Four Ducks on a Pond (9 page)

Grandpop with Arnish and Flora outside the engine house

So they decided that next year, if John was still away, they’d make a rich fruit cake instead, which would travel better. So that was settled.

Fionna’s birthday presents were always placed in the very same Moses basket that had been her first cradle when she was born. And when she woke up, she would carry the basket to Kitten and
Grandpop’s room, where the family would sing ‘Happy Birthday’ before watching her open her presents. And I must tell you that Fionna was just as excited over other people’s
birthdays as she was over her own, and when it was she singing ‘Happy Birthday’ instead of being sung to, she put so much spirit in it that would ensure the lucky person being happy for
days and days.

The birthday cake looked just lovely, with its candles lighted (Puddy had drawn the curtain to make the dining-room dark), and there were meringues and all Fionna’s other favourite things
for tea. And the family sang ‘Happy Birthday’ all over again, although her birthday only had a few hours left by now. And soon, almost too soon after tea, there was the birthday dinner,
with one of the brown Rhode Island hens that hadn’t laid for ages made into a casserole, as she was too tough to roast.

And that night John telephoned from Stirling Castle and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ twice through in spite of the pips. So Fionna felt almost as if he had been with her after all. And she
thought it the nicest birthday she had ever had. A thought, I may say, she somehow seems to have every year.

Before Margie returned to London, she helped to bring in the hay, raking it up after Puddy had cut it down with the cutter attachment on Puffing Billy and forming it first into little stooks,
and then, helped by Puddy and Fionna and Grandpop, into big ricks. Fionna’s job was to stand on top of the rick, receiving the hay the others tossed up to her, and bouncing on it, to compress
it and make room for more. It was a wonderful job, and she made the most of it. Sitting quietly nearby, I was sometimes afraid she would bounce right off and land on the ground. But she
didn’t.

There were also the peats, which had been cut earlier in the year, to be brought in from the peat moss behind the house. These were stacked near the back door, and the family had to carry them
in sacks on their backs as Corrie wasn’t here, with her panniers, to do the job for them.

One of the ducks and one of the drakes helped to make Margie’s last supper at home a gala occasion. I don’t know if ‘helped’ is the right word, because it implies free
will and desire on the part of the helper, and I’m afraid there was no free will about the ducks’ presence that night. Indeed, they protested loudly when Grandpop caught them and tied
up their legs, and handed them over to Johnnie-the-Postman who obligingly acted as poultry executioner in the district. It was a convenient arrangement, as he delivered the letters, then wrung the
bird’s neck, so he didn’t have to make a special visit. Doing it in the course of his work made the whole thing less morbid, except, perhaps, for the victim. However, he was skilled at
the job, so I don’t suppose it hurt, though I’m glad it won’t ever happen to me. It’s a mercy people don’t eat cats.

Green peas and apple sauce traditionally go with duck, and so they did that night. And Puddy made excellent meringues, which Kitten filled with goat’s cream. And Carla and I were not
forgotten. So the whole evening went well and was a memorable occasion.

I’m afraid I overslept the next morning, so I did not see Margie leave by the mail bus, which passes our gate at 7.15 a.m. That is a very early hour at which to start a journey, and the
bus would bump over the rough roads for nearly two hours before arriving at Craignure, from which the brave little
Lochinvar
would take the travellers to Oban, and thence to the four corners
of the world – that is if they wanted to, and could find corners in a world the books in the cottage assure me is round.

That is a very long sentence, and because the
Lochinvar
is of supreme importance to the people in Mull, I feel that I must pause to tell you a little about her.

I’ve never seen the
Queen Elizabeth
or the
Queen Mary,
or any of the huge ocean-going ships, though the
Caronia
sometimes comes to Oban, with very rich tourists from
America, who buy all the tweed and woollens from the Oban shops and leave lots of dollars behind. But that is to diverge. What I’m trying to say is that compared with big ships, the
Lochinvar
is very small indeed. It carries mail and passengers and animals and cars between Oban and Tobermory daily, and although it is a little ship, the sea is often just as rough as it
is for the big ships, so to my mind the
Lochinvar
and all her crew deserve a big George Cross to hang on her little artificial funnel.

The passengers from Craignure could do with a little official recognition, too, because since there is no pier at Craignure they have to scramble into a motor boat, which transports them to the
Lochinvar,
then they have to scramble out of the motor boat and on to the
Lochinvar
, often in very heavy seas, so that this is no mean feat, especially for old or corpulent people.
(According to the grammar books in the cottage, the word ‘fat’ would be better English, but I think corpulent sounds more grand.)

The building of a pier at Craignure is one of the chief topics of discussion, and grumbles, on the island, and I understand has been so for years. I wouldn’t like to be a county
councillor. It must be so hopeless to convince people that what is desirable may not be financially possible. All the same, I hope that if the ferry boat one day sinks, none of my family will be on
it.

I pictured Margie bobbing across the water with the luggage and the mail bags, and maybe a live calf or two, neatly parcelled up in sacks, and I hoped her wound wouldn’t split open when
she jumped onto the
Lochinvar
. It couldn’t have done, or I’d have heard.

Soon after Margie left, a very sad thing happened indeed. I have told you about the succulent grass that grows at the edge of the bog, and how afraid I was that Corrieshellach might one day eat
too eagerly of it and sink into the bog too deeply to be able to struggle out. Well, just that very same thing happened to poor Iain, who, with Peter, had been grazing out on the common with a herd
of cattle he had made friends with. Nobody knows how it happened for, like Corrie, he had inherited an awareness of danger about bogs, but one morning his poor swollen body was found, deeply
imbedded, and it was clear that the more he had struggled to free himself, the deeper he had sunk in. It took seven men to pull him out and bury him, for his carcass was no use as meat, since he
had been drowned.

Perhaps you wonder how, with so few people about, it was possible to find some able-bodied men to carry out this job, so I’ll remind you that this is the Highlands, and although nobody
lights beacons or anything like that to summon help, somehow word gets around, and in next to no time willing helpers gather together, ready to toil till they drop in order to give a hand to anyone
in trouble.

So it was only Peter who went to the Bunessan cattle sale that autumn, and although he fetched a good price, the death of Iain had been a bad financial loss to Puddy, whose finances were never
up to much at the best of times. All the same, it was not the Savings Certificates she couldn’t buy that bothered Puddy; it was the thought that poor Iain had come to such a horrible end.
Puddy is too sentimental to be a successful farmer, so if ever she makes any money, it will need to be with the pools.

Soon after Fionna returned to school, Puddy went away for her annual holiday. This chapter is full of people going away, but it can’t be helped, since I am writing a true account of the
family, and not a fiction. Puddy’s annual holiday took place in October, and she chose it then so that she could go to the Horse of the Year Show in London. I have spoken of it before,
because of Corrieshellach’s ambitions to go there, but I’ll write of it again, even though you may accuse me of advertising it. That show gives Puddy so much pleasure that I’m
sure it deserves all the good things I can say about it. Anyhow, go to it yourself and see for yourself.

Writing about Puddy’s annual holiday makes it sound as if she only went away once a year. Of course she doesn’t. She has a week away here and there, sometimes taking Fionna back to
school, or going to some special parties, or to an extra horse show. She says it’s good to get the ashes out of her hair and wear party frocks again, and I must say she must collect up a good
deal of ash, because with all the fires we have, a whole tin tub-load goes out every day, and no matter which way the wind is blowing, or how careful Puddy is, when she tips them away they all seem
to blow back on her.

Carla is very sad when Puddy goes. She sits on the oak chest by the dining-room window all day long, watching for her to come back. But by the next day she decides waiting is no use, so she
follows round after Grandpop, and soon is quite happy again.

With Puddy away, Grandpop takes care of the goats and does the milking – not very easy since the milking stool is very low and stooping is sore on his back. But the goats do well under his
care, for he is never done feeding them. I must admit that he is also never done feeding me. I have only to look up at him wistfully, and he says, ‘Nicholas, the poor cat!’ and puts
some food in my dish. He also feeds Carla on tit-bits at every meal, and since she has no pride in her appearance she will soon not be a bitch but a bolster.

Kitten was in charge of the hens, and these fully justified all the care they had had as chickens. But I can’t say I care for hens. All day long they quarrel and sometimes even fight, and
although they lay good, big eggs, they have neither charm nor intelligence. The ducks, on the other hand, are most amiable creatures, obviously enjoying life to its full, which is as well, since
all are destined so soon to go to the pot.

Puddy returned, talking happily of Foxhunter and Tosca and all the other lovely horses she had seen, and Carla at once forsook Grandpop, which I thought was tactless and unfeeling of her, and I
consider he took it in very good part, for he still stuffed her with snacks. It was frosty now, and the crofters were shaking their heads because they hadn’t lifted their potatoes, and the
frost would ruin any that were not well buried in the ground.

In this frosty weather the loch looked like a mirror, and every day a flock of geese would fly over us from somewhere to somewhere. I have seen Puddy outside, gazing up entranced at the sight of
the wonderful formation flying. And, indeed, I feel a thrill myself at times when on a crisp sunny morning the beat of their wings and their strange cry echoes across the water. The swans, too,
were back, sometimes for a day or so, sometimes for a week. I must find a book about geese and swans, then I’ll know just what they do when they are not with us.

Puddy was kept busy with her veterinary medicines, which she kept in a cupboard in the scullery. Arnish had punctured an udder one day, when she climbed over some barbed wire over which she had
no right to climb. Her milk was trickling out of the hole, and I am sure she must have been in pain. But soon Puddy noticed what had happened, and after bathing the sore place with disinfectant,
she covered it with sticking plaster. And she milked Arnish oh, so gently, that Arnish felt no pain at all, and very soon she was well again and Puddy pulled off the plaster so skilfully that even
that didn’t hurt.

Seeing how careful Puddy was with Arnish gave me great confidence when, a while later, I suffered some mishap myself. A deep wound in my chest, brought about in an unfortunate encounter with
another cat, became septic, and a nasty abscess formed. At the same time I contracted a horrid itch on one leg, which, since I licked it, soon caused my skin to become raw and oozing. Puddy cut a
wide collar of cardboard, which she tied round my neck so that I could not lick, however hard I tried, and she bathed my sore leg with stuff out of one bottle, and she bathed the sore chest with
stuff out of another bottle; and very soon both my leg and chest were completely cured and have not troubled me since. And the cardboard collar, which might have caused me great fear, had I not
known and trusted Puddy, is neatly put in the veterinary cupboard, in case it should be needed again. But I’m resolved to be more careful next time.

If I used chapter headings, I would call this one ‘Farewells and Accidents’ and perhaps have a little quotation underneath, which I think very grand, and which I intend to use in my
next book. So I’ll end this with the biggest farewell of all, which came to us one night by telephone. It was from John. His regiment was suddenly ordered to an outpost of the Empire (yes, I
mean Empire; I’m a conservative cat) and he was to leave Britain at once, to put a stop to any trouble that might have started, or to scare the troublemakers into not starting at all. There
was no time for embarkation leave, no time for anything but this hurried goodbye.

And how long would he be away? Kitten yelled down the phone, for the line was very bad, as it often is here. There was no telling. Perhaps three years. It all depended on what the regiment had
to do when they got there.

And that, on a muffled and fading telephone call, was to be the last we would hear of John’s cheerful voice. For how long? Perhaps forever. I’ve been in a few scraps myself, and I
know.

One good thing came out of John’s posting to Overseas Services. As soon as it was known that the Communists were responsible for the trouble he was going to quell, Arnish
stopped all her Communist talk, and soon you’d think she’d been true-blue Conservative all her days. Arnish loved John dearly, and the thought that he might be in danger from the very
people she had so often praised, caused her both shame and anxiety. I could hear her telling Flora how easily one could be misled in political affairs, and how careful Flora must be in future
before she reached an opinion and lauded any political party of any kind.