Missing...

One chilly May morning in 1963 my grandfather walked up to our farmhouse at the edge of the Peak District National Park to take our dog, Chip, for a walk.  He didn’t return.
 
At first, the family assumed he’d chosen a longer route than usual.  Although cold, the day was fine and the views across the moors were spectacular.  Grandad enjoyed walking.  In middle age he regularly walked seven or eight miles to work each day in every kind of weather.   Now, at eighty-three, he walked for pleasure, a few miles on most days.  The dog, too, enjoyed a good long ramble.  In those days traffic was a rarity along the country roads and Chip was obedient, walking to heel when needed.  No need for a lead.
 
After three or four hours Mum became worried.  She called Dad in from the fields to tell him his father had gone out with the dog and not come back.  Dad went for a tour round, expecting to see his father at every crossroads.  But there was no sign of him or the dog.  My uncle was called in.  He had a van, the only vehicle in the family.  Dad and he drove along every road leading from our house without success.  They cast wider, returning only to check if Grandad had returned.  We had no phone and no way to contact the searchers.  But there was nothing to report.  The old man and the dog were missing.
 
A family conference was held.  Grandma was consulted.  As the family matriarch, she had the final say in every situation.  She decided the police needed to be informed.  They came.  Two kindly coppers, taking details.  What was Grandad wearing?  What did the dog look like?  Had Grandad done anything like this before?  Was he likely to run away from home?  Could he be confused?  Disorientated?
 
My parents answered, every question making the unthinkable seem more possible.  Something had happened.  Something which prevented Grandad from coming home.  Visions of him lying ill loomed.  Fears, thrust away, that he might be injured or dead.  My father’s face aged, looking drawn and haggard.  We children, too young to understand, knew only that the atmosphere in the house had changed.  A feeling of dread permeated the air.

Farmers around the Peak District were contacted, asked to search barns and check little used lanes.  Dad scoured the miles of black dry-stone walls which threaded the hillsides, dreading and hoping to find his father huddled in the lee of a bleak stone wall.  It seemed impossible that an elderly man and a large dog could disappear so completely.  But when we looked out at the endless miles of barren moors, the knowledge that he could be anywhere in that limitless space seeped in.  He might never be found.
 
My other uncle was alerted, came steaming up from his farm in Warwickshire.  Many long miles, in the days before the motorways were built.  The local paper reported that James Pepper, an elderly farmer, was missing.  Some of them misreported his name as John. Police scoured the moors.  Search parties of friends, neighbours, even strangers joined in.  No sign.  The days were cold, the nights chillier.  After two days, my father was interviewed on TV about his missing father.  He begged anyone who might have information to get in touch.  He looked a decade older.  A police helicopter was called in and scanned acres of moor, to no effect.  National newspapers took up the story and a few intrepid reporters turned up at our door, miles from nowhere, many miles from their usual haunts.
 
Over twelve miles away, children playing saw a large brown and white dog, near the banks of a canal.  Later a lad, on his way to work, saw the dog, a collie cross.  The dog came near and seemed anxious.  He shooed it away and continued his walk to work. The next day, the dog was there again, in the same place.  It came close, tail wagging and friendly.  He looked around but could see no sign of the owner.  That was not unusual at a time when dogs were allowed to roam freely.  But something about this dog drew his attention.   It moved away then looked back as if asking him to follow.
 
Feeling foolish, the lad followed.  The area was run down.  An industrial wasteland near a railway track, rough grass running down to the towpath alongside the canal.  The lad followed the dog, half inclined to turn back but curious.  It seemed as if the dog wanted to show him something.  When he saw the crumpled form he stood for a moment, in shock, then ran to help.  An old man in a tweed jacket was lying by the canal.  Nearby a sturdy walking stick and the man’s flat cap.  The dog licked the man’s face and he stirred.
 
For three nights, Chip had curled up around Grandad’s body, using his warmth to keep the old man alive.  Grandad was taken to hospital and checked for hypothermia.  The staff were amazed he was in such good shape after three lonely nights in the open.  The dog was taken to a local shelter and given a good meal.  And, finally, Dad was given the news he had started to believe he would never hear.  His father was found.  Alive.
 
Grandad had walked back to an area where he used to live as a boy, crossing hills, roads, by-passing towns, to the far side of Sheffield.  And our dog had gone with him, step for step.  Uncomplaining.  A deep instinct making him shelter his master’s body from the cold.  Despite his hunger, he had stayed with Grandad for three days and three nights, only leaving him during the day to look for help.  To find someone who could do what a dog cannot.  To let us know where they were.
 
I don’t remember much about the aftermath.  Only that my father looked like himself again.  And we had to go on walks with Grandad when he came to take the dog out.  Grandad didn’t remember much about those three days and nights.  The only thing he could say about the whole episode was: ‘Eeeh!  The dog.  He was warm.’
 
Chip became, for a few short days, a story in the National Press.  A hero.  But we didn’t need telling.  We knew.

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