Corrie was back in her field now, rewarded with oats. Don’t think that Corrie is fed entirely on oats, which would be most unsuitable for her, considering the little work she does. She only gets a handful occasionally, in a bucket, which makes her very happy without making her frisky.
Inside the house, the family were settling down for tea. Kitten had made potato scones, and Fionna’s chin was shiny with butter when I arrived at the dining-room window. Fionna is not at all greedy in the ordinary way, but when there are potato scones I notice she eats very fast and has one eye on the plate on which the scones are piled. They don’t stay piled for long! All the family love potato scones, but Kitten can’t eat them, because if she does she gets indigestion and has to drink hot water and bicarbonate of soda. Bicarbonate of soda is a great medicine with the family, as a gargle, as a poultice or anything else at all. And very good it is too, and cheap.
It was John who noticed me first. ‘Oh, Nicky, poor liddle cat!’ he said, and came over and opened the window, so that I climbed with dignity onto the big oak chest, studded with brass, which is just below the window, and gives me a good view of the room, at the same time enabling me to keep out of the way of any teasing ideas Carla may have.
The new hen-house was finished, and the question was how to induce the hens to use it. Hens are creatures of habit, and it was going to take some skill to break them of their custom of sleeping where they had always slept. Everyone had different ideas about how to do it, but in the end it was Puddy who went out and caught each one in turn, all ten of them, plus the cock, and dumped them one by one in their new home. I’ve always thought that hens are the most unintelligent creatures of my acquaintance, and now I know it. They twittered away most indignantly, despite the fact that they now had a huge house with southern aspect, light, airy, and beautifully furnished with perches, laying boxes, a grain hopper and a water trough. It was far, far superior to their old home, and indeed, to any hen-house I have seen. It then occurred to me that my presence at Puddy’s feet might have something to do with their fussy protests, so I slipped off back to the house, arriving there just as Johnnie-the-Postman came slowly up the drive, weighed down, as he always was, by his haversack of letters.
Carla was barking as if we were being invaded by burglars. She did this every evening, and anticipated Johnnie’s arrival with impatient woofs and whimpers. I never discovered whether, were she let loose, she would eat Johnnie, or fawn over him. I think the family never knew either, for they took good care to hold on to her, so that they would not find out.
Margie met Johnnie halfway up the drive and she gave him the letters the family had written (one was to the fishmonger in Oban ordering fish, one was a postcard to Puddy’s library asking for another book and the third was a cheque, sent with much grumbling to John’s tailor). He then gave her the letters and papers that had come for them. The Scotsman, The Times, a begging letter from a charitable organisation, an Account Rendered from John’s tailor (which they needn’t have bothered to send!) and a buff envelope with OHMS printed in the corner.
Margie glanced at this, then shouted over to the house, ‘It’s your call-up, I think, John.’
And she was right. But at that time I didn’t know what a call-up meant, or how right Corrie had been with her dream.
But I know now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Quite suddenly I realised that spring had really come. The daffodils which grow all over the lawns and up the side of the drive had been dreadfully battered by the winds, yet somehow their flamboyance was undefeated, and now, in the light air, they had a look of serene victory. Here and there the narcissi were coming into flower, Puddy was cursing the mice that ate the crocuses (and I resolved to redouble my efforts to rid her of these pests) – and the few scanty trees showed signs of bursting into life.
Margie and John raking hay
Corrie spent a great deal of her time eating the new, succulent grass that grew at the edge of the bogs in that big wild field where nothing was ever cultivated but which at some time had been used as a peat moss. I was a little afraid that one day Corrie would sink deeply into a bog, but she reassured me, telling me that the special instinct which she had inherited from her moorland ancestors gave her complete security from any mistake that might lead her into trouble.
Earlier that year, John and Puddy had set fire to the heather over that rough field, and I had been saddened to see the blackened wasteland it rapidly became, but I knew that the young heather that would grow up in its place later in the year would be more tender and sweet than the tough heather which had been burned; and green grass was already showing where before there had been no grass visible at all.
One day the family had breakfast earlier than usual, and soon I discovered the reason for this as, with a great roaring of engines, the big tractor, driven by a nearby farmer, came pounding up the drive. Soon the big field was being ploughed, while countless seagulls wheeled overhead and swooped down on the innumerable tit-bits that the over-turned earth revealed.
At about that time, Puddy moved her chickens from the brooder to an outdoor rearing house. There were seventeen chickens now, as three had died in spite of Puddy’s efforts to save them. And what efforts she had made! Each sickly chick was given a cardboard box to itself, and these she spread over the Aga so that Kitten could scarcely cook the meals. For days these chickens were cosseted, and I think it says a lot for the care Puddy took that one of them recovered from whatever ailment it suffered from and was now back with the others, so healthy you couldn’t tell which had been the sickly one.
I was interested to see that a family of wild duck had arrived on the loch. They must have lived on one of the islands, but every day they swam around, the parents obviously very proud of their five ducklings. There were swans on the loch too. Six of them, and very handsome they were, but I knew they would not make their permanent home there. Autumn and spring, they arrive on their way somewhere else, but where they come from and where they go to, I have never discovered. It was the same with the wild geese, who came and went and never stayed.
When the ploughing was finished, the big field was harrowed, and after that, there was a lot of work for John and Puddy and Fionna to do, spreading lime and manure, and planting seeds. First of all, John got out Puffing Billy, which is the name of the little tractor belonging to the family, and he loaded Puffing Billy’s trailer with sacks of lime, and chugged round the field, dropping off sacks at regular intervals. Fionna and Puddy undid the sacks and scattered the lime with a spade, and I’ve never seen such a sight as they were when they had finished! They looked as if they had been rolled in flour, and although I kept my distance during these operations, I found that even I had collected a good deal of the horrid white stuff, carried over in the wind.
After the lime, the artificial manure was spread, and this was gritty stuff, so it didn’t blow about so much. Then the seed was sown, and Puddy, John and Fionna must have walked miles, up and down the field, scattering the oats, which they carried in a specially constructed sack-cloth container slung round their necks. Corrie was very good about the oats. She would lean over the railing which divided the big field from the wild field where she now lived, and her nostrils would quiver with excitement, but she made no attempt to crash her way through the fencing. And I know she could do that easily enough if she tried!
When the planting was finished, every day Fionna peered round the field to see if the shoots were showing, and one day John managed to shoot one of the hoody crows that guzzle the seeds and are a menace to farmers and crofters in these parts. He hung up the dead crow on a pole in the middle of the field, and for a long time the crows stayed away. Crows always avoid, for a while, the place where one of them has been killed.
One day Margie and John and Puddy and Fionna set off in Florrie, which is the little black Ford with yellow wheels, and I knew that they were going to the displenishing sale of one of the big houses at the other end of the island, for I’ve heard the
m talk about it. I didn’t know what a displenishing sale was when they left, but my word, I knew when they came back! There was hardly room for them to sit in Florrie, so piled up she was with cake-tins, rusty paraffin stoves, odd pieces of crockery and nameless objects, one of which was a water softener, bought by John for a shilling. He was very pleased with this, though it turned out to be broken and quite useless.
Grandpop had some grumbles about bringing all this rubbish home, but when a wee while later a lorry arrived with a heap of furniture as well, he was speechless! However, Margie pointed out that Victorian chests of drawers were useful, and so are chaff-cutters and spinning-wheels, and the huge dresser was the very thing for the kitchen.
Somehow or other, most of the things were fitted into the house, though it meant quite a lot of other things had to be shifted out to the cottage. And in next to no time the family were wondering how they had ever managed without the tall-boy in the cloakroom or the huge dresser in the kitchen. Which just goes to show that things do come in useful, if you have a mind that they shall.
Another excitement was the Ploughing Match. This is held every year, and the new-fangled tractors are put aside and replaced by the horse, which I am sure you will agree is a far better means of drawing a plough, for a horse does not stick in the mud or get fuel trouble. And my word! how grand the competing horses looked as they arrived proudly at the field where the match was to take place!
I had arrived at the scene early, for I realised that the family would never think of taking me with them in Florrie, and I found that my cross-country walk had taken less time than I had expected. I therefore sat at the gate of the competition field and watched the horses arriving, in pairs, their harness polished till it shone, their manes and tails plaited and tied up with coloured ribbon. Indeed, so splendid did each pair look that at first I did not recognise Sandy and Queenie, the two smart cart-horses who so often passed our house and talked to Corrie over the wall.
I settled myself in a quiet place among some rushes, for the wind was bitterly cold, and there I watched it all – the arrival of my family, laughing and chatting, and slapping at Carla when she tried to get too friendly with other dogs, the patient horses obeying the crisp instructions of their drivers, the black, peaty soil turned back in neat furrows, the seagulls sweeping and crying in their wake.
Watching them, men and horses working together, I wondered why Man has allowed his desire for speed to displace his most generous helpmate, the horse. And I confess that my heart was filled with sadness to think of the faithful horses who had gone to the knackers so that brightly painted tractors might occupy their stalls. And at the end of the day, with that perfectly ploughed field spread before them, and with their horses – many of whom now wore a prize rosette fixed to their bridles – wending a weary but resolute way home, I hoped the farmers shared my sentiments and would resolve that they at least would give the horse the place in the community which he deserves.
Most days there weren’t displenishing sales or ploughing matches to go to, and then Puddy and Fionna would go out with Corrie, either in the dog-cart or for a ride, but in spite of this, Corrie was getting very fat on the new spring grass. The goats too were thriving on the new growth, though their preference was for nettles and the new shoots of whin, and their milk had increased so much that Kitten made butter every few days, shaking up the cream in a glass jar. Puddy was also able to give goat’s milk to a sick farmer, and if you suffer from a bad digestion, I can tell you that goat’s milk is the very thing for you. And don’t say you don’t like it, for pure, clean goat’s milk has no more taste or smell than clean cow’s milk. It needs the addition of a little sugar, as it is not very sweet, but if you have the idea that it is strong-tasting and smelly, you are absolutely wrong.
One day Puddy set off on Corrie, with her can of goat’s milk for the sick farmer, and she had hardly started when somehow or other she managed to fall off Corrie’s wide back and landed flat on her back in the heather. But amazingly she kept the can upright and never spilt a drop of milk! I was sitting on the wall and saw it happen, and I must admit it was quite enough to make a human laugh! Corrie of course stood quite still as soon as she felt Puddy disappear. Even if she had been galloping – and she was only trotting – she would have stood still, for that is the nature of Highland ponies, and very useful it is too, if you are nervous or learning to ride. I noticed that after this episode, Puddy delivered the milk on Fionna’s bicycle. This wasn’t because she’d been hurt, because you can’t get hurt falling on a clump of heather, but perhaps she had noticed me on the wall and felt she must not risk looking so foolish in front of me again.
I have said that Corrie and the goats were flourishing, so it is only fair to mention that I, too, was putting on a considerable amount of weight. Young rabbits are very tasty, and comparatively easy to catch, and if at times I ate rather more than was good for my figure, well, you can hardly blame me. Besides, at this time of year there were a few rather attractive young tabbies that I had my eye on, and even though, without wishing to be thought conceited, I knew I was the best catch in the south of Mull, I knew too that there would be certain toms who would be anxious to contest me. So I needed my strength for my romantic future, with long distances to travel and with a fight to face before victorious return.
In the house a great deal of packing was going on. Fionna’s trunk was being got ready for her return to school, and this meant checking through long lists of clothing which she had to take back with her, while Puddy and Kitten, and indeed all the family, grumbled about the petty regulations which schools impose upon one. Fionna had little to do with this preparation of her possessions, preferring to cycle round the country, armed with a pencil and notebook in which she recorded the habits of birds. This is a veritable paradise for a birdwatcher, and I should know, for I’ve done long hours of it myself, though not with the intention of recording my observations. And if you think that my thoughts were focused on the tasty meal this or that bird might provide, you are not far wrong, though I’ve said it before and I say it again – the family love the birds so I leave them alone. I’m an affectionate cat and I like to please.
It was not only Fionna who was packing. Margie was so much better now that she was going back to London, and she would soon be working again at the film studio near the pet-shop where first I met my family. I often climbed on her knee and rubbed myself against her and tried to make her understand that there were messages I wanted to send to my old friends in Ealing. But it was no good. She tickled my ears and said endearing things to me, but of the things I was telling her she had no idea. So I gave up and went to see Corrie, to tell her more stories about London, of which she never tired.
Corrie had a great ambition to visit London, and her dream was that one day she would take part in the Horse of the Year Show, and would parade in the very same arena that rang with applause for Foxhunter and Tosca and Winston-the-Horse-the-Queen-rides. But in Corrie’s dream, the chief applause would be for Corrieshellach, and the band would play ‘The Road to the Isles’ as she marched proudly under the spotlight, her silver mane flowing and her silver tail skimming the ground with almost nothing to spare. For it would be Corrie’s beauty that would win her a place in that parade, and beauty in a Highland pony means that very long, flowing tail and other virtues besides. All of which Corrie possess a hundredfold.
The third lot of packing was being done by John, whenever he wasn’t digging ditches or repairing fences or doing his Russian dance and asking for FOOD. John’s packing meant digging through luggage in an outhouse, and scattering all manner of strange objects around the backyard. There were long black tin trunks, which he called his uniform cases, and there was a canvas hold-all for bedding, and a camp basin and a mosquito whisk. This latter he said he wouldn’t need in Stirling.
Crumpled khaki uniform was brought out of the cases, and the anti-moth powder shaken out. Then Kitten hung the things in the sun and dared the goats to eat them. The tu
nic of the suit had several coloured ribbons on the left breast and three gold stripes on the right arm, which Puddy said were ‘wound stripes’. This meant that John had been through a very bad time during the war. I would like to have told them that there would not be room on my coat for all my wound stripes, but perhaps they would have thought me frivolous.
John had left the army after the war and had gone back to Oxford University. After that, he had written a lot of film scripts, which kept him travelling round the world, but soon he decided he would rather be in the army and had given up films. He had come home to Mull, waiting for his call-up. And that was the OHMS envelope I told you about in my last chapter.
Corrie watched these preparations sadly. She didn’t say, ‘It’s chust like I told you.’ She would consider that boastful, and Corrie is the most self-effacing mare I have ever met. But she knew, as I did, that when John left, it would not be in the bus, and that his going would be for a much longer time than Margie’s or Fionna’s would be. Even the goats must have had a sense of impending loss, for they chewed the cud much more thoughtfully than ever before, and sometimes I noticed that there was a tear in Flora’s eye. (I have since discovered I was wrong about that. Puddy cured Flora’s tears with boracic eye-lotion.)
But before John left, a very big and important and sad thing was to happen. So big and so important that, although, like I said, it has now become just a point of time, when the family say, ‘That was before the foot and mouth’ or ‘That was after the foot and mouth,’ it still sends a chill down my spine.
Four Ducks on a Pond Page 3