeed, she was wholly paralysed, but Arthur wasnt new to caring for othershed kept Dorothy, after all. Now his life had a new purpose: heal the girl.
Doctors were dumbfounded, unable to help, and discharged her from hospital. Her injuries were almost beyond survival, so only folk remedies and rural wisdom remained. There was no healer in his own village, and the nearest one was leagues awayimpossible to bring the girl, and the old herbalist wouldnt travel. So Arthur, nearly every Sunday, journeyed to the healer for herbs and tinctures, dosing his granddaughter with hope and old magic.
More than a year passed. She lay stiff beneath her blanket, able to murmur only unintelligible sounds. Sometimes Arthur spotted a tear sliding down her cheek. In those moments, his heart near burstshe must miss her mother and father, he thought. Hed read her novels and talk endlessly, but she couldnt answer, and grief seeped into both their bones.
One evening, something surreal happened. Arthur, as usual, sat by the bed, when raucous laughter and boots thudded on his porchhed forgotten to latch the door. A clutch of drunken youths, stumbling home from the village disco, saw his light and, knowing of the paralysed girl, decided to entertain themselves, figuring she couldnt protest.
Oi, old man! slurred the rowdiest, Off with the blanket, spread her legswell draw straws for who goes first!
Mercy, boys, shes but fifteen! Arthur protested.
Hold on, need to brush my teeth! he exclaimed, rushing off to the kitchen. But Arthur flung open the cellar and bellowed, Fetch!
From the dark, a colossal mastiff leapt forth, a blur of jowls and fury, snatching at trouser legs left and rightnearly nipped the ringleader where it most hurts, tore the seat out of every pair of pants. The yobs dashed through the village in their underpants, chased by the dog, while neighbours roared with laughter. The beast bounded out the window, hounding them to the very edge of town.
Coming back inside, Arthur was dumbstruck to find his granddaughter sitting up, shouting through the window:
Winston! Winston! Hold him, Grandpa, dont let him run away!
Arthur found himself weeping with joy. From that night, the girl improved, soon walking on her own. Whether the healers potions or the fright with the dog sparked her recovery, she blossomed, chatting away after her long silence. Shed stored up years of words. As for Winston the mastiff, how had he come to Arthur?
Simple, really. Winston had lived with Arthurs son, but when the tragedy struck, the callous daughter-in-law tossed out both dog and child. She brought Winston along with the girl, but said nothing to Arthur. When she left, he found the dog waiting at the gateso thin, miserable, eyes leaking genuine tears like a grieving cow. Arthur hadnt even known his son kept a dog. He couldnt send Winston awayhe took him in as his own.
Winston was loyal as the day is long, and that hellishly hot summer, Arthur kept him in the cellar to spare him the heat, letting him out as dusk fell. That evening, Winston was still below, otherwise those ruffians would never have slipped through the door.
Later, the girl told Arthur that when shed cried, it was because she missed Winston. He always kept the dog outside, never in her room, and shed wanted to tell him how lonely she felt.
After Winston chased off the hooligans, he returned home and lavished kisses on his little mistress, overjoyed to see her again. Hed missed her terribly, too. So from then on, they lived together: Arthur, his granddaughter, and Winston. As for the girls mother, they never heard another word of her.
