Four Ducks on a Pond Page 8

  Carla, I am afraid, showed up very badly at first against Lottie. I don’t know what came over her, for though Lottie’s appearance was certainly odd, nobody could say she looked vicious. Yet Carla was clearly afraid of her and would make a wide circle round her, if ever she had to pass her. Lottie, who was all for being friendly, must have found this most bewildering.

  I tried to make peace between the two by explaining to Carla that, though they differed in appearance, she and Lottie were, after all, the same type of animal. To my surprise Lottie interrupted this wise statement by saying, with some asperity, ‘Look you, there is clearly some misunderstanding in your mind! Poodles are not dogs. They are quite different. There are many kinds of animals, and I do not need to list them all. But to explain what I mean, I’ll tell you there are lions and tigers and elephants and camels and cats and dogs and poodles and mice!’ And with that she realised that her beloved Margie had left the room, so with a leap into the air, she bounded off after her.

  Carla, I could see, was perplexed, and I realised that she had never even heard of lions and tigers and all the strange names that Lottie had reeled off so glibly.

  ‘Don’t worry, Carla,’ I said, ‘Lottie lives in London, so I’ve no doubt she has stored a great deal of knowledge in her head. But I’m quite sure she’s wrong about poodles, only don’t hurt her feelings by telling her so.’

  Carla, I am glad to say, took heed of my suggestion, for during the stay I often heard Lottie repeating her rigmarole about lions and tigers and elephants and camels and dogs and cats and poodles and mice, and never once did Carla suggest that she was wrong, though she must have wanted to many a time. After that, Carla went up in my estimation. I never would have credited her with so much self-control. Which shows how wrong one can be about our judgement of others, even of those we live with.

  Lottie has caused a diversion in my chronicle, just as she did in our daily life. That first evening, while Carla and Lottie and I were getting to know one another, the family were busily engaged in doing mysterious things with coloured paper and string behind closed doors, in their various bedrooms. Calls of ‘Don’t come in!’ and ‘Don’t look at present!’ echoed round the house, and although Lottie was puzzled, for this was her first Christmas, I knew that all this meant that everyone was doing up the presents they had bought for each other, a task which they somehow always left until the eleventh hour.

  Kitten had put out five pillow-cases, one for each member of the family, and when bedtime came, there would be a pillow-case at the end of every bed. They wouldn’t stay empty for long, because it didn’t need Midnight and Father Christmas to cause these pillowcases to bulge. I’m not going to write a treatise on the Father Christmas legend, for maybe you are either a bitter cynic or a firm believer in that benevolent bewhiskered gentleman. And far be it from me to disillusion you. But I’ll say this. It is a historical fact that just such a gentleman did provide gifts to his fellow men, and perhaps to children in particular, and while he may not now run a kind of celestial factory, I’m sure he must smile to see how his beneficence still infects the actions of millions of people.

  Lottie was taking a great interest in Kitten’s activities in the kitchen, and I soon found that this was because the turkey was being stuffed. Now, the stuffing Kitten puts into a fowl is the most delicious I have ever tasted. It is made of oatmeal and chopped onions, mixed up with fat, and of course seasoned with salt and pepper. Do try it, and you’ll never revert to sage and onion again. I think Lottie was very disappointed when the plump, and now stuffed, bird was returned to the larder, but I explained to her that tomorrow evening it would be the oven, and not the larder, for that turkey. And when it came out, all brown and sizzling, we’d get our share, never fear. Lottie was of a trusting nature, and I knew she believed me and wouldn’t worry. Indeed, already I felt a certain affinity with this odd black poodle. And only a couple of hours ago, I had spat at her! Even as I write, I blush!

  You must be wondering why it is I haven’t written of Corrieshellach for so long. The truth is that writing about her depresses me. No, there is nothing wrong with her, so don’t worry, but I had thought that when she returned from the Royal Highland Show we would have a great welcome ready for her, with the flag up and banners, and an extra feed of oats. For as I’ve said before, third prize at a big show like that is very good indeed, and, anyway, all of us who know her know that it should have been a first.

  However, my daydreams about her return were soon confounded, for I heard Puddy say one day that she had decided that it was wiser to leave Corrie on the mainland until after the foal had arrived. And Puddy put it in such a firm way, that I know she would not change her mind.

  Disappointed though I was, and lonely too, I was glad that Corrie really was having a foal, for a beautiful and noble pony like that certainly needs to be perpetuated. And one day a collie dog belonging to one of our local farmers came to me and told me that he’d been over with his master to a cattle sale at Perth, and there he had met a collie who belonged to the very farm where Corrie was now living. And thinking he might meet a dog that would know me, Corrie had had the good sense to give him a message for me. She said she missed me and all our family very much, but was very well cared for where she was living, and when she came home she’d have her foal with her, which would be a happier return even than winning the Supreme Championship. So now you know as much about Corrie as I do, and you’ll know, too, how we animals manage to get word one to another. And it doesn’t even cost us a postage stamp!

  I was a bit sorry that there was no snow that night, as Lottie had an idea that Christmas Day and snow went together, like thunder and lightning or strawberries and cream. But I suppose she’ll need to learn one day, and the sooner the better. Anyhow, it was a crisp night with a very starry sky, and as far as I know, that first Christmas might have been just the very same, in spite of the pictures on the Christmas cards.

  I paid a midnight visit to Arnish and Flora. They were very subdued that night because all farm animals are mindful of the important part their ancestors played around that manger in Bethlehem. I didn’t stay long. When hearts are full, there is no need for words.

  Grandpop had rearranged my blanket in the engine house. It was all fluffed up and very soft. I think that thoughtfulness was one of my nicest Christmas presents.

  The house was silent now; the family asleep. And very soon, so was I.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Anyone switching on a light automatically starts up the electric engine, which is a very clever idea, but a very alarming one if one is a cat and happens to sleep in the engine house. So the unexpected throbbing woke me up with a start, and it was a minute before I realised that this was Christmas Day, and Puddy was making the early morning tea in electric light instead of lamp light. I’ve told you before that petrol being the price it is, the electric plant is only used on special occasions.

  Carla

  I heard the back door open, so I quickly jumped out of bed, and shot to the house, just as Lottie and Carla bounded out to attend to their first duty of the day. They accorded me a warm, somewhat rough, greeting, and Puddy received me in the kitchen with a nice Christmas cuddle and, better still, a dish of warm milk.

  When she had made the tea, Puddy and Carla and Lottie disappeared upstairs, and I knew that all the family would gather in Grandpop and Kitten’s room and drink their morning tea and open the presents from their pillowcases. I could hear the chink of cups and saucers and a lot of laughter, and now and again I caught the word ‘John’, and this made me feel rather sad. I realised that all over the world people would be laughing and opening presents today, and in many, many homes behind the laughter would be a sorrow that someone they loved was far away.

  I expect John was opening parcels too in his remote corner of the Empire, for I know that a lot of parcels had been sent to him, neatly stitched up in cotton, bearing a label on which was a list of the contents of the parcels, and their value. I know the Au
thorities demand this, but I think it’s a pity to spoil the excitement of opening a parcel by having what’s inside written on the label. Don’t you? So I hoped John hadn’t read those labels, which bore socks (11/- a pair) shirts (£2 10/- each. Incidentally, what an iniquitous price for plain, white cotton!) Books (various prices) and fudge (2 lbs, home made). This latter, I need hardly tell you, was from Kitten.

  Anyhow, whether he read them or not, John would laugh a lot, for he is always laughing. I wish I knew what time his clocks would say it was while ours said what they did. This clock business is a puzzle and an inconvenience when one tries to think of absent friends doing things at the time we are doing them ourselves. Such as eating.

  I was sitting by my empty dish, brooding about John, when Puddy came back to the kitchen to fill the teapot with more water. When she had done this, she tucked me under her arm and took me upstairs, and what a sight met my eyes in Kitten and Grandpop’s room! There was paper everywhere. Brown paper, white paper, multi-coloured paper, tissue paper, and paper which I thought much too pretty to wrap things up in at all. And it didn’t help that Lottie and Carla, who had apparently developed a benevolent Christmas Spirit, were romping around together, pulling at paper here, and chewing at string there. I picked my way carefully to a spot near dear Grandpop, and although I pretended to go to sleep, I was all ears for the happy voices of the family.

  And what do you think John had sent Fionna? A pair of silver filigree earrings, the very first earrings she had ever had and, because it was Christmas, she was allowed to wear them that day, though really she wouldn’t be old enough to wear them for years.

  It was a lovely start to a lovely day. When the room was cleared up, as it was almost miraculously by Margie, and the usual morning chores finished, I followed the family to church and I was able to peep inside and see the Christmas tree, also the golden blossomed whin and the brightly berried holly with which Puddy had decorated the Communion table and window sills.

  The family would be quite happy to have me with them in their pew, but in case other families had less enlightened ideas, I thought it best to remain outside during the service. Huddled where I was in a corner of the porch, I felt chilly, for the wind was bitingly cold, but my heart was warmed by the singing of those lovely Christmas hymns – and by the cosy voice of the minister, who was telling the people the Christmas story. I have often listened outside that church, but most of all I like listening at Christmas, and when I returned home later, I still had the strains of ‘Come all ye Faithful’ ringing in my ears. But I’m afraid not nearly all the Faithful had come, for there were not many people at church. I would feel very privileged to be allowed to attend a service. I wish people could feel that as well.

  Lunch consisted of coffee and sandwiches, as usual, but for tea there was a great array of scones and pancakes, with of course the big Christmas cake, but although she had prepared such delicious fare, Kitten warned the family that, with dinner only a few hours off – and what a dinner! – they must not eat too much.

  It was after tea that Fionna distributed the presents from the Christmas tree. As I had suspected, my present proved to be ‘Katteo’, prettily wrapped up in holly-patterned paper. I resolved that when the time came I would eat up that Katteo with every show of pleasure. I wouldn’t like the family to feel their gift to me was not appreciated. I am an affectionate cat and I like to please.

  Lottie and Carla had a grand time, chasing round the house after their new balls. I think that given the chance Lottie would be excellent at the game of billiards. She has a most remarkable aim when she pushes her ball with her nose. Poor Lottie! She had been in trouble during the afternoon, for she unfortunately felt playful during the Queen’s speech, and when Lottie feels playful, she nips at people’s ankles to indicate to them that they should feel playful too. So Lottie was eventually banished to the kitchen, from whence her protesting yelps punctuated the beautiful and gracious words of Her Majesty. I am a loyal and patriotic cat, and I deplored Lottie’s lack of respect. But of course she is only a puppy, and she’ll learn.

  Dinner came at last. Scotch broth, followed by the turkey, perfectly cooked and nicely browned, and dished up with all manner of trimmings. But since these are not of prime importance to me, I did not particularly observe what they were. Finally there was the plum-pudding, with a gay piece of holly sticking out of it, and flames all around it. This caused me momentary alarm, but I soon realised that the flames were intentional, as Puddy said she thought it a waste to set fire to brandy.

  There were buttons and three-penny bits, and all sorts of things in the pudding, besides fruits, but these were for keeping and not for eating, and the finding of them was evidently of some significance. Anyway, it caused much amusement, especially when Margie accidentally swallowed a button.

  I said the pudding was final, but of course it wasn’t, because there were sweets, and nuts and fruit yet to be eaten, and crackers to be pulled (to poor Lottie’s distress), and so the table that had looked so gay looked very messy, with torn pieces of paper and tangerine peel and broken nutshells.

  While Puddy and Margie did the washing up, Kitten gave Lottie and Carla and me our share of the dinner. How very tasty is turkey! I savoured every morsel before I ate it, and so I was eating long after the others had finished their share. I wonder why dogs (and poodles) eat so fast? Will they never realise that anticipation is better than realisation? However, although two pairs of eyes were fixed on me, and, I’m afraid, grudging me every mouthful, I ate my dinner with quiet dignity, cleaned myself nicely when I had done, and then I joined the family in the drawing-room, and I settled down on Grandpop’s knee for a nice after-dinner nap.

  Fortunately, as soon as Christmas is over, people here have the New Year to look forward to. And particularly is this true of our family, for to Highland Kitten, Hogmanay (as New Year’s Eve is called) is the most important night of the year. Indeed, Boxing Day had seen the last of the ducks, for Johnnie-the-Postman had acted executioner for the last time that year, and the victims had now been dispatched in parcels to those of Kitten’s relations who lived in cities, so couldn’t keep Hogmanay ducks for themselves.

  On New Year’s Day we, too, would eat duck, and somehow the idea didn’t much appeal to me. Not that I had managed to become friendly with the ducks, who, to their bitter end, had always been afraid of everyone. All the same, I’d felt a certain affection for them, unlike my attitude to hens, and I didn’t feel that I’d enjoy eating them any more than I enjoyed Katteo. As a matter of fact, time proved me wrong in this, for as soon as I got my teeth into that tasty bit of wing I forgot all about it being duck.

  Humans ‘bring in’ the New Year. That is, they sit up, no matter how sleepy they are, and at twelve o’clock sharp they wish one another a Happy New Year, and they drink a toast to absent friends and to the future. My family do, anyhow.

  So on New Year’s Eve we all sat in the drawing-room and listened to the radio, and on a table was a decanter and glasses and shortbread, because the family eat the New Year in as well. And there wasn’t a lot of conversation, because Lottie and Carla were asleep, and I knew that all the others were thinking about the year that was past, which had sometimes been happy and sometimes sad, like most years are for most people, and I knew, too, that Puddy in particular would think back to other years and wish that she could forget about Fionna’s father, instead of thinking about him every day of every year, and especially now. And of course they were all also thinking of John, who had sent them the Happy New Year telegram which was now propped up on the mantelpiece.

  I am glad to say that the trouble in that outpost of the Empire hadn’t turned into anything serious after all, and I’m quite sure that it was the arrival of that splendid Highland regiment, with its tough-looking men wearing kilts and dirks, and a determined expression, which had made the troublemakers change their minds. There aren’t many folks would care to take on the Highlanders in a fight, and unless I am much mistaken, the C
ommunists are better at stirring up trouble than they are at fighting a battle. So John was safe, and enjoying life abroad, just as he always enjoyed life at home. Inside myself I wished him a happy New Year, and a speedy return, and if I had the gift of tears, I’d shed a few because he wasn’t with us now.

  Big Ben struck the hour, and Kitten and Grandpop had a squabble about whether the New Year began on the first or last strokes of the hour. So they either saw the Old Year out with a quarrel, or they saw the New Year in with one, according to which one was right. But it didn’t matter because their quarrels don’t mean much anyhow, and soon they were all laughing and raising their glasses, and Puddy and Fionna rushed around the house, switching on all the lights so that everyone, even in Iona, would know they were bringing the New Year in!

  And presently the telephone rang. It was Charlie Bogilee, who had seen the lights, and wanted to give everyone a New Year greeting. Now Charlie lost both his legs in the First World War, and as he hasn’t a telephone in his house, he had to go out to a call-box. This must have caused him a lot of trouble, and the family were all the more pleased with his greeting, because it wasn’t easy for him to do it.

  So instead of a first footer there had been a first telephoner, and everyone was very happy and ate some more shortbread and drank some more ginger wine before going to bed.

  And the next morning, as Puddy let me into the house, I thought to myself, ‘I am their first-footer, and I’m male. So it’s lucky.’ And though I didn’t carry a coal, or any of the things that are customary when one is first-footing, I do hope I brought luck with me, just the same.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Margie and Lottie returned to London. Fionna returned to school. And the rain began. It rained and it rained, and the goats wouldn’t leave their house because of the pools outside, so that Puddy, wearing gum boots and a mackintosh, had to go to them several times a day to feed them with hay and crushed oats, and to take them water.