The Silver Witch

The men look up and see Tilda as she emerges from the mist. Her appearance startles them, and for a brief moment they stare, but are quickly over their surprise.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ the shorter one growls.

As she gets closer to the dog, Tilda can see a trickle of blood coming from its mouth. It is shaking with fear but unable to run away, as one of the men has hold of a chain that is fastened around the dog’s neck.

‘Why are you hurting her? What has she done that is so terrible?’

‘She’s useless,’ the dog’s tormenter tells Tilda. ‘She won’t do her job.’

‘Her job?’

The men exchange glances and Tilda realizes whatever activity they are engaged in is probably without the landowner’s permission.

‘Were you after foxes?’ she asks, though she knows this can’t be right.

‘Huh!’ the shorter man sneers, ‘this thing couldn’t catch a cold, never mind a fox.’

‘She’s a lurcher,’ the other youth points out, as if this explains anything. When Tilda remains blank he goes on. ‘She’s supposed to catch hares.’

‘Hares. But … why?’

At this both men lose their patience. ‘Look,’ says the nearest one, ‘it’s none of your business, okay? You don’t know about dogs.’

‘I know you don’t teach them anything by kicking their teeth out,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

The taller man yanks on the dog’s chain, forcing it to stagger to its unsteady feet. ‘Come on,’ he says to his companion, ‘let’s go. Stupid bitch!’ he spits, and Tilda can’t be sure if he is addressing the dog or her. The poor animal glances back as it is dragged away. It is still bleeding from the kick to its mouth, and also has a pronounced limp. The sight of its suffering is too much for Tilda.

‘Wait!’ she calls after them. ‘If you don’t want the dog, I’ll have it.’

The men pause and turn. ‘What do you want with it? Why should we give it to you?’

‘You’ve just said it’s useless at … hunting. Must cost a lot, feeding a dog like that. I’ll take it off your hands.’

‘Oh yeah? How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much are you gonna give us for her? She’s from a good line. They cost money, you know, working lurchers.’

‘Even useless ones?’

Both men scowl and begin to walk off. Tilda trots after them and catches up with the tall one holding the lead. She instinctively puts her hand on his arm.

‘Look, I haven’t got any money on me. But I’ll give her a good home. Save you the cost of the dog food. And the vet’s bills.’

The youth looks down at her hand and sees her watch.

‘I’ll take that for her,’ he says.

‘My watch? Oh, but it’s…’ She is going to say broken but then notices the hands are moving; it is working again. ‘… It was a present from my husband.’

The man shrugs. ‘Do you want the dog or don’t you?’

She hesitates for only a moment, thinking of Mat and how pleased he had been when he found the watch for her, and then knowing what he would want her to do. Slipping the watch from her wrist, she hands it over and takes the chain before the man can change his mind. She whistles softly at the dog to encourage it to go with her and is relieved when it limps along beside her quite willingly. She is aware of the men watching her as she struggles to help the dog over a low bit of hedge and back onto the path, and finds she is only breathing steadily again once she hears them stomping off across the field in the opposite direction.

It takes an age to reach the house, as the dog is lame, sore, and undernourished. Tilda’s running clothes are unequal to the chilliness of the morning without the warmth exertion would produce, so that by the time they arrive at the cottage both she and her new housemate are shivering. It follows her inside meekly. Only now does she realize she did not ask for the dog’s name. There is no tag on its chain collar, which has started to rub, so she takes it off.

‘What am I going to call you, pooch? You are a weedy thing. All skinny and gray and tufty. I know; Thistle! Yes. That’ll suit you. Now, what would you like to eat, eh, Thistle? What do lurcher dogs eat, I wonder?’

It feels strange, the sound of her own voice in the house she has only ever been alone in. Strange, but nice. She fetches a saucer of milk and the dog gives her a look that clearly says I’m not a cat, but drinks it all the same. Tilda empties a tin of tuna into a cereal bowl. It is wolfed down in seconds. The sight of the dog licking hungrily at the empty dish reminds her that she will have to buy more supplies soon. Without a car, this is not a simple task.

When Tilda had informed her parents of her intention to live at the cottage without Mat it was the first thing her mother had brought up.

‘How can you possibly live in such a remote place if you refuse to drive? Really, Tilda, it’s just not sensible. How will you shop?’

‘There’s a post office and stores in the village.’

‘You can’t live on canned food and chocolate bars.’

Wrong again, Mother.