While the house was still being built, the field was turning into a garden. There were five gardeners, and Patrick the Irish garden-boy, who gave me my first puppy. When I first saw the puppy I thought he was a grown-up dog because he was already much larger than Mother's Blenheim spaniels or Iris's fox terrier. 'He is only three months old, Miss Joan,' said Patrick proudly. 'Won't he be growing into a wonderful great dog, and he given the chance? Would you take him for a present now?'

The puppy was licking my face and I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything. 'But he's your puppy, Patrick. You mustn't give him to me.'

'And you don't have him, he'll be killed surely, so he will. Wouldn't he have been drowned in a sack before his eyes were open if I hadn't bought him for five shillings? Vexed me mother was at the sight of him, and now she's taken against the poor dog though he does no more harm than track a bit of dirt into the kitchen and fluster her chickens.'

I had to do a lot of persuading before I was allowed to have him, but Nanny Walpole, who had once looked after a child who had been badly bitten by a pekinese, persuaded Mother that the bigger the dog the more reliable it would be with children. Father named him Darby because I was called Joan. He grew and he grew, which was not surprising as his mother was a Mastiff and his father a Great Dane--until at last he was too big to sleep in the nursery, so a kennel was built for him near the greenhouses.

He never went to his kennel except at night until Nanny Walpole had to go away for two months because her sister was ill. A horrible 'temporary' came, called Nurse Vincent, who disliked dogs almost more than she disliked children.

The only person who got on with her was Lambal, the head gardener, whom I hated because he was always complaining to Mother that Darby's enormous footprints ruined his seed beds. Nurse Vincent was so bossy that I avoided her as much as possible, and the easiest way of doing so was to hide with Darby in his kennel and refuse to come out.

One day she lost her temper and asked Lambal to drag me out of it. He pinched my arm and I yelled. So Darby, who was being a lion defending its cub, bit him in the arm. It was not at all a bad bite. Darby wagged his tail to show me it was only a warning, but it tore Lambal's shirt and he was furious.

The red-faced, angry woman dragged me back to the house and shut me in my room for the rest of the day--being shut in my room without picture-books or toys was the worst punishment which was officially allowed. I knew Patrick would remember to take Darby his dinner so I was not really worried, only bored at wasting an afternoon indoors; until Mother brought my supper and sat cosily on the bed. This was unusual when I was in disgrace, and I began to be suspicious when, after vague generalisations about the importance of little girls learning to be unselfish, she told me that Darby had gone to look after a poor child who loved him even more than I did. The child was a cripple who had no legs. Darby was going to pull her about in a little cart with red wheels so that she could go to the beach. 'Some little girls are not lucky enough to have a goat-cart like yours,' she added persuasively.

'She can have the goat-cart and the goat, ' I said quickly, and dived under the bedclothes. Mother sighed and left me.

I lay huddled in the dark cave of blankets trying to think of a way Darby could be rescued. He must be shut up somewhere before being sent away. Patrick and I would find him, probably chained up without food or water in some horrible shed. We would call and call until he heard us and barked. We would break down the door and Patrick would cut the chain with a hacksaw. Darby would be hungry, so I must remember to steal a joint from the larder on my way out. There was bound to be a tap somewhere and he was clever at drinking from my cupped hands. We would find somewhere safe from grown-ups, and if any of them came to find us we would tell Darby to bite them until they ran away... I would explain to him that they needed biting, and hard.

I escaped from the house before breakfast, with a sirloin of beef which I could hardly carry and my pockets stuffed with provisions for the journey. I had decided we would go to Ireland, where Patrick said people were very kind to dogs, the larger the better. I found him in the stoke hole cleaning a spade, a red-eyed Patrick who told me the dreadful truth. Darby had been shot and Patrick had buried him.

Almost as terrible as Darby being dead was thinking that Father had given the order for his murder. The only comfort I had in that awful, endless day was the discovery that Father had only fallen into the trap of believing a grown-up. Lambal had seen an opportunity for revenge on Darby and me, and taken it. He had said that my dog had suddenly turned savage and would have gone for me if he had not come to my rescue. As soon as I told Father what had really happened he nearly cried he was so sorry, and let me listen while he sacked Lambal.

I used to visit Darby's grave in the shrubbery and talk to him, not because I thought the real him was still there, but because there must be something like a telephone connecting dead bodies with the people who used to live in them. This must be true, for otherwise why did my favourite housemaid go to visit her sister's grave on her day out? She took flowers and used to say, 'Poor love, she was ever so fond of peonies'--or sweet peas, or whatever the flowers happened to be.

Darby had never been fond of flowers, but so that he would not feel in any way neglected I put some on his grave every day. To be sure he heard me I lay flat on my face and talked right into the ground. My mouth sometimes got so gritty that I had to rinse it out in the water-butt.

Then I heard people talking about something which was soon to happen, something to do with flying. 'It's coming right over the house,' they said. As though it was important. I was only mildly interested until I heard someone say, 'It's the Flying Derby.' Then I knew why they were excited--but no one was nearly so excited as me! Darby was coming to fetch me: a Darby larger and more beautiful even than before, a Darby with wings, on whom I could ride to the real country where we both belonged. Horses sometimes grew wings, for I had seen one called Pegasus in a book, and dogs were much wiser than horses.

The days passed so slowly that every hour of them might have been the long, slow hour of afternoon rest,. But at last Darby's Day came. Trembling with excitement I stood with lots of other people on the flat roof of Seacourt. 'There it is!' someone shouted. Had I remembered everything? Yes, my magic china mouse was in my pocket and I had said good-bye to my rabbits.

There was a black speck dazzling in the eye of the sun. The sun made my eyes water... Or did I already know it was not Darby? I felt tears running down my face--people would see. I must run, run until I found somewhere to hide, before they stopped looking at the flying machine.

As I stumbled down the steep wooden stairs which led to the attics I heard someone say, 'What a difficult child--too much excitement. She must be over-tired.'

...The fact that someone as kind and clever as Father could be deceived by Lambal convinced me that I must never believe anything until I had proved it for myself.

SOURCE: Far Memory: the Autobiography of Joan Grant, 1956 (Ariel Press reprint, 1985), pp. 11-15.

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