Four Ducks on a Pond Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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.

  Achaban House

  You’d think that it was Flora who had been the Fellow Traveller, the way Arnish talked! And I think poor Flora was quite ready to believe so herself, by the time Arnish had finished. Anyhow, she became very quiet and subdued, and would give way to Arnish over any fancied tit-bit without so much as an attempt at a butting-match. And so Arnish not only cleared her own conscience but established her position as Flora’s superior.

  But Arnish could not go for long without laying down the law on something, and one day when Grandpop was having a bonfire just outside the back gate, she grabbed from the flames a book about Madeira, which someone had received from a travel agency. Of course she ate it, but before she ate it she read a whole lot of information about the glorious sunshine, and the flowers, visitors to the island would enjoy. Soon she was endlessly extolling the virtues of a sunny climate, and of Madeira in particular, to Flora, and I would hear the pair of them, at night, after they had been fed and milked, chewing the cud and discussing the desirability of emigration to such a clime.

  Of course it was all talk and no do, as it always was with the goats. And as I sat outside their house and overheard what they were saying – for of course I was not listening, but only happening to hear – I thought how easy it would be for a cat to emigrate, but how difficult for a goat! Nobody would think it remarkable if a cat stalked up the gangway of a ship, and settled himself as a member of the crew. But a goat, never! And I was greatly comforted by the thought, for though I knew this was only silly talk, it did occur to me how very sad it would be for Puddy to come one day and find that the goats had left her. And I don’t know how Kitten would manage without their milk.

  However, it was not long before both of the goats had more important things to talk about. It was the mating season now, for goats mate during the winter, and Puddy knew by the plaintive sound of their ‘baas’, and by the wagging of their tails, when Arnish and Flora were calling for ‘Billy’. There was no billy near, but there was one five miles away, along a very bumpy and out-of-the-way road. Florrie doesn’t mind bumpy roads, because cars aren’t made so they mind things at all, so one day Puddy took the back seat out of Florrie, and she put some sacks down where the seat had been, and then she put down a bundle of hay, and soon she had coaxed Arnish to climb into Florrie to nibble the hay. And off they went to the outlandish place, with the blue smoke pouring out of Flor
rie’s exhaust, and a few hours later back they came, with Arnish looking very smug and with Puddy full of praise for the way everything had gone, including Florrie, who, in spite of the ominous blue smoke and the rattle of the engine, had not once stopped, except when Puddy made her.

  I don’t know what Arnish told Flora about her adventure, but a few weeks later Flora made such a to-do about looking for Billy that Puddy brought out the back seat of Florrie all over again, and put down the sacks, and finally drove off with Flora. But this time Florrie didn’t behave well and stopped several times, and when Puddy arrived home she was so annoyed with Florrie that she didn’t say what had gone on with Flora. So I don’t know whether she had behaved herself or not.

  Now all the talk in the goat-house was of kids. Arnish wanted a billy, and Flora wanted a nanny, and they were never done telling each other so. But I knew Puddy didn’t want any billies about because he would not be pure bred (since the father was a Brown Toggenburg, not a British Sanaan), so she could not keep him for breeding purposes, and a billy is no use for anything else. This would mean that Willie Campbell, who is a butcher as well as a farmer, would have to come along with his humane killer, and that would be the end of the baby billy.

  I said nothing of this to Arnish of course. And for her sake, as well as for Puddy’s, I hoped she would not get what she desired.

  The darkness fell earlier and earlier, and there was less to do outside. The bracken was bronze-coloured now, and the fields were a misty shade of gold. The harvest was in, and the garden needed nothing now but rest. Puddy would go out every day with her little gun, and in next to no time she’d be back with a rabbit, for she is a very good shot, and rabbits were very plentiful indeed. But suddenly the rabbits seemed to vanish, though Puddy could not possibly have killed them all.

  Soon somebody was able to give the reason for this. A polecat had come to live near us! Now rabbits are terrified of polecats, and so, I confess, am I. The hens would be terrified too, had they the wit to know of their new neighbour, for polecats are very partial to hens, but somehow the word never got round to them, and Puddy shut them up so securely at night that no marauder could get at them. So although the tufts of fur lying about the place indicated the number of rabbits that had fallen victim, the hens remained immune and unaware of these attacks.

  Inside the house, Kitten was busy making Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings. She had bought the ingredients for these in the village post-office-cum-stores, and I assure you that the very grandest grocers in London don’t have better groceries than does our village shop. Of course, you can’t buy things like chicken-in-aspic there, for who would want chicken-in-aspic when they can have a nice fresh hen from their own back yard? But as well as currants and raisins and flour and other edible things, you can buy shampoo and writing paper and lamps and string and all manner of things besides. Everything in the shop is fresh and polished, and Betty-and-her-Mother, who own the shop, will do things for you that you’ll never get done in the grand towny shops. They’ll ring you up and tell you if something specially nice is in. They’ll tell you when you must send in your National Health card, and how many stamps you’ll need for it, and that you’ll be in trouble if you don’t renew Carla’s licence (just imagine her having to have a licence, like a radio or a gun! I consider it most demeaning).

  Indeed, but for Betty-and-her-Mother, I don’t know where the family would be, and I’m sure they don’t know either. And I’d like to say here that until not very long ago it used to be Betty-and-her-Mother-and-her-Father who did all these things. The father was called Johnnie, and there was not a family joy, or a family sorrow, or a family trouble, that he was not told about at once. And because he was such a friend and adviser of the people I love, I feel he must be included in my book, and that I must state how sad they all were that he is not smiling behind the counter any more.

  The early Christmas preparations didn’t interest me much. Carla would temporarily forsake Puddy to sit pop-eyed and whimpering on the floor, willing Kitten to toss her the odd raisin or stray bit of dough. But I remained happily curled up by the fire in the wee sitting room, watching Grandpop filling in his pools coupons or nodding gently over his book. Indeed, it would be Christmas Day itself before my interest was really roused, for though I find a bit of raw chicken very tasty, I knew my family would not give me any until it was cooked. So I waited in patience and did not even evince interest in the discussion about which two hens were to furnish the main course of the Christmas dinner. I’ve said before, as personalities I find the hens a bore, and which one gets its neck wrung, and when, is a matter of indifference to me.

  As a matter of fact it turned out that instead of two hens it was a turkey that graced the table that Christmas Day. Kitten went to the mainland to fetch Fionna from school, and when she returned she had a huge turkey with her as well as Fionna. So the hens had a reprieve, but as they didn’t know they had been sentenced to death, they experienced no sense of relief at all.

  With the arrival of Fionna, things really did get busy. Puddy and Fionna set off in Florrie to the little plantation two miles up the road, and when they returned, Florrie looked more like a mechanical forest than a car, for branches of trees were tied all over her. Soon these trees were placed in tubs, one in our drawing-room and one in the church, and Fionna and Puddy decorated them most beautifully so that they sparkled and shone and gave a real air of gladness, which of course is just how it should be at Christmas, one of the happiest seasons of the year.

  Margie was arriving on Christmas Eve, so of course her bedroom had been getting prepared ever since the first pudding went into the pot, and long before the Christmas cake, with its white icing and gay decorations, was placed on the sideboard in the dining-room.

  Johnnie-the-Postman was laden every evening, delivering stacks of cards and heaps of parcels. The cards were opened and hung on string across the dining-room and drawing-room (this is a very gay effect, and better than arranging them on tables, where they have to be removed for dusting). The parcels, however, were hidden away by anyone to whom they were not addressed, for no presents are opened until Christmas Day by our family.

  I noticed with some pleasure that there was a parcel on the Christmas tree for me. I guessed by its shape that it was probably ‘Katteo’, but I’ve always been brought up to appreciate the thought rather than the gift. There was a parcel, too, for Carla, and I guessed it was a rubber ball. There was also a parcel which puzzled me very much. It was very small and bore a huge label on which was written the one word, ‘Lottie’.

  Who on earth was Lottie?

  I cleaned my paws, and racked my brains, but could not place that name at all.

  But when Christmas Eve came, I knew.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By half past four the electric-light plant was humming, and Fionna had switched on every light in the house, because that is the sign of a Highland welcome.

  As I walked up the drive the frosty earth was cold under my paws and my legs were feeling rather stiff because, being Christmas Eve, I had felt it my duty to visit my various families to wish them the compliments of the season.

  Lottie and Nicky

  The Christmas tree in the bay window of the drawing-room looked wonderfully festive, its branches laden with sparkling balls and gaily wrapped parcels. Because of the illuminations, I could see Puddy and Fionna standing by the window above, which was Kitten’s bedroom, and I knew they were watching for the glimmering light, away in the darkness, that would indicate the approach of the mail bus. And in the bus would be Margie.

  I sat for a while outside the drawing-room window, but although the fire burnt cheerfully within, no one was there. Kitten would be busy in the kitchen, for she knew that after that long, cold, drive there was nothing more welcoming than a good hot meal, and Grandpop would be watching for the bus from his office window, thinking, perhaps, that Puddy and Fionna would be chattering so much together they’d not notice it until too late.


  So, since nobody would notice me and let me in, I settled down for a chilly nap. It was the sound of Puddy and Fionna’s voices that awakened me. They were running down the drive, flashing a torch, and just in time to see the mail bus draw up at the gate.

  I slipped into the house, for Grandpop had left the door open when he followed the others down the drive, and I awaited the arrival of Margie with dignity, sitting on the sofa.

  But when the drawing-room door, which was ajar, was pushed open, it was not any of the family that entered the room. It was – what? A queer little black animal, about the same size as me, with funny bushy whiskers, a stiff black tail, just like a wee black mop, and the queerest animal legs I have ever seen – I thought at first it must be wearing high heels.

  I am afraid I gave the newcomer a very unfriendly reception. I arched my back and spat, then, remembering my manners, and realising that these tactics had made the queer thing withdraw a couple of paces, I asked, ‘Who are you?’ And even as I spoke, I realised what the creature was, for I had seen pictures like it in Puddy’s animal books. It was a French poodle! In some alarm, my thoughts flew to the Petit Dictionnaire in the cottage, and I wondered if I would have to address this creature in French, and if I had learnt enough French phrases to be able to hold my own in such an event. But as these thoughts flashed through my head, the strange visitor put me at ease.

  ‘I’m Lottie,’ she said. ‘I’m Margie’s poodle. And I’ve come for Christmas.’ And later I was to learn that her soft sing-song accent had nothing French about it, for Lottie had been born in Shropshire, right on the border with Wales, and the time she had spent in London had not eradicated her soft, lilting tongue.

  It was soon obvious that Lottie was going to be the centre of attention for as long as she stayed, and in fairness to her I must say at once that this did not go to her head. She was a most amiable creature, who had nothing but good to say to everyone and everything, and I’m sure you’ll agree that that in itself is a most refreshing characteristic.