by Jane Yeadon
We follow her directions and find a big room lined against each wall with single iron beds, all occupied. There’s one in the middle and that’s where, as if stranded, Lala lies. When we go to him, only his eyes move and even they’ve lost their colour. We’ve no idea if he’s pleased to see us, but the bare surroundings are hardly welcoming. It’s so hushed here, the sound of people breathing seems loud.
I stroke the area of starched white sheet covering the top of the light green counterpane spread over his bed. There’s a strong smell of floor polish. I say, ‘Nay pipe smoking here, Lala. I s’pose the nurses will be keeping an eye on you tae mak’ sure ye dinna sneak a fly puff.’ He blinks. Elizabeth keeps quiet but puts out a hand to cover Lala’s long fingers. They don’t move.
‘Better run on, quines,’ says Dod after a few uncomfortable minutes. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’
35
A CAT CALLED SMILER
Dod had said, ‘Well, quines, I’m afraid that Lala didna last very long.’ He cleared his throat, there was a moment’s silence, then he went on, ‘But now the Old Lady’s settled in the Anderson Home in Elgin and that suits her better.’
Mum agreed. ‘An’ she’s even got a bit of colour in her face. She’s nearer her own folk too and she aye likes to be busy, so it’s as well that the staff let her help.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘As a matter of fact she considers herself more one of them than a resident.’
I sit on the horsehair-filled sofa in the old house, remembering the conversation. It was the nearest thing we got to an acknowledgement that Lala had died, so by this time, I imagine, he’ll have caught up with his two dead sons. I hope so, and that he’s able to talk now and enjoy a blether with them. Just in case they’re wondering about Mrs Bremner, I whisper a little message.
‘Now, dinna you be worrying aboot her. She’s doing fine. She’s away from Nairn an’ off to the Anderson Institute in Elgin. Dod didna think she’d like living in the middle of the town. But she does. Says it’s fine and handy for buying Butter Bas and she’s never stayed in a bonnier or bigger hoose other than the Balblair one, an’ as ye ken it was all right there but oot o’ the way.’
Of course, there’s no response from Lala. The funny thing is that even it’s still got their furniture; without either him or Mrs Bremner the house feels emptier and a lot less welcoming than our loft. The ornate clock that Mrs Bremner so faithfully wound has stopped and the teeth have gone. So have the family photographs. I won’t see them again until many, many years later when Evelyn, one of Dod’s nieces, will send them to me. Those long-ago faces look out and roll back time: memory jogs. Meanwhile, here, the smell of old tobacco smoke lingers, whilst sound only comes from the wind funnelling down the cold chimney. The hens have gone.
Dod relocated them with ours to the Tomdow steading. He’s heard about the deep-litter system. It means keeping hens inside in a warm house with lots of artificial light. It tricks them into thinking that it’s springtime, so they lay lots of eggs and just now there’s a good market for them. We still don’t have electricity but make do with bottled-gas lighting, which seems to work. Now, after teatime, either Elizabeth or I will collect the eggs after renewing the water in their drinking fountains and dishing out fishy-smelling pellets.
‘They’re so much easier and cleaner than hens’ mash,’ says Mum. ‘But the trouble is the cats like them, too. So once you’re finished, quines, make sure you put the lid back on the pellet bin.’
All in all, it’s a nice job. Passing the Tomdow cottage doesn’t worry me any longer. Having bad eyesight’s explained quite a lot (if not why my new spectacles should be framed in a disgusting flesh-coloured pink) but if it’s dry I cut through the field to the steading where it feels warm and welcoming and the hens seem happier in their new surroundings. Maybe Mrs Bremner’s ones are relieved not to have an axe-threat hanging over them, whilst the others don’t now have Duck hassling them.
She’s getting old, her head’s more tousled than usual and she doesn’t wander about as much. Mum says she’s got rheumatics in her right leg and her feet are probably cold, if a lot cleaner. These days, she sometimes condescends to keep Drake company for a while in the stick shed.
I’ve heard and seen her in full cry beside him. His head’s tucked under his wing, so he’s plainly not listening, but Mum says, ‘I bet she’s telling him about the good old days when she’d head for wild debauches in the muddy meadows and afterwards she’d reel home beneath the wondering moon. She’d wake everybody up with loud ha-ha’s.’ Mum laughs, too. ‘By comparison, Drake must think he’d led a blameless life.’
And they say I’ve an imagination!
‘What’s a debauch?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘I’ll go,’ I say one night that it’s Elizabeth turn of duty but she’s fretting about her homework.
‘Have you not any, Janie?’ asks Mum.
‘Mrs Munro helps with my reading,’ I tell her, thinking that the children’s section of her People’s Friend’s maybe a pale imitation of Mrs Bremner’s Red Letter but it’s a lot better than the school’s smelly First Reader. I’ve read it loads of times and only once found it interesting.
‘Well, you’ll certainly learn plenty about hard work from her. And she doesn’t mind you calling in on your way back from school?’
‘No. She says her bread would get stale if I didna eat it an’ she likes a wee news.’
Adjoining the Tomdow steading is a small storage room. It’s where Pansy’s offspring stay. As soon as they hear the click on the steading door latch, they spit hostility but go no further than hiding behind the pellet bin. Even if its lid’s still on, the smell of fish comes through. It must be awful for them not being able to get the lid off. I bet if Pansy was here, she’d have figured how to do it ages ago.
Now, lifting it off, I hear the sound of small swears. ‘Sheesht, you ungrateful animals. Here!’ I scatter a handful of pellets in their direction. ‘You should be catching rats instead. Now, shoo, you lazy lot!’
It’s not nice being this horrible to the cats, but, try as I might, they refuse all attempts at friendship. I suppose that Pansy’s told them to trust nobody. The hens are far more rewarding. All right, they’re being brought food and water, but at least they run towards you like a welcoming party, and it’s a bonus that those nesting in the old stone straw-filled feeding trough don’t mind anybody foraging under them. It’s great to be able to do it without fear, and of course wearing specs helps.
They might be the subject of ridicule at school and uncomfortable to wear, with their legs clamped round my ears in a vice-like grip, but faced close to a hen they’re a barrier between their beaks and my eyes. I look into the beautiful red-orange ones of Mrs Bremner’s Rhode-Island Reds. Along with their crimson combs and rust-coloured feathers, I’d think they were beauties were it not for their scaly yellow legs and toes that end in ugly talons.
‘Bonny eggies,’ I tell them, by way of encouragement and an intending departure. Replacing the bin lid, and sensing everything’s OK, I’m about to lift the door latch to leave when there’s a small pitiful mewing sound. I cast about. In the small space of the storage room, the gas light robs colour, casts harsh shadows and hisses as much as the cats slinking well out of reach but keeping a watchful eye.
There doesn’t seem to be anything different. A car passes on the road outside. There’s seldom traffic at this time of night and I wonder who it could be. Then the noise comes again. I’d have sworn it was a kitten crying if all the cats hadn’t such plump figures. Maybe they’ve swapped pellets to become hunters and it’s a half-dead mouse trying to escape. Damn!
‘Miaow.’
When a black-and-white kitten peeps round the pellet bin, it’s a shock, but immediately I hunker down, then, slowly putting out a hand, try a soft wheedling, ‘Puss, puss!’
A small kitten advances, walking as delicately and carefully as if on a tight rope. With its tail up, it looks more anxious than scared and surely incapable of putti
ng out claws. It’s enchanting how it comes right up, allowing its head to be stroked. It looks as if it wants to be lifted.
‘There’s nothing of you,’ I whisper, at which point it breaks into a rapturous purr. It seems to like being held in my arms, perhaps it’s on account of the other cats. Looking balefully down from their straw throne, their message is clear: that one doesn’t belong.
‘I’m going to take you home with me,’ I say, stroking the newcomer. ‘And we’ll call you Smiler. Anything as wee as you and able to purr as cheerful and loud, needs a name like that.’
Smiler mews and holds on tight.
Mum’s feeding Pansy in the scullery when I get back. Having seen her take regular swipes at Nell whenever she tried to join her at the fireside, I’m pretty sure another animal’s going to get an equally hostile reaction, so I take this one into the kitchen.
‘See what I’ve got!’
Book in hand, Elizabeth’s sharing the sofa with Nell, who opens one eye when Mum comes through. I pop the kitten on Elizabeth’s lap. ‘Meet Smiler.’
Taking one look, Mum snaps, ‘The barn! Now!’
‘Och, Mum,’ says Elizabeth, putting down the book and cradling Smiler, ‘We canna do that. Look at it. It’s far too wee and it’s most awful cute.’
As if understanding the words, Smiler mews. Now fully awake, Nell freezes.
‘It’s a poor abandoned orphan,’ I cry, ‘if we put it in the barn, the cats will bad use it – it’s not theirs or the Tomdow ones either.’
There’s a pause. Having my sister onside’s a bonus, but we’ll need a clincher, so I continue. ‘And it’s only used to humans. Elizabeth, give Smiler to Mum to hold, but be canny, both of you. It’s so thin, you could break its ribs.’
Smiler easily adapts to the transfer and cranks up the purrs. Mum, obviously finding it hard to resist the ball of fur, strokes its head. When she lifts its tail, Smiler gives a small reproachful look from eyes that are an emerald-green fringed with gold. Mum smiles. ‘So you’re a tabby, then, and quines . . .’ she says, casting her eyes heavenwards, ‘I suppose you’re right. Even if she’s got a splotchy-looking face, she is cute but too thin. Maybe once she’s been fed for a week or two, she can join the other barn cats.’
Skilfully changing the subject, Elizabeth wonders, ‘Where d’you think she came from?’
‘Probably an RAF family. If they were posted away from Kinloss, they might not have been able to take her. That must have been hard for them. Maybe they thought that dumping her somewhere warm with a light would mean somebody would see and take care of her. She’s obviously used to folk, but look at her, she is starving! Go, you, and get her some milk, Janie. We’ll need to feed her here. Pansy’ll have a fit if she sees competition.’
‘At this time of night, she’ll be wanting out. I think she’s a bit like Duck about night-time adventures. Mebbe she’ll be looking for a debauch,’ Elizabeth offers. She pats Nell’s head. ‘Not like you, you old fatty.’
But Nell’s oblivious to anything but the sight of Smiler hoovering up the contents of the saucer. When it’s been licked clean, the collie, looking disappointed, gets up, checks for any food crumbs she might have been sitting on, jumps down for a final saucer-check, then climbs back onto the sofa again. She resumes her study of Smiler, who, having tidied her bib and tucker, returns her gaze and gives a soft call.
‘Look! She’s speaking to Nell,’ I cry. ‘She’s the same colour. Maybe she thinks she’s her mother.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ says Elizabeth, ‘but she’ll be awful lonely without one. What about her coming to bed with me, Mum?’
I kind of hope that Mum will let her because she hasn’t got a Rabbit for company. But it’s Smiler who settles the matter.
When she lands on the sofa and cosies in between Nell and my sister, Mum says, ‘You wouldn’t think that something so little could be so fly, but, Smiler, I wouldn’t get too close to that tail. The smell’s bad enough from where I am.’
Ignoring our ribald laughter, Nell doesn’t move. No matter the size of cat, she must be figuring that they’re all best left alone. She stares straight ahead, whilst Smiler looks as if she’s sitting pretty.
36
PANSY’S HAD ENOUGH!
Soon after Smiler’s arrival, Nell gets brave. Not only does the new arrival share her rations but having her around also makes the collie protective towards her little companion and able to snap at Pansy’s ready claws. When the pair are not out and about, they’re taking up space either on the sofa or by the fireside.
If Pansy, livid at having been so usurped, wasn’t swearing under her breath when we were present, she was trying to scratch her rivals when we weren’t. Eventually, giving us all up as a bad job, she’s decided to sweep grandly out. Now she’s gone to live with our neighbours at Culfearn.
‘Honestly, she’s quite disgusting. The Culfearn folk said she made a great fuss of them, carried on as if she were a faithful animal who lived only for her masters,’ Mum related, and went on, ‘When we went to check if they were all right about having her, she made quite sure we saw her sitting patiently at their door, yearning to acknowledge their care for an unloved waif. As for us, well . . . she cut us dead.’
‘I bet she doesn’t get Smiler’s fancy diet,’ says Dod.
Mum’s quick. ‘Pansy’ll never starve. She’s a great hunter so that pleases her new owners, but I’m pretty sure she’ll soon bend them to her will. They’ll be buying her the best of liver in no time. Anyway, Smiler’s got such a minute appetite you wouldn’t grudge her a bittie nice mince, would you? She needs building up.’
‘Like Nell?’ Dod glowers at the dog as he speaks to her. ‘If you could pick tatties, then you’d be some use, but you wait. The wintering sheep will be here any time now. Then you’ll hiv tae work an’ you’re bound to lose some o’ that beef you’ve pit on. Otherwise we may hae tae pit ye in the meat ring.’
I might have thought he was serious if I hadn’t heard his discussion with Mum.
‘Nowadays the demand’s more for beef than milk,’ he’d said. ‘Seemingly, there’s a nice Aberdeen Angus bull for sale in Nairnshire. He’s got a good history of producing bull calves and they’ve got a better build for carrying beef.’ So that eliminates Nell.
‘Black with broad noses and behinds?’
‘Aye.’
There’s silence. I think that Mum might not want to see the back of Frankie. But, really, she’s the only one. I might miss Pansy, but not him and once his malign presence has been swapped for Black Douglas, I think she appreciates the difference.
This bull may share Frankie’s penetratingly shrill voice but not the smoking red eyes. His ones are benevolent. He’s got a small waddling figure and doesn’t need a ring in his nose. Mum even goes as far as to say she thinks a daisy in his shiny plush coat would be more his style.
‘The Nairnshire farm’s no’ half as exposed as Tombain,’ says Dod. ‘It’s probably made him a bit of a softie. We should pit him doon by the Tomdow howes for a start.’
He means the sheltered valley that the Dorback runs through.
‘That’s a good idea, but we’ll need to make sure he’s on the meadow bit nearer to Culfearn. We don’t want him near the crags. They’re so sandy, if there was a spate they could easy collapse on him, and his harem as well.’ Mum says it in an absent-minded sort of way. She’s got that pre-occupied ‘Monday morning’ look and even if I’m overjoyed that it’s the tattie holidays, there’s no chance I’ll get to hang about the house playing with Smiler.
‘Janie, will you leave the cattie alone! She keeps me company,’ says Mum. ‘I like the way she sits on the arm of the sofa, chats encouragement and helps me with my word count.’
‘Nell’ll be jealous,’ I try.
‘She’ll be outside wi’ me being useful,’ says Dod, looking at Mum as she sets her typewriter on the table. ‘We need tae check that the wintering sheep are settling on the hill. There’ll be more food for them the
re than from where they came, but they need to get to know the lie of the land. I don’t know why folk say they’re stupid. Sheep are pretty cute at figuring out both food and danger spots.’
I’m about to mention kelpies and kettle-holes, but Mum’s already set out a pencil and jotter.
I get the message. Still, I offer, ‘I could go to Culfearn and do tattie-picking with Elizabeth. I heard you say everybody’s short of pickers.’
‘Mebbe next year, but if you really want to be helpful, go and wash the dishes. Then go and play outside or in the loft.’ She might as well have slammed the door.
Down beside the Knockack, the cry of geese comes first. It’s a sound like a squeaking barrow. When they come nearer, they’re so high, they’re almost invisible. It’s doubtful if I could see them anyway: I’m not wearing my specs. They limit acrobat work. Dangling upside down from the birch branches, I listen to those atmospheric calls. They punctuate the burn’s murmuring voice and mix with the distant bleat of the wintering sheep carried on a soft wind. For this time of year, it’s an extraordinarily lovely day.
Spiders are doing a bit of trapeze work between the gorse and juniper bushes. I’m torn between admiration for those delicately woven lures and pity for the insects caught on them. Mind you, I’d be delighted if they trapped more midges.
‘It’s autumn. You shouldna be here,’ I say as they swarm around my head. It’s useless swatting them from this position – ruins balance, too. As I land on my feet, leaves fall in a golden shower. On the ground, they lie scattered and already almost fragile-looking. Indifferent to anything but the taste of blood, the midges persist. Bracken leaves are a useful deterrent, so I grab a stem. It doesn’t come away easily but eventually I manage to twist it off. The leaves are turning to a colour not unlike our Rhode Island hens’ feathers and when I start to whirl them about me they make for an elegant, if not very efficient, switch. With the midges continuing their assault, they’re a good excuse for returning home. Surely a conscientious mother wouldn’t begrudge a request for midge powder.