by Jane Yeadon
‘Yes, but don’t worry. He’s shut in.’ Mum looks thoughtful. ‘Dod and I were just saying how he’s usually bawling his head off – bored, I think, and needing to be outside, though Dod thinks it’s just ill nature.’ She sounds doubtful. ‘Mind you, he’s been strangely quiet lately. I hope he’s not sickening for something.’
‘Aye weel, after the millie’s over we’ll get him outside,’ says Dod. ‘Once he gets fresh grass he’ll be good as new, and, you’re right, Betsy, he’ll be the better o’ bein’ outside.’
I didn’t know that was another of my mother’s names, and neither apparently did some of the millie workers. I see Ed and Kate exchanging glances.
Dod continues, ‘He’s been that quiet lately I hivna felt I wis takin’ ma life in ma hands putting in his hay, tho’ I still widna be sure of goin’ intae his pen.’
I’d agree with him, though for different reasons. Having seen Pansy popping into the pen, her teats bulging with milk, and coming out with them flat, it looks as if things are going to be all right for her and the kittens.
Chat turns to the weather and everybody’s in agreement that it’s a grand day for the millie when Ed suddenly darts to the side of the mill and lifts a handily placed huge stick. His scream breaks the harmony.
‘Jesus, a rat!’
Something bigger than a mouse, sleek and grey with a long tail, slides out of a stack. It’s bent on escape. The hind legs are bigger than the front, giving it a hunched appearance as it moves, but that doesn’t stop it speeding towards the field we’ve just come through. Ed follows in hot pursuit, stick raised.
As he brings it down onto the ground in a great whack, I cover my ears and look away.
14
WORK SHARE
‘Did ye get him, Ed?’ asks Dod.
‘Naw,’ Ed says, spitting into the ground as a mark of frustration. ‘Mind you, I hivna seen many the day. Ye should have seen the swarm we had at a mill last week – we were nivvir done killen them.’ He bangs the stick on the grounds as if in recall, and maybe even disappointment at the lack of our rats, then goes on, ‘Aye, Mrs Macpherson, I’m thinkin’ yer catties must be workin’ overtime.’
‘If we didn’t have Pansy and her squad, we’d have the same problem,’ Mum says, busy collecting in the empty cups.
I’ve been trailing after her. Keen to contribute to the conversation, I say, ‘Aye, the barn catties are good in the barn, but we need plenty others, so it’s nay all doon tae Pansy, even if she is affa clever.’
For some reason, this seems to amuse everybody. They return to work, repeating the words, whilst Elizabeth and I get a lift on the cart carrying a load of straw back to Tombain.
Soon, Ed’s brother Bob will buy a baler to accompany the mill. It will package the straw into easily stored rectangles. The ‘stray soo’ that Dod’s about to build will be the same shape but making it with loose straw is a harder task. Covering it with green canvas tarpaulin and securing it with Glesga Jock will remain a chore for every kind of stack and for some time.
It’s a challenge getting to the top of the load. The straw, as if trying to stop us from climbing, is slippery, but we persevere, then like conquering heroes arrive. We crash down, and for a moment I lie back and look up at the sky, stretch my hands and waggle my fingers.
‘What’re you doing?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘Nothing.’ I’m not letting on that I’m waving to a passing cloud. It changes shape so it’s maybe waving back, but the straw’s jabbing into my neck so I sit up. As we’re gently bumped over the field by the tractor pulling us homeward, the ground seems almost as far away as the cloud. I wonder if the homeless rat’s found a safe place to hide.
‘I bet next year it’ll be me driving and not Dod,’ says Elizabeth.
I’d be quite happy to be on this cart forever. I bet Belinda would like it, too. I can hear her say, ‘What fun! This is like being driven in an open carriage and one can see all around. It’s so much nicer than a car, and look! Don’t the workers seem small from here?’
As the mill re-starts, Kate gets back to her work place. She’s bending, slicing with that evil-looking blade, then straightening her back to shout something. It must be funny because the sound of laughter comes to us, carried on the wind.
Just over the march fence dividing Tombain from our Woodside Farm neighbours, there’s two pine trees. They break the moor’s line. I used to think they were an old bowed couple until I got fed up of waiting for them to move. Now it’s comforting just to see them bent towards each other. Perhaps they’re tree spirits in permanent green, talking about our doings and, like kindly sentries, keeping an eye on us.
‘You’d think that we’d at least have been given a bannock for helping. I’m starving,’ I complain, but Elizabeth’s in one of yon dreams that’s maybe taking her out and about on a Fergie and she’s silent until we get home. Just as Dod stops to let us off at the house and I say, ‘I bet we’ll hae tae help wash the dishes before we get anything tae eat,’ my sister slides down to the ground and shoots into the house.
‘I’m going to the toilet!’ she shouts, slamming the door behind her.
That’s such an old trick!
‘I’m telling on you,’ I call but too late. I expect we won’t see her until the dishes are done.
Mum’s back with Mary and Smithy, and I hear them in the scullery.
‘I hope it doesn’t rain before I get home,’ Smithy says. ‘I’ve left my washing out. You’re lucky, Betty. You’ve got your pulley.’
Mum agrees. ‘Mind you, Smithy, I know you’ve got a washing line but I’ve never known clothes to smell so sweet as the ones you bleach over the gorse bushes.’
Smithy laughs. ‘You’d better not let Beel hear you say that. We’ve too many of the bloomin’ things. They look bonny in bloom, right enough, but they spread like the devil and no beast will touch them.’
Elizabeth reckons adults change the subject when we’re around, although I figure we’re not missing much with the present conversation. When I grow up, I’m never going to speak about washing or prickly old gorse.
Everybody’s so engrossed in chat I manage to sneak past without being handed a dishcloth, then, racing through the house to the toilet, rattle on its door.
‘Go away,’ Elizabeth shouts.
I listen closely, then sure to have heard a page turned, cry, ‘You’ve got a book!’
‘I have not.’
‘Liar!’
Hunger and rage spur me into action. She’s asking to be spied on. The bathroom window’s got frosted glass halfway up and it’s already too high to see into, but I know where there’s a ladder.
‘You have got a magazine!’ I knock on the window and shout in triumph, ‘I’m going to tell Mum you’ve pinched one of Mrs Bremner’s Red Letters and you’re reading it instead of helping.’
That should do the trick. Mum’s not usually fussy what Elizabeth reads but she is about what she calls rubbishy magazines. I don’t know why. Mrs Bremner reads this one. Actually, I was a bit worried that all those murder stories might have inspired her to start killing hens until Elizabeth reassured me.
‘Dinna be daft, Jane. A’body kens ye hae tae kill hens if ye wint tae mak’ hen broth an’ Mrs Bremner’s a grand cook – ye ken yersell.’
So that’s all right then. I can go back to liking someone who, apart from how she deals with hens, is kind, caring and sings a little under her breath as Lala slurps his soup. When his shaky hand crumbles his oatcakes on the oilcloth, she sweeps them up with one hand, then into the waiting palm of her other, then shakes them into his soup.
‘Waste not, want not,’ she says with just a whisper of a sigh.
At the thought of food, my stomach rumbles too much to ignore. Its message is clear. For goodness’ sake, surely nobody’s going to miss a wee bit out of a cake.
Even if the scullery door’s open, Smithy, Mary and Mum are so busy working, they don’t see me nipping into the larder with a pail.
&n
bsp; Up-ended, it makes for a handy step, putting the tray of cakes within easy reach.
Go on, urges my rumbling stomach and watering mouth. They force my hand to reach out to take a golden brown cake and put it to my lips.
The sweet light taste might be heaven but the bite’s too big to go unnoticed. It makes the cake look odd beside the others. It’s such an obvious difference that the simplest thing to do is to get the others to match. I set to work.
‘Where’s Jane? She should be here to help with the dishes.’ Elizabeth’s voice is worryingly near. I’ll have to hurry, jam in a few more bites – I’m beginning not to be too fussed about their size. The cakes on the wire tray are starting to look as if they’ve been attacked by something horrible. There’s crumbs everywhere. Panic! Stomach lurches. Maybe I should hide the cakes. Maybe Mum will have forgotten she’s made them. Maybe the millie rat could get the blame. Maybe, thinking fast now, it’s time to disappear.
‘Jane! Where are you?’ The call gets nearer.
15
FERRET AFFAIRS
‘I’m nay weel!’
But clutching my stomach and rolling my eyes is pointless.
‘Nay wonder, ye wee limmer, you’ve ruined my cakes!’ Mum had cried. She was as cross as the time I’d to confess that the reason the oil lamp wicks had disappeared was because, encouraged by Belinda, we’d both been curious to see what happened when the metal winders operating them were turned, turned and turned again. It’d been a surprise when, without exception, each wick disappeared into their lamp base. Apart from the tilley lamp often needed for outside chores, the oil lamps are our main light source.
Mum had raged, ‘Don’t even think of blaming that bloomin’ doll! No, Jane, you’re responsible for me having to guddle about, fishing the wicks out of the paraffin. Then it’ll be a right fiddle getting them back onto the feeder-rollers and these’ll stink all day.’
She’d held her hands up in despair. Now she was wagging a finger. ‘So, seeing as you’re sick, you’d maybe be the better of a drop of caster-oil.’
‘Oh, no, Mum! I’m not that ill.’
‘In that case, you’d better just go to bed and, Jane, stay there. At least you’ll be out of the road.’
Now I know how Belinda feels. Cross, because she’d been told the same thing, and possibly remembering being blamed for the lamps episode, she’s not speaking to me. She gazes up at the ceiling with such a silly smile I push her out of bed.
‘And stay there.’
Only Rabbit lends a sympathetic ear when I weep into it: ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d have no friends.’ My tears soak his vest as I go on, ‘Anyway, I heard Smithy tell Mum that nobody would see any bite marks if she clarted on enough raspberry jam. Honestly! There was such a fuss about nothing . . . really.’
‘You’re right,’ he soothes. ‘Ach! Why don’t you have a wee sleep? Then you’ll be fine. Look, let’s hum a wee tune first.’
I wish folk could hear Rabbit. He’s got such a fine voice; it’s a pity he’s too shy to be heard in public. He mightn’t know the words, but once he hears a song he can hold the tune. I used to only have a few – mostly hymns, thanks to Granny – but lately I’ve been learning loads of cheerier numbers from Dod.
‘Afore I came here, I used tae spend time with the farm workers in their bothies,’ he’d told Elizabeth and me. ‘They weren’t great places to stay in. In fact, some o’ the workers thought the cattle had better accommodation, but after we’d finished work we used tae gather together an’ have a song or two. That fair cheered us up, an’ of course a musical instrument helped. When he heard I wis comin’ ower tae Tombain wi’ ma fowks, the melodeon player gave his tae me.’ Dod twinkled, as he eyed us both. ‘He thocht ah might be lonely!’
‘Is that the mannie in the photograph on the mantlepiece?’ I’d asked.
He’d nodded and before there was a chance to ask if the two missing brothers sang too, he’d burst into ‘The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre’.
It’s a funny song, so that’s the one that Rabbit and I settle on, both falling asleep after the second verse.
We’re wakened by a noise.
Apart from another rattle on the door, the house is silent.
‘That’s somebody at the door, Rabbit, and there’s nobody here to answer it. They must all be back at the millie.’ Getting out of bed, I explain, ‘We dinna get many visitors and, even if I’ve been told to stay put, it’d be a shame to have someone call and get nay answer.’
‘Is your mum in?’
I stare at the caller, astonished that the tousled brown haystack thatching his head is actually hair. He stares back. Maybe he’s nervous or dumb. Continuing to say nothing, he shifts from one stout rubber boot to the other. He’s got a wooden box with holes in it. It’s slung over his shoulder and rustles as he checks it. Suddenly, Granny’s lectures about staring come to mind. ‘It’s very rude. Think of saying something polite instead,’ she’d advised.
‘Ye winna need a hat wi’ all that hair you’ve got,’ I say, then because he looks as if he might rush away, I try for a friendly note. ‘Mum’s at the millie. Ah’m surprised yer nay helpin, but mebbe you’re not interested in being part of the Love Darg.’
His hair flies as he shakes his head in a disbelieving sort of way. Then he bursts out, ‘I’m too busy for that. No. What I’m here’s for is your ferret.’
Now it’s my turn to be struck dumb, and in the absence of further conversation I think about something that lives in a smelly hut near our stick shed. Mum’s soft about most animals but doesn’t really care for Troity, who’s got pink eyes, a snaky way of moving and a habit of turning his head quickly as if ready to bite, even if it’s the hand that’s bringing him food. Elizabeth or I take out his brose and milk in its enamel bowl on mornings that Dod’s too busy to do it.
I wonder what this stranger would think if he knew that Dod sings ‘Troity-Troity’.
It’s to tease Mum but she doesn’t take it too well. ‘Och, Geordie!’ she says and shudders.
She said the same but in a different way the time that he and Elizabeth came back from a ferreting expedition chattering with excitement.
‘Troity put up a fox in a rabbit hole,’ said Dod. ‘We got sicca a shock I never got the chance to shoot it. It wis a good job Lizzie wis there otherwise I might have missed catching Troity when he came oot o’ after the fox.’ He beams. ‘But you managed to catch him in time, didn’t you, Lizzie?’
Every so often I have to admire her, and it’s at times like these I’m delighted that she helps Dod the most. She doesn’t seem too worried about guns going off or foxes bolting but the thought of them bringing home dead animals makes me scream inside.
‘Janie’s ower soft,’ Dod told Mum the one time he took me on a shooting expedition. ‘After the first shot, she dropped like a stone. I’d a terrible job convincing her the gun wis pointing in the opposite direction an’ that she wisna covered in bullet holes. One thing’s for sure, she’s nay coming wi’ me again.’
Returning to the present, I eye the visitor. With his plus-fours and brown jacket, he’s dressed a bit like the toffs who come once a year to shoot grouse on our moor. But he’s not as confident. With his big feet, hair and downcast eyes, he might be a grown-up and able to look after himself but giving a little friendly advice will at least break the silence.
‘Oor ferret’s nay tae be trusted, ye ken. I canna think why ye’d want him. Ye’d maybe be better o’ gettin’ ane for yersell. I’m sure you’d get a nicer ones than ours.’
‘I’ve one already,’ he says, checking the bag as if reassuring himself it’s still there.
I’m astonished and ask why would he want another.
After a sudden bout of coughing, he mops his brow with the back of a brown enormous hand but ignores the question. Instead he taps the box. ‘It’s to carry him,’ he says. ‘I’ve put straw in so he’ll be safe and comfy enough.’
It’s a fact that animals come and go on our farm.
There’s Shadow, for a start.
‘Why did she go?’ Elizabeth had asked.
Mum clicked her teeth, then said, ‘The dratted animal was so greedy, she saw me with the milk pail and butted me, and she’s now so big she sent me flying. We put her back to the people who gave us her in the first place.’
Then there’s Pansy’s kittens. There’s a good chance they’ll disappear too. I’m sure that clever cat’s still got them, and maybe even Frankie likes their company, but I worry what’ll happen to them if Dod lets him out, then finds his lodgers.
The ferret’s a bit different. I’m not too bothered about him going, and doubt if Mum’ll care when she hears he’s gone in a box belonging to a man with lots of hair. Dod might be cross, though, and it’s a bit scary when he is. I rack my brain and come up with something simple.
I’ll disappear from this encounter. Pretend it never happened. Easy!
Squaring up to the man and trying for my best English, I say, ‘Look here, I’ll show you where our ferret lives, but if he bites you, dinna say I didna warn ye. Anyways, I’m rather busy, so I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?’
‘Aye, that’ll be OK,’ he says and I go back to bed, pretending to be asleep when everybody returns.
I clutch Rabbit on hearing Mum call my name, then say, ‘It’s a wonder she’s not awake, but I see the ferret’s gone. Campbell must’ve called and, getting no one in, just taken him.’
I’ve an odd feeling that, asking Mum why we don’t have the ferret any longer, will mean she’ll put on her teacher’s voice, look strict and use big words that only Elizabeth will understand. Later, and when we’re in bed, I ask her instead.
She says, ‘Why’s the ferret’s gone? Ach, Jane, that’s a daft question. He’s off to be a husband.’