A Drake at the Door (22 page)

On a Monday morning, a week after she had become a tenant, she announced to us that on the previous Saturday afternoon she had bought a mongrel puppy and two kittens from a pet shop.

She was so animated and joyous when she told us the news that I afterwards regretted that I was so cool. My intellect answered her. No emotion. A polite reaction, as if she had told me that she had bought geraniums to decorate her garden. And yet what she had done was what I admired, no sense in it, no logic, not waiting to listen to advice which would have deadened the excitement. She had seen a puppy and two kittens in a window, and she had money in her pocket to buy them and somewhere of her own to give them a home. What she had done possessed the irrational enthusiasm which I had always felt, whatever a person’s age, was the beat of life. Here was an act for me to admire, and yet I was frigid.

Jeannie did not react to her in the same way. Jeannie saw quickly that Shelagh was gathering in her arms the lost ones who, like herself, had no permanent home. She could not bear to see their faces looking at her through the shop window. For the first time in her life she had the power to help, and she was not going to make the mistake of letting the moment slip by. Jeannie, because of the nature of her character, was emotionally involved. She agreed with Shelagh on the grounds that a puppy and two kittens had been rescued. Three more animals who had a home. My own coolness was due to my doubt as to what kind of a home Shelagh would give them.

I knew, of course, that Shelagh would give them her love, but how could she look after them when she was away from the caravan every day? Shelagh, even if she had felt emotionally empty, always had lived in a home where the details of her life had been cared for. She never had to bother about the tedious routine which makes the day go round. She did not have to make unwelcome decisions, or make up her mind whether or not to make a self-sacrifice. She was ordered to do something, may have resented it, but she never had to make the mental effort to give the order. She was still a child, and until now she had enjoyed the child’s privilege of rebellion without responsibility. Two cats and a dog would certainly test her sense of responsibility.

But I realise now that my doubts were caused by my own personal attitude towards animals. I had developed over the years from a person who treated an animal as a four-legged creature that was pleasant to have around, to a person who was foolish in his devotion. I had become spoilt by the fact that where I worked and where I lived were one and the same place, and so there was no daily break in my relationship with the animal. There were no morning goodbyes and evening reunions. I had become immersed in a continuous relationship. And so it was absurd that I should judge Shelagh or anyone else by the same standard. If an animal receives devotion that is enough, and periods of separation should be considered as a normal hazard in its life.

The kittens were black and white, and she called them Sooty and Spotty. The puppy was a sandy-haired mongrel with a fluffy face like a Yorkshire terrier. She called him Bingo.

The kittens, as one might expect from the self-reliance of their breed, soon settled down. At first, with the floor of the caravan covered by newspapers, Shelagh kept them indoors while she was away; but as they grew older, the knowledge that the caravan was their home and the source of their food being firmly implanted in their minds, she left a window open. They could come and go as they wished, but they always were there to sleep on her bed at night.

Sooty, in particular, was especially fond of her. When she went into Penzance she used to catch the bus at a place called Boskenna Cross, ten minutes’ walk away from the caravan along a lane which was edged by tall trees for part of the way and which passed between farm buildings.

Jeannie and I were in the Land Rover one dark evening when the headlights lit up the figure of Shelagh standing by the bus stop and beside her, to our astonishment was Sooty. We drew up and asked her what he was doing there.

‘Oh,’ she said, undisguisedly pleased that we had discovered Sooty’s affection, ‘he often comes with me when I go into town.’

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘but what happens when you get in the bus and leave him on his own?’

Shelagh, in the bright yellow light, smiled triumphantly.

‘He waits,’ she said, ‘until the nine twenty-five drops me back here.’

It was different with Bingo. A dog is not equipped to provide itself with solitary entertainment. A cat can amuse itself for many quiet hours stalking real or imaginary mice. Any rustle is a challenge. But a dog likes to share its enjoyments. It is extrovert. If a particular pleasure comes its way it wants to tell the whole world how happy it is. A cat is secretive. A dog is generous. A cat can look after itself. A dog is dependent.

The caravan, isolated as it was, still was within barking distance of other isolated homes. Bingo, as it happens, proved to be a remarkably silent dog; but there were times when the cliffs echoed with his noise. Poor Bingo, he was bored. He did not know of the pleasure of hunting imaginary mice.

Shelagh had arranged an elaborate paraphernalia for his happiness. It had been prompted, as most of Shelagh’s ideas, by a magazine article. What do you do with a dog, she had read, if you have to be out all day yet possess a small patch where it could be free?

The answer was a long wire fixed at the dog’s height between two points, and the dog was attached to this wire from its collar by a hook. Thus, when left on its own, it had the freedom to run up and down; and in Bingo’s case he could either stay in the outhouse where he had his basket, food and water, or have a good run outside in the compound.

It was not long, however, before I was saying to myself that we ought to let her bring Bingo to Minack. It was an awkward decision to make, because on our flower farm unless a dog is well controlled it can do a great deal of damage. We had already experienced a dog rushing through daffodil beds in bloom, and another who thought that young tomato plants in the greenhouse were ideal for rolling on.

And yet, of course, we had known some very well-mannered dogs. My cousin, for instance, who lived near St Just, had a beautiful show champion Alsatian named Tara who used to tour the flower farm with the care of a dowager inspecting her garden.

There was another doubt about Bingo. How would he behave towards Boris and Lama? Minack was an oasis where they could wander without danger. It would be unfair to them if they were frightened by a dog. We decided, however, to give Bingo a chance, and so one evening I told Shelagh she could bring him the following day.

She arrived on her bicycle with Bingo on a long lead running beside her. He was an ebullient little dog, and as soon as he saw Jeannie and me he made a dash sideways towards us, nearly pulling Shelagh off the bicycle. And when I saw him do this, a smile on his face as if he were telling me how happy he was to be allowed to stay at Minack, I found myself thinking how pleasant it would be if indeed Shelagh was able to bring him every day. There was the most appealing unity between the two. It is always, of course, to be seen when the years have let flourish a companionship between a man or woman and a dog or a cat; it is to be expected. But there was something special about the look Shelagh gave Bingo as she got off her bicycle. She was pleased with him because he had made a fuss of us; and she was silently telling him so.

Lama was asleep at that particular moment on the bed in the spare room so there was no prospect of trouble as far as she was concerned. The only one we had to worry about was Boris, and yet so endearingly happy was Bingo, rushing about and following Shelagh as she started her work, that I forgot about him. Boris was so independent, so lordly, that I felt sure he could look after himself. And anyhow I was watching Shelagh’s face.

I wonder why it was that I was thinking she had a face that would never grow old? As I watched her I knew she was earnestly hoping Bingo would behave with absolute decorum. The picture of a mother who wanted, beyond price of desire, for her child to shine. Every move was judged by the hope of acclamation. Every thought was wishing that Bingo would behave in such a way that he would be accepted.

It is so easy, later, to say that you saw a look in somebody’s eye that did not belong to those who will live. Yet, that day Shelagh brought Bingo I sensed that look. There was a fleeting compassion that gave me a chill; for Shelagh yielded the impression that she was trying to put a cloak round Bingo. She wanted him to be loved by someone other than herself. She wanted desperately for us to say that he was a dog we loved, and would look after. All her hopes were dependent on how he behaved on this first day at Minack.

After breakfast I went up to the well to turn on the pump. The engine was in an obstinate mood. I had to take out the plug and clean it, then, as this did not help, adjust the carburettor. I once again vigorously turned the starting-handle and this time the engine fired. Water came spurting out of the thirty-foot pipe and into the tank, and I returned to the cottage with a sense of satisfaction that the water supply was now assured for twenty-four hours. And then, as I came down the path, I heard the most frightful cacophony going on below the cottage.

I ran round the side past the tractor shelter and the greenhouse, and down in front of the flower-house. This was the route that Boris took to and fro from the chicken house; and as I ran I already knew what had happened. Bingo had attacked Boris.

As I arrived Shelagh was taking Bingo, barking hysterically, away, and he looked to me to be so mad with frustration that Shelagh herself was in danger of being bitten. Jeannie, meanwhile, had her hands on Boris who was lying, white wings spread out, on the ground. He was quite still.

‘Did you see it happen, Jeannie?’

She had been grading and weighing tomatoes, when she heard the commotion and rushed out to find Bingo pinning Boris to the ground. It was Jeannie, in fact, who first pulled him away, and then Shelagh, realising what had happened, raced from her work to help. When she passed me, she was taking him to the flower-house I had just passed. She was crying.

‘Is Boris badly hurt?’ I asked Jeannie this question hopefully, because he looked dead to me. He was limp. He was lying with a lifeless abandon. I had seen the same look when, in my youth, I had shot ducks as they came innocently over the Norfolk Broads at dusk.

But as I asked this question Boris began to move, then to struggle free of Jeannie’s gentle hands, and to start padding away from us. One wing trailed the ground beside him.

‘Thank God,’ I said, ‘all he’s got is a broken wing.’

Here again I was being over-pessimistic. There was no wing broken. Boris had only been behaving in the tradition of wild creatures in a moment of danger. He had been pretending; and as soon as he was a few yards from us, he started to waddle, wings tight to his body, as he had always done. The sudden change in his behaviour made us both laugh. And then I realised that Shelagh had not returned.

‘I expect she’s soothing Bingo,’ Jeannie said.

I now did a stupid thing. I heard Bingo whimpering in the flower-house and I imagined that Shelagh was with him. She had, in fact, gone into the cottage to fetch a jug of warm water and bandages for Boris; but, believing she was with Bingo and wanting to tell her not to be upset, I opened the top half of the stable-type door of the flower-house.

In a second, Bingo, whining like a hyena, was over the top of the lower half of the door, and racing towards Boris again. He was on Boris’s back and savaging his neck before Jeannie, very bravely, took him by the scruff of the neck and threw him away; and at that moment Shelagh rushed up, as he was about to take another flying leap at Boris, and picked him up, hugging him to her.

What does one do in such circumstances? Here it was, well before lunchtime and Bingo had already twice attacked Boris; and Lama might too have been a victim if she had not been out of the way in the cottage, and sleeping.

But there was Shelagh. Both Jeannie and I knew what was passing through her mind. Something which she wanted beyond ordinary understanding had failed totally to materialise. She had willed so hard for it to succeed. It was a cornerstone of the new life she was building on her own that those she loved, loved each other. And here, so soon, she was faced with failure. She realised we could not possibly live a life at Minack in which, at any moment, Bingo was poised for the attack. She could not possibly bring him again. And yet, Jeannie and I thought, perhaps if we gave him another chance, for instance, of becoming acclimatised to other beings, he would accept them.

So we compromised by suggesting that she should bring him every day for a week, keeping him on a lead. She could tie him up to a post nearby when she was working in the fields, and if she were indoors or in one of the greenhouses she could leave him in the hut we called the potato-house. It would mean he could get used to us all, and have the comfort of knowing his mistress was with him.

It was no use. Bingo was only quiet when Shelagh was actually beside him. If he saw her from the post to which he was tied or knew she was near when he was shut in the potato-house, the wail of a banshee echoed round Minack.

We had to tell her that she could not bring him.

It was fortunate that shortly afterwards A. P. Herbert came to stay with us. It was particularly fortunate as far as Shelagh was concerned because A.P.H. was cooperating with Russ Conway, who was writing the music, on a version of
A Christmas Carol
. The looks, character, and personality of Russ Conway provided Shelagh with an ideal. He could do no wrong. He provided her with all the sweetness of first love without the heartbreaks of reality. A photograph, scissored from a magazine, was in her caravan. The only picture of a star she had. And now here was someone actually staying with us who was in regular contact with him.

We did not tell Shelagh what we planned. And when the envelope arrived addressed to her in which, we knew, was a personal letter from Russ Conway and a signed photograph, we handed it to her as casually as if it were a circular.