Four Ducks on a Pond Page 6

  The red granite of the quarry contrasted beautifully with the purple heather, now in full bloom, and with the gold-tipped leaves of the bracken, which was just beginning to turn bronze. There was a wonderful view at the top of the quarry, across the incredibly blue sea to the green fields and white sands of Iona, with the abbey, which is built of this very same granite, only just discernible against its background of barley and rocks. To the north were the mountains of Mull, across the sea which forms a deep loch almost cutting the island in half, and beyond that, very, very dimly, were the hills of Rum and Skye. South, more sparkling sea, and the twisty rough road climbing over to Erraid, that island made famous in Kidnapped. If you haven’t read it, read it now. It’s by Robert Louis Stevenson, and he was a friend of Kitten’s father, so I expect he wrote about David Balfour when he stayed in Mull. Which makes me feel I must read the book again.

  Down the steep slope of the quarry, where the truck lines once reached to the now ruined pier, rough steps have been hewn, and on either side were boulders and rejected cuttings of granite, with here and there piles of granite, cut and dressed, ready for shipment overseas. But ships didn’t carry them overseas any more. Where once the sound of blasting rent the air, now seagulls wheel and cry, and the cheerful voices of the quarriers no longer echo round the rocks. The closing of the quarries sounded the death knell in the district. The men who once had come here to labour now had to seek elsewhere for work. In time their deserted cottages tumbled down, and, since desolation breeds desolation, even the crofters began to follow suit and sought better amenities and more pay in towns.

  So you will understand that even in the bright sunshine there is a sadness lingering in those quarries, and I was glad to hear Margie tell Fionna that it is there, on the summit of the hill, that the bonfire is lighted at times of national rejoicing – Victory Day, a jubilee, a coronation. Then the quarry wakes up again, and people laugh and dance and drink tea and eat dumplings, and it is all the more fun because carrying the stuff up that steep slope has been such a tremendous toil.

  If you come to Mull, try to see the quarries. Only twenty minutes’ walk across the heather from the village and you’re there, and you’ll know every second of those twenty minutes has been worth while. And when you’re in London, look at Blackfriars Bridge and Holborn Viaduct, for they are built of Mull granite. And don’t smile at the Albert Memorial, or call it a hideous Victorian contraption, for it is of Mull granite too.

  There is no village hall in Fionnphort, but for many years the village people have been trying to raise money to build one. They have sales of work and concerts and dances, which they hold in the school, but with few people and not very many visitors, raising money is a slow business and gets slower and slower as more people leave the island, either by boat, or in a coffin, if it’s not too morbid for me to say so.

  I’ve told you that the Community who are rebuilding around Iona Abbey are also good at helping people. Well, they said they’d help us, and soon there was great activity at the school, where something for the audience to sit on had to be provided and a piano must somehow be found.

  The piano was easy, because Kitten and Grandpop said they’d lend the one in the drawing-room. So Archie’s lorry came one day, and Archie and lots of other men, including Jimmy-the-Missionary (who belonged to the Community) managed to lift the piano onto the lorry, and off they went while Jimmy-the-Missionary played ‘Sing as we go!’ with his foot pressed on the hard pedal, so that we could hear him above the sound of the lorry engine all the way to the school.

  The seats for the audience were another matter. Planks were placed across empty oil tins, but this was not enough, so benches had to be brought by ferry boat and lorry from Iona. Which will give you an idea of the hardships we face and overcome in a depopulated area like this.

  While Jimmy and the men were arranging the big schoolroom for the concert (and Jimmy draped a Union Jack over the piano, which made it look most festive and patriotic) the village women were busy in the small schoolroom preparing tea and sandwiches and cakes for the hundred or so people who would expect supper that night. It’s not easy to boil a cauldron of water on a wee primus stove, and it’s not easy to produce sandwiches, and to make cakes, when you are not well off and ingredients are scarce. But these women did it, and very well too, as all the people who ate the supper afterwards told one another.

  The concert was advertised to begin at eight, because that was the only way to get people to come by half past eight. In fact it was getting on for nine before the audience had collected, arriving by foot from the nearby cottages, and by car from further away. Puddy collected quite a number of people by doing trips back and forth with Florrie, who I am glad to say showed no signs of her petrol trouble. This was luck, and no credit to her since, being inanimate, she doesn’t know things like we do.

  Some of the audience looked very uncomfortable. These were the ones who arrived too late to sit on one of the benches, so had to be squeezed into the school desks, suitable only for children under eleven, as this was a primary school. I had a good seat myself, on a windowsill, and I didn’t attempt to conceal myself, as everyone seemed pleased to have me there and amused that I had decided to come to the concert. Though why it should amuse them I don’t know. I’ve told you before that I’m a musical cat, but of course I hadn’t communicated that fact to them.

  My word, how I enjoyed that concert! The Community people sang and recited, and even acted little plays which were funny enough to make a human laugh. But it wasn’t only the Community people who entertained us, because coming from towns, they couldn’t play the bagpipes and they couldn’t sing in Gaelic, and our people do like to hear the pipes and the Gaelic songs. So Hughie Lamont came from Bunessan, five miles away, and he brought his pipes, and he wore his kilt, and he played and he sang to us, and as he is very handsome-looking, and has won medals for singing at the Mod, I don’t need to tell you how good he was. My word, how the floorboards shook as the people stamped out the rhythm of his tunes, and how the rafters rang as they joined in the chorus of his songs! It was all I could do not to join in myself, singing meow of course, as I haven’t got the Gaelic. But I refrained, feeling that I might draw attention to myself, and I never care to be in the public eye.

  Towards the end of the concert, dusk was falling, and somebody lighted a paraffin lamp and balanced it on the piano (on which Jimmy-the-Missionary had been playing accompaniments all evening) in what I considered was a very precarious way. But don’t be alarmed. There wasn’t a terrible fire disaster or anything like that. The people here know how to manage lamps all right, though they seem so vague about them.

  The grand finale (from the Petit Dictionnaire) was when all the entertainers stood on the platform together and sang ‘The Old Folks at Home’ in beautiful harmony. Somehow I couldn’t turn my thoughts to Ealing, where I suppose they should have been, but I felt very sentimental all the same, and looking around the room, I knew that the people were thinking of their old folks, some of whom I expect had been dead for years.

  It took only a few minutes to pack away the benches, which had taken hours to arrange, and very soon Hughie was tuning his pipes and Johnnie-the-Master-of-Ceremonies was shouting out, ‘Take your partners for the eightsome reel!’ I had stayed quietly on my windowsill, and someone had now put a lamp up beside me, so that I felt rather illuminated, but it didn’t stop my enjoyment of the dancing, and now and again I ventured a wee ‘hooch’, which nobody would hear, as they were all hooching their throats hoarse. The floorboards shook and the paraffin lamps quivered on their hooks, but they didn’t fall down.

  By midnight everyone was tired and thirsty after their exertions, for even the ones who were too old and stiff to dance had been tapping out the rhythm with their feet. The tea emerged from the side room, with a tray of cups and a huge teapot, and milk and sugar. And others followed, carrying trays piled high with sandwiches and cakes. What a feast! Soon everyone had eaten all they wanted, and even
I had not been neglected, as Fionna, who was helping to hand things round, had given me a delicious helping of salmon out of a sandwich.

  When all the dishes had been cleared away, the family said ‘Good night’ and slipped off home, as was the custom. But I stayed on, right up to the end, and I stood up like everyone else, when Jimmy played ‘God Save the Queen’.

  It’s surprising how quickly everyone disappeared for home. Archie and his lorry provided transport for all the Community from Iona, and cars gave people lifts to their various homes. So soon I was alone on the road, feeling a very small cat, and I had to walk carefully, as it must have rained heavily at some time during the evening. The moonlight shimmered on the loch, and now the moon was here, now gone, and black clouds were scudding across its face. A rat ran across my path, but I ignored it. I was glad to see the huge white gate of home gleaming, and I slipped under it, up the drive, to my bed in the electric-lighting plant house.

  The house was warm, and the engine creaked from time to time, as it always did when it was cooling down after being used. The family only switched it on now for special occasions, as it burnt petrol, which is so much more expensive than the paraffin needed by lamps.

  I curled up on the old red hospital blanket, specially there for me, and soon I was fast asleep and I didn’t know anything more until Carla bounced in on me to call me in the morning.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It isn’t often that Margie’s summer holiday coincides with Fionna’s birthday, but it did this time, which was a lucky thing, as Fionna loves to have all the family together when one of them is having a birthday so that none of them misses the fun. So as she watched Kitten making the birthday cake, which was a layer cake in three different colours, since that is her favourite kind, she chatted about John, and how especially much she would miss him at her birthday tea, and how she would like to send him some of the cake when it was iced. But Kitten explained that this sort of cake became stale very quickly.

  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.