Four Ducks on a Pond Read online

  Margie has a very important position in a film studio near the pet shop. She has had a big operation so she is home for some weeks, but usually she comes only for the summer holidays and for Christmas and Easter besides. When she arrived home, her face was very grey and she could hardly walk, and it made me very sad to see her like that. But already she is better, and every day I go out with her when she sets fire to the dead grass and rushes that clutter up the fields. The bending and stretching involved is good exercise for somebody who has had an operation. You may find this a useful hint if ever you have one, though of course I hope you won’t.

  Carla came rushing back into the kitchen, licking her lips and looking very pleased with herself. Grandpop had not noticed how long she had been out, as he was putting ashes in the tray he thoughtfully leaves for me when I have to spend the night at home. Carla sat very bolt upright, just under me. Her sharp sense of smell must have informed her that all I had had was milk, which normally she won’t touch, but she likes to sit there, staring at me as I drink, hoping to make me discomfited. In many ways Carla and I are the best of friends; often I share her bed and sometimes even her feeding-bowl, but I cannot deny that she has some nasty traits and can act in a very tiresome and petty way. And I hope that observation is not unkind.

  Puddy came into the kitchen and, taking the big torch-lantern from the dresser, went outside, and I could see by the trail of light that she went into the cottage. Presently she came back, carrying the brooder, which of course was all shut up now for the night. I could hear Grandpop in the back porch going ‘Hum, hum, hum’ and Puddy’s voice raised in explanation – the chicks would be better in the kitchen for the first few nights to make sure that they would be all right, even if the brooder lamp went out. Poor Puddy, she does picture every sort of disaster! I could tell by Grandpop’s ‘hum-hums’ that he thought she was fussing, and frankly so did I. But she put the brooder on the red table beside the Agamatic boiler, and I hoped she’d sleep the better for knowing it was there.

  Now John came in, and said he was hungry and wanted FOOD – I’ve printed it big, just like he says it. This simple statement was followed by a wild dance, with leaps in the air and clicking of heels, which John alone can execute, and which, he says, is his Russian dance. The noise he made of course brought Kitten and Fionna into the kitchen. Kitten is not related to me. She is married to Grandpop, and this is her pet-name, something to do with the Gaelic for dearest, for Kitten belongs to this house and always has done, and that’s why the family lives here. She is still very beautiful, although her inky black hair is now streaked with grey, and she is very temperamental, like all good Highlanders. Fionna says she is disappointing as a granny because she doesn’t wear a bonnet and shawl, but Fionna also allows that there’s something to be said for an old lady being slim and smart and agile, and able to do Highland dancing steps or a funny dance she calls her Fairy Dance, kept usually for birthdays or Christmas or to cheer up someone who is ill.

  Of course, when Kitten heard John wanted FOOD she got busy with the kettle and the bread-knife, although it was bedtime, and Grandpop was standing there looking at his watch and hum-humming about getting up in the morning.

  Margie was already in bed. She still went early, but I knew she would want to eat whatever the others were having, and, sure enough, Fionna began to lay the tray with six cups and saucers. I say ‘began’, for Fionna rarely finishes anything. She says something she wants to say, and by the time she’s said it, she’s wandered off and forgotten what she was doing. She’s at the age when children can’t talk without climbing absently about the furniture, or hugging whoever she is addressing and wanting to get round. Fionna is getting tall, but is slim and neat, when she is tidy, which is not often. Her chestnut hair is straight and straggly round her shoulders, and her eyes are the colour of peat. She has a slow, purring voice, and a wee bit of a Highland accent, which she gets from Kitten. She has a beautiful nature, which Puddy says she gets from her father. Fionna’s father is the man in the photograph on Puddy’s dressing-table. He is wearing uniform and medals and a badge with a world and a laurel leaf round it. Once a year, for a few days, Puddy fixes a poppy to the picture frame. Puddy is Fionna’s mummy. She is not a ‘puddy’ now, but she was when she was a little girl. She is not much bigger than Fionna, and has fair hair, usually wind-blown, and green-brown eyes, and she’s the one who mostly looks after us all. As I’ve said before, she worries a lot, and John says she’s very obstinate.

  I think I’ve managed to tell you something of all the people inside this house, though there’s not been much about Margie. That’s because, being ill, she is still a bit shadowy, but you’ll know more about her later. She is Puddy’s sister, and of course John’s as well, and Fionna calls her Aunt. She has dark hair and big blue eyes, and she has never married, because she didn’t want to, not because she couldn’t. And that, as you know very well, makes all the difference.

  Puddy had finished laying the tray, and Kitten was making the tea, while John cut hunks of bread and sloshed home-made butter and jam onto them. If anyone else did it like that, the result would be crude, but John has a knack of making anything he touches look appetising. I didn’t follow them upstairs, as I felt that Carla was in a bouncy mood, so I’d best avoid her. As soon as the creaking on the stair stopped, I knew they were safely in Margie’s bedroom, and I slipped over to Carla’s bed, which lives in an alcove in the scullery, where there are hot pipes, so it is very cosy. And there, believe it or not (as Grandpop would say), I stayed all night because nobody noticed me when they came downstairs to wash up, and Carla was willing to have me curled up beside her. It’s a lucky thing that Puddy came down very early in the morning to look at her chickens, because I had forgotten that Grandpop’s tray of ashes had been left in the backporch, and there was the scullery door and the kitchen door between me and it when I woke up. But Puddy arrived just in time, and I was able to go out with Carla, which is much better. Nobody would punish me for what they knew was not my fault, but all the same, I am an affectionate cat and I like to please.

  And here I come to the last member of the family. The last of all I mean, and not just the indoor ones. And this is the ‘pièce de résistance’ (I learnt that phrase from Heath’s Modern French Grammar in the cottage) for this is my very best friend. She was waiting for me at the back door, as Puddy always opened the paddock gate when there was a gale-warning so that the house could be used for shelter if required. Her breath came steamily from her nostrils in the cold morning air, and there was patience and affection in her kindly eyes. She moved very delicately as I stepped from the house because, being big and heavy, she is careful never to risk hurting me with a clumsy step. Yes, she is Corrieshellach, our Highland pony, silver dun, and thirteen hands three inches high. She greeted me with the low, Highland whinny that had first endeared her to me, and when I had done what I so urgently needed to do, I went with her round the end of the barn to the cosy spot she had been in all night, carefully out of the way of the wind. And she lay down slowly, ponderously, and shook her mane so that it lay in silvery streamers over her neck. And I climbed up on her and nestled against her, and closed my eyes, but took care to purr rapturously into her listening ear.

  So now you know why I like to be out at night – to see the things that interest me and to end up with my friend, who, of the whole family, is to me the dearest of all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The night had not been so stormy as we had expected. Of course, we so often have gale warnings that we don’t much bother about the gales when they come, unless the force of the wind is so great that it tears off the ridging from the house or barn and hurls it across the fields, or sucks the doors from the out-houses, or overturns the wheelbarrow, or whips the milking-stool from its place by the goat-house and carries it through the sky like a kite. All this happens, and often, but not last night. By daylight, the haystacks were still standing, and the big gate John had made for the big field, which was alway
s the first to blow down, was still in its place.

  Corrie, Fionna and the dog-cart

  I lay quietly on Corrieshellach’s shoulder, which rose and fell slowly as she breathed. It was deadly calm again, as it had been yesterday evening, and I could hear Puddy moving about in the scullery, making the morning tea, which presently she would take upstairs to the rest of the family. It was over an hour since she had come downstairs, but that was because of the chickens, and she would not want to wake the family so soon. She would have spent that hour sitting by the Aga, with Carla on her knee, and sometimes she would doze off, and sometimes tickle Carla’s ears. I knew, because once I had watched her through the window.

  ‘Nathaniel!’ Corrieshellach’s low voice startled me. She went on – ‘Nathaniel, I’ve chust been dreaming about John, and I do not like my dream at all. No, not at all.’

  I must tell you that Corrieshellach is Gaelic-speaking so that her English, such as it is, is very pure, very soft, and very carefully said.

  ‘I saw a letter come to the house, and then boxes leave, and goodbyes said. And John left the house, and by car too – not in the bus.’ She sighed. ‘I do not like it. Not at all.’

  Like so many Highlanders, Corrieshellach has the second sight, so her words chilled me considerably.

  ‘Och, he’ll be going for a visit,’ I said sharply. I wanted to convince myself, as well as Corrie. And I put in the ‘Och’ to make me feel a wee bit Highland too. I can do that with Corrie, because she never teases me about the trace of cockney accent I somehow can’t altogether lose.

  Later in the day I began to feel that it was nonsense to worry over Corrie’s dreams. The family had been as usual at breakfast, sitting round the kitchen table, which was covered with a brightly coloured checked cloth. The family always had breakfast in the kitchen, to save labour. I don’t know why they don’t save labour by eating there all the time, but people are funny that way.

  As they ate they argued about the endless topics they find to argue about, while bacon and eggs sizzled and spat in the pan on the Aga, ready to be served directly the porridge was eaten. Puddy had been late for breakfast as she’d had the chickens to feed as well as the hens to see to and the goats to milk. But she didn’t eat porridge, so that was all right. I knew, too, that she’d taken oats in a bucket to the big field, so that Corrieshellach would go in there, and the gate would be shut on her, to keep her from hanging round the kitchen door all day. I had often warned her not to be enticed with oats, but she was so greedy that she’d rather follow them to the field than have the endless snacks of bread and potatoes that came her way if she stayed near the house.

  After breakfast everyone had routine jobs to do. Kitten washed up, Fionna helped to clear the table, Puddy raked out and stoked the Aga and Agamatic, Grandpop went hum-humming off to his workshop, to do goodness knows what, and John went up to Margie’s room to collect her tray. He took a long time about this, as he would smoke a cigarette and listen to ‘Housewives’ Choice’ with with her before he brought down the tray to Kitten (who would have finished washing up by then). He would then go out and continue making the new hen-house.

  A lot of cleaning goes on in the house every day. I often wonder if it is really necessary, and why the family are so fussy about it, for I have often noticed that they are not so clean in their persons as I am. I wash myself thoroughly at least four times a day, but except for their hands, I don’t think they wash more than twice.

  Carla of course brings a great deal of mud into the house, as she follows Puddy out to collect the coke and throw away the ashes, and as it is so often wet outside, Carla’s very feathery paws splodge a route of mud through the kitchen. Then Kitten gets cross and says why doesn’t Puddy leave Carla indoors? Puddy tries to do this, and Carla yowls until she has to be let out. And so it goes on, day after day.

  A word about Carla’s feathers. You may think, as I used to do, that feathers belonged only to birds, but I’ve learnt that the long fluffy hair on a spaniel’s legs are called feathers too. Whether or not the same is the case in other breeds, I couldn’t tell you.

  Margie arrived downstairs in time to make the coffee and sandwiches, which is all the family have for lunch. Sometimes she uses fish-paste, which I have a liking for, so I would sit quietly, with my tail tucked neatly round me, waiting for the scraps she was sure to throw me. But today was not one of those days, as she used Gentleman’s Relish, which should count as fish, but in my opinion doesn’t. It is very grand and expensive, but I don’t care for it as it is much too salted. I therefore set out to catch myself a rabbit, and I noticed, as I left the house, that Puddy was bringing the dog-cart harness from the cottage, where it was kept. That meant that after lunch she would harness Corrieshellach to the dog-cart and off they would go to the village. I longed and longed to go with them, and had often suggested as much to Corrie, but she, like me, found it impossible to convey the idea to the family. We understand so much about them, yet they understand so little about us. But I must admit they do try.

  Later I saw Puddy and Fionna and Margie set off in the trap, Fionna driving rather cautiously, as she was a learner. Corrie had told me that all her caution was unnecessary, as she would always take care to go properly for Fionna, whether Fionna was riding or driving her. Puddy was a different matter. It sometimes amused Corrie to test Puddy’s skill as a horsewoman, and she would play up in a manner which I considered most unladylike. However, I think Puddy enjoyed these arguments quite as much as Corrie did, for she always won in the end. She didn’t know that Corrie intended to let her win from the start.

  Kitten always slept in the afternoons, and I could hear Grandpop and John working together at the hen-house. The sound of their hammering must have carried miles across the countryside. Not that it would disturb people, but those who couldn’t see what was being made would be wondering who was hammering what, and why. I have already told you that the people here have a great sense of curiosity.

  I had several encounters that afternoon, two with field mice and one with a mole, before I caught a fat buck rabbit which I carried with me to one of my favourite eating-places – a sheltered place behind our Standing Stone. This stone is at the top of the drive, near the house. Some say it is a Druid stone, others that it marks the pilgrim way to Iona. And it is also said that treasure lies buried beneath it, but I don’t think this can be true, or the family would have been at it with a pick-axe long ago.

  I don’t wish to boast, but it was clever of me to kill a mole. I wish I could kill more. They play havoc with the fields, and Corrie is afraid of stumbling over the molehills, sure-footed though she is.

  I found I could only eat the head and part of one leg of my rabbit, and I wished I had eaten less at breakfast. However, I neatly skinned the shoulders, then hid the remains behind a piece of corrugated iron that was leaning up against the house. Once before, I had left almost a whole rabbit near the house, and Puddy had seen it and taken it and cooked if for Carla, which I considered one of the few unkind things Puddy has ever done to me. I don’t think she quite understood that it is no easy task to catch and kill a rabbit as big as oneself. The fact that I often do so is a small matter of prowess, which should not be underestimated.

  I was quite surprised to hear the beat of Corrie’s hooves trotting back along the road. My hunting must have taken longer than I had realised.

  Corrie turned in at the gate and made much of the slight rise in the drive. She gave her low whinny when she saw me, and I heard Fionna say, ‘Listen, she’s glad to be home.’

  Oh dear me! If only I could tell them that it was me she was glad to see.

  Margie went into the house with some parcels, and I knew, too, that as it was Tuesday, she’d have bought the postal orders for the football pools. All the family did the pools, and often talked of the wonderful things they would do when they won the seventy-five thousand pounds. I expect almost every cat in Britain has a family that talks the same way. But I’ll say for mine that the
first thing each of them was going to do was to share it out equally with the others, and, knowing them, it’s exactly what they would do. I’d better say now that you mustn’t think that this book is going to end with one of them winning the pools and doing all the marvellous things they had planned. Ours is an ordinary family, and I’m not going to introduce anything fancy into this story about them. If you want that sort of thing, you’d better get something else out of your library. Though I must confess it would be just wonderful if it did happen before I reach the end of this story! So there I am, planning to win the pools too – just as silly as the rest of them.

  Puddy and Fionna unharnessed Corrie and gave her a quick rub-down with some hay – what they call a whisp. Grandpop and Puddy have long arguments over the question of grooming Corrie. Grandpop says she should be thoroughly groomed daily, as his horses had always been, but Puddy says that his horses lived in stables, whereas Corrie, living out, needs the grass and mud that her coat collects to keep her warm. So Puddy only gives her a light grooming every day, to get rid of the loose hairs of her winter coat, which, now that it was spring, Corrie was shedding.

  I asked Corrie which of them was right, and she said both were. A stable-kept horse needs thorough grooming: a horse that lives out requires only a brush-up, though of course the same care must be taken of the feet, whether in the stable or not. So remember that – if you are lucky enough to have a horse of your own. Corrie doesn’t wear shoes, as she had particularly hard hooves, but Kaya used to call regularly to pare her hooves and rasp them, and check over her feet.

  Kaya, with his round, good-natured face, his wide blue eyes and sturdy Highland figure, was a remarkable person, and one very useful to have in the district, for I think there is nothing he can’t do. He helps build houses, mends fences, repairs roads, digs ditches, traps rabbits and even cuts hair. But here we know him best as our blacksmith, and very able he is too. It is a long time since a proper blacksmith worked here – I have already told you that the smithy is falling down – but Puddy says that so long as Kaya is about, she won’t worry. And knowing what a worrier Puddy is, I think Kaya must really be good.