Does Your Mother Know? (25 page)

Duncan raised the megaphone to his mouth. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Good afternoon and welcome, or, as we say in the islands,
feasgar mhah agus failte
. Our demonstration today will last about forty minutes. I have a
small gift and souvenir shop in the barn over there, which you are welcome to visit afterwards. Let me introduce the collies.”

He waved his hand at the dogs, who all simultaneously dropped to the ground and lay watching him.

“First is my oldest, seven-year-old Nic.” The smallest of the four dogs trotted forward and did a bow.

A smattering of applause.

“Next at five years is Luna. She’s named for her habit of baying at the moon.”

She lifted her head and howled.

“Third is Mac. He’s also five. He’s my only male, and he’s shy. The girls intimidate him.”

Mac slunk forward, close to the ground, then dropped and buried his muzzle in his paws.

More laughter this time.

“Finally, my young, green dog, Mocu, which means ‘my dog.’ In Gaelic.”

At a subtle signal, Mocu raced from her position, barking madly, and made a big circle around Duncan. He pretended to be having trouble getting her under control, until finally she flopped to the ground and rolled on her back, paws in the air. That trick seemed to have won over the spectators.

“Usually in shows involving animals, you are asked not to make noise or take pictures, but here that is not the case. The dogs wouldn’t notice if you started up a rock concert. A collie’s ability to concentrate on his task is legendary. They are considered the most intelligent of the dog breeds. I’d say that is debatable. What is so smart about living to work?”

My own ability to concentrate was seriously impaired. I was swirling with thoughts and feelings about what had just happened with Joan. It seemed to me she had answered one question — about my relationship to Tormod MacAulay — if she were to be believed, and left me with a dozen others. She’d offered, as yet, no explanation as to what Sarah MacDonald was so incensed about and what Tormod had to make up. I was puzzled about the discrepancy between her remark, “I didn’t like Tormod,” and her speaking about
his house as a refuge. Once more, removed from the sight of her vulnerability, I was returning to a familiar state of exasperation.

There was a roar of laughter from the spectators, and clapping. I’d tuned out on some trick that the dogs had performed. I watched. Duncan had them lying close together side by side. He called out the name of one of the dogs and it got up, turned, and jumped over the other three, and lay down at the end of the row. Then they all rolled over in unison so that the next dog was ready to be introduced.

Mocu got to her feet, did her jumps over the other dogs, then turned around and jumped back again. As she did so, each dog raised its head and snapped its teeth in supposed annoyance. Very clever. Duncan gave the command again, and she jumped once more, but this time, at the end of the line, she dived into place like a runner getting to second base. It was funny. The spectators loved it.

“That rocks,” said my young neighbour.

“It certainly does,” I agreed.

The next dog was Mac, and his trick was to run in and out of the other sitting dogs, serpentine fashion. He did that up and down, then they all did a synchronized rollover.

“Take a bow,” said Duncan, and all of the dogs got to their feet and did a lovely bow.

“That was to show you that collies aren’t just obsessed by sheep. They love to learn tricks, and if you have one of these dogs, you have to give them a job to do or they get very bored and will get into trouble. They were bred to work hard and long, and shepherds relied on them. They had to be able to think for themselves, because often they are out of sight of the shepherd and rely on his whistled commands or their own instincts.”

He held up a wedge-shaped piece of plastic. “This is a mouth whistle, and I use it because the sound carries further.” He popped it into his mouth to give a demonstration. As one, the four dogs pricked up their ears and stared at him. He pointed at the penned sheep in the other field. “I’m going to send the dogs to fetch the sheep into this field. You’ll notice one of the sheep has a red clip on its ear. That is the one we will separate out. A shepherd often
has to separate the sheep, a ewe from her lamb or a sheep that he wants to look over. The dogs are essential for this. It would take a man all day to do it on his own. Sheep follow each other and they are timid but sometimes, especially in lambing time, the ewes get quite fierce and they will try to defy the dogs. That’s why a really good herding dog must be calm. There’s no barking or nipping allowed, but they have to be in charge. They cannot back down, even when a big ram is defying them. It’s all in what we call the eye. That intense stare that you’ve no doubt seen in the pictures. There’s nothing quite like it.”

“Cool,” said my Blue Jays boy. “Would the ram kill the dog, do you think?” he asked me.

His accent wasn’t Canadian after all. More London, East End.

His sister, older, bigger, and wiser, heard this question. “Don’t be so thick. Course it wouldn’t. The dog has teeth, don’t it? The sheep don’t.”

I felt like saying, “Well they do have teeth, actually, Miss Know-it-all,” but I knew what she meant. The mother of the family was beside her, and she smiled anxiously at me, afraid her children might be showing her up. The father, who had on a plaid cap that looked new, ignored all of this. The children were the wife’s province unless they needed a good slap or a bawling out.

Duncan was now walking to the end of the field; he opened the gate, and the dogs, still in circling mode, ran through and across the driveway to the opposite gate, where they lined up staring at the sheep, which were nibbling at grass at the far end. Suddenly he gave a signal, and all four dogs leaped over the fence and raced off towards the sheep; midway there, they peeled off into pairs. Alarmed now, the sheep lifted their heads and started to trot away from the closest dogs, which were Nic and Mocu.

Again, my mind wandered. So I knew who had picked the flowers, but I still didn’t know why they’d ended up in the garbage bin and who had cleaned up. Or why. I was also trying to understand Joan’s feelings. She seemed so grief-stricken, not just shocked and upset as you might expect.

Mocu had now slipped around the sheep, while Mac and Luna dropped to the ground, ready to stop them moving in that direction. The dogs were working together in a way that was obviously instinctual. There were no power plays or one-upmanship going on, just complete cooperation and mutual support. Wouldn’t that be nice to have going in the United Nations?

The sheep were now making an erratic path towards the gate, with all of the dogs alternately running behind them, then dropping to the ground, never once taking their eyes off the sheep. Duncan was using his whistle to direct them. As they came closer, he opened the gate, and the sheep, bleating loudly, poured through. The dogs were panting. He’d said that the oldest and most experienced dog was Nic, and I could see how good she was — quiet, steady. Mocu was still too excitable and got too close to the sheep, causing them to make a little bolt for it.

I assumed that we’d have to go to the police station and report in. I didn’t know what they’d do — if she’d be charged on the spot or not. I would guess they’d let her go home until there was a hearing.

Another collective gasp from the humans as the herd moved easily across the driveway into the second field where we were watching. More whistles from Duncan, and Luna moved softly down the middle. Two sheep separated out from the flock. One of them had the red ear-clip. The three other dogs were keeping the rest of the herd together. Another whistle and Luna ran between her two sheep and circled back to the red ear-clip. The other one trotted back to the herd. Now it was just Luna and one sheep, and she dodged from side to side, walking in the typical border-collie semi-crouch. Duncan opened the gate of the small pen, holding out his crook to keep the sheep from moving away, and Luna sent it in. He closed the gate and everybody clapped, me included. The remaining three dogs sent the rest of the flock away up the field, then with a whistle command, they came racing back to Duncan’s side, looking I must say, very pleased with themselves.

He lined them up again to take another bow.

“That’s it. That’s our show. Thank you for coming.
Tapadh leibh
. I’ll meet you at the barn. There’s a toilet right next to it.”

The father of my East Enders stood up. “Lesgo.”

“Aw, Dad, can’t we ’av a look at the shop?”

“No. We’ve spent enuff on junk already today.”

“They have some lovely things,” I said.

Yes, I hadn’t a clue if the things in the shop were lovely or not, but hey, I had the blood of the islands in my veins, didn’t I?

“See, Dad? The lady sez they ’ave some cool stuff.”

I had on my sweetest smile, and he gave in. “Awright, but no junk and no more than two quid.”

Off they went, and I clambered down from the riser. Duncan had gone ahead to the shop. The other group was already getting into their car, so this didn’t look like a good day for sales. I hoped the Londoners would be more expansive when they got in the shop. The dogs were hanging around at the door, letting themselves be petted, although it was definitely “noblesse oblige.”

I headed back to the house, wondering if Joan would be ready for another session. I hadn’t done too badly, all things considered. Funny how things stick in your mind. I didn’t know she ’d been aware of my marks at school. She’d never said anything before. My mind flitted back to the prospect of discovering blood relatives. I was beginning to feel like Miranda. “O brave new world.” But then, of course, Prospero’s comment is a little on the cynical side. “’Tis new to thee.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Joan was sitting up on the couch when I went back into the house. She looked tired and hurt and as if she’d spent the last several minutes staring into space, seeing things that were almost unbearable.

“How’re you doing?” I asked her, cheery-voiced.

“Everything hurts,” she said, and I understood she didn’t mean just her bruises.

“We don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

She leaned back on the couch and studied me. “Tell me, Chris, I’m curious. If I said I didn’t want to go to the police, what would you do? Would you report me yourself?”

I didn’t like the question, because I’d been asking myself that very thing — and I didn’t have an answer.

“That’s a moot point, surely. You said you were going to come into Stornoway this afternoon. It’s far better that you go voluntarily than that they find you.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

I hadn’t answered her question, but she didn’t press it. I thought she wanted to hold onto this fragile truce as much as I did.

The door opened with a puff of cool air and Duncan came in.

“Ha. The lady is awake.”

She smiled at him. “I don’t know if I went to sleep. How was the demonstration?”

“Ach. Bunch of skinflints. I sold one Mars bar, a packet of chewing gum, and a postcard. That won’t pay for Mocu’s dog food for a day.”

“The dogs were awesome. That must take hours and hours of training,” I said, definitely on the warmer side now. The dogs had done that.

“It does, but with collies, the instinct to herd is so strong, you can almost just put them out there and they know what to do.” He hung his cap and crook on the pegs behind the door. “Are we going to continue with the sleep stuff?”

“That’s up to Joan.”

“You never call her ‘Mother’ or ‘Mom,’ I’ve noticed. How come? Is that a North American thing?”

Joan rescued me. “She’s always called me Joan, since she was a kid. I don’t mind. I rather like it.”

He frowned. “Well if Mairi or Lisa turned around and addressed me as Duncan, I’d give them a cuff. It sounds disrespectful to me.”

“It’s an age thing,” I said. “I’m a big grown-up now.”

Joan interjected. “Come on then, grown-up person, let’s get going before I lose my nerve.”

The tension had got as thick as island crowdie, but not nearly as nice. We took up our positions again. Joan lay down on the couch and I started my patter. She took longer this time to go into a trance, probably because the last experience had caused her grief. Finally, I thought she was ready. I did the pen prick again, got no response, and switched on the tape recorder, which I’d already cued up.

“Joan, we are going back to Tormod’s house now. But this time, you will be able to see the events that occurred there with more distance. As if you were watching a movie. You are aware of everything, but you are an observer. Can you go back there, Joan? Raise your finger if you are there again and understand what I am saying.”

She lifted her forefinger and sighed deeply. We were back in the combat zone.

“Just start off by telling me where everybody is sitting. Where are you?”

“I am at the table in the kitchen.”

“Where is Tormod?”

“He is at the table, too. He is on my right.”

“And Sarah?”

“She is walking up and down in the living room.”

“What are all of you talking about?”

I sensed Duncan move, and I frowned a warning.

Joan’s soft whisper continued. “He is telling her he will make it up to her. He won’t go to America. He’ll give her all the money. She won’t listen, not her. She’s too drunk to listen.” Her voice got stronger. “
What was he to do, Sarah? He had no choice. He could-n’t allow you to continue on like that
.”

I could see she was getting upset again and quickly threw in some suggestions. She calmed down a bit.

“What is happening now?”

“Sarah says she’s going to tell everybody about him. Uh-oh. She’s got my purse. She’s going to the car. I can’t let her. She’s been drinking. She’s too upset.
Wait! Sarah wait!
” She stopped talking, watching some interior drama play itself out. Her eyelids were fluttering. This went on for several minutes but before I could prompt her again, she shouted, “She’s driving too fast and it’s raining.
Slow down Sarah! Slow down! Oh my god, watch out, there’s a car coming
.”