Four Ducks on a Pond (2 page)

Presently I realised that the family had gone and, not noticing me, had shut me in the cottage. There are disadvantages in being so quiet. However, I had had a good meal not long ago, and after
I watched the spider parcelling up the bluebottle, I settled down for a nap, tucking my paws under my chest in the way John says makes me look like a sphinx. But he’s wrong, for I’ve
never seen a sphinx with tucked-in paws. And I’ve seen most things.

As I suspected, the day-old chicks soon brought Puddy back. She is one of those people who worries a lot and imagines all sorts of dreadful things happening, so she makes sure she is around to
see that they don’t. She made twittering noises, which the chickens ignored, and, opening the cone lid of the brooder, she adjusted the flame of the little paraffin lamp. I don’t know
whether she turned it up or down. Up, probably, because of what John had said about the chills.

I jumped lightly off the windowsill and rubbed myself against her leg.

‘Darling Nicky,’ she said absently, picking me up, ‘sly old cat, lurking round the brooder.’ But I knew she knew that I would not touch her chickens. I never even touch
birds, because I know she loves them. John’s right. I’m an affectionate cat and I like to please.

There was a soft click-click outside, and Puddy quickly shut the cottage door. Unfortunately for them, but luckily for the family, the goats have knees that click when they walk. Otherwise they
could creep up and do all manner of damage without attracting notice. There are two goats, Flora and Arnish. They are British Sanaan, white, and hornless, and Arnish is bigger and older than Flora,
so it is a pity that she belongs to a library which supplies her with subversive literature, for Flora is easily impressed.

Goodness knows what Arnish tells her in the quiet of their home, the little wooden house at the end of the barn, opposite the cottage.

We heard the clatter of little hooves as the goats pawed at the door, and presently their wise, inquisitive faces appeared at the window. Puddy, who had been stroking my ears as she contemplated
the chickens, giggled and went to the window. Flora and Arnish were chewing, as usual, their white beards bobbing in the fading light.

‘Go to bed, I’m coming to milk you,’ Puddy told them, ‘and I’ll expect a lot of milk, after all the damage you’ve done today.’ There had been a
commotion that morning, something about the potatoes John had left in the garage, ready for planting, and he’d left the garage door open. So of course the goats had taken advantage of the
situation, since nobody was around to hear their knees, and they had eaten some of the cushions from the dog-cart for good measure.

Satisfied that the chickens were all right, we left the cottage and found the goats having a butting match over a piece of rag. Arnish always won these matches, rising on her hind legs and
diving down on Flora in a manner that was most graceful. Puddy didn’t try to stop them. She knew that they never did one another any harm.

We went out by the small side gate, across the wild heathery bit called the Dalvan, and so to the big field over the road, always called ‘The Fence’, where Peter and Iain, the
year-old bullocks, lived. Peter and Iain were new to the family, having been bought by Puddy at the local auction sale only a few days before, and we had to watch them in case they returned to
their old home, a farm not far away. Peter was half Highland, half Galloway, dark brown with a white tummy. Iain was almost entirely Highland, rather shaggy, and the beautiful horns so typical of
his breed had been removed by a vet, perhaps luckily for us, but aesthetically a pity. Both of the bullocks came up to the big white gate and allowed Puddy to stroke them. I wriggled out of her
arms and walked slowly a little way away, not because I was afraid but because I thought it right that, while she was cultivating their friendship, Puddy should be able to give Peter and Iain her
undivided attention. She must have appreciated this, for when she had done talking to them, she came over to me and picked me up and carried me back to the house, whispering nice things about me
all the while.

We entered the house by the back door. Kitten was stirring something on the Aga cooker, and Fionna was beside her, scraping a pot with a spoon and eating the scrapings. I guessed Kitten had been
making fudge. I knew by the flickering in the hall that Margie was lighting the lamps, and from the little back sitting-room, crackling noises meant that Grandpop was stoking up the fire. The
gurgling of water outside the back door combined with the heartening sound of a rich baritone voice singing ‘Over the Sea to Skye’ told me John was just out of his bath.

The cosy family evening was about to begin, with Puddy stealing the soup, which I’m afraid is the only way to describe her repeated tasting of it, and Carla eyeing my empty dish on the
table, just as if I had been fed and she had been forgotten. There was a pleasant sameness about our evenings which someone less discerning than myself might consider dull. But I had already
discovered that it is the small things in life that matter. The big things have a way of becoming nothing but a mark in time from which the small things are measured.

And so it these small things that I am remembering and writing down before I get too old to remember anything at all.

Last night was one of my unlucky nights. There was a gale warning for Sea Area Malin (which is us) announced during the variety programme the family was listening to on the
radio. So when Grandpop came into the kitchen to stoke the Aga before going to bed, he saw me lying in the big kitchen chair and said, ‘Poor little Nicky, you must sleep indoors
tonight.’

Now, I know he meant it well, and I know that even on good nights the family worry about me being out on my own, but they are dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. And as I can’t tell them how
much I enjoy outside, I just have to slip off when they let Carla out for her last run, and usually I manage it unless, like tonight, I am caught napping.

Corrie and Arnish

Since I wasn’t going to get out for the night, at least I might wangle a little extra milk. I sat up in the chair, tilted back my head and opened my mouth wide in the silent
‘meow’ which I know always melts Grandpop’s heart.

‘Poor little Nicky,’ said Grandpop again, and he walked with his slow, heavy tread across the kitchen into the pantry, where Puddy kept the goats’ milk in huge bowls to collect
the cream. Grandpop has not got a beard, or anything as ancient as that, but his back is very bent because he has arthritis. He was a very great doctor in his time. A pity he didn’t do
something about his back. I would have.

He poured my milk out of a jug so as not to disturb Puddy’s cream and placed my dish on the little table by the kitchen window. This is where they feed me, so that Carla cannot reach.
Carla was still outside, and I guessed she had probably found something disgusting to eat. Let me say here and now that Carla is very grand, with a pedigree longer than my tail, and she comes from
kennels just outside London where they breed the most famous cocker spaniels in the world. But she has shocking lapses in taste and eats the skin and entrails of rabbits that I have discarded, and
all manner of muck besides. I’ve even seen her eating with the hens, a thing no self-respecting cat would do.

I make no bones about who I am. I was bought for seven and sixpence from a pet shop in a suburb of London called Ealing, but I am, and always have been, very fastidious. You will think it is a
far cry from Ealing to the Isle of Mull, and how on earth did I get here? So I’ll tell you. Margie brought me here in a basket when I was only a kitten, but I assure you I have not forgotten
my friends and relations in the outskirts of the Metropolis (doesn’t that sound better than the suburbs?), and I correspond with them enough to avoid being insular. Besides, when one is in
business, one needs contacts, though don’t think my motives are entirely mercenary.

Margie has a very important position in a film studio near the pet shop. She has had a big operation so she is home for some weeks, but usually she comes only for the summer holidays and for
Christmas and Easter besides. When she arrived home, her face was very grey and she could hardly walk, and it made me very sad to see her like that. But already she is better, and every day I go
out with her when she sets fire to the dead grass and rushes that clutter up the fields. The bending and stretching involved is good exercise for somebody who has had an operation. You may find
this a useful hint if ever you have one, though of course I hope you won’t.

Carla came rushing back into the kitchen, licking her lips and looking very pleased with herself. Grandpop had not noticed how long she had been out, as he was putting ashes in the tray he
thoughtfully leaves for me when I have to spend the night at home. Carla sat very bolt upright, just under me. Her sharp sense of smell must have informed her that all I had had was milk, which
normally she won’t touch, but she likes to sit there, staring at me as I drink, hoping to make me discomfited. In many ways Carla and I are the best of friends; often I share her bed and
sometimes even her feeding-bowl, but I cannot deny that she has some nasty traits and can act in a very tiresome and petty way. And I hope that observation is not unkind.

Puddy came into the kitchen and, taking the big torch-lantern from the dresser, went outside, and I could see by the trail of light that she went into the cottage. Presently she came back,
carrying the brooder, which of course was all shut up now for the night. I could hear Grandpop in the back porch going ‘Hum, hum, hum’ and Puddy’s voice raised in explanation
– the chicks would be better in the kitchen for the first few nights to make sure that they would be all right, even if the brooder lamp went out. Poor Puddy, she does picture every sort of
disaster! I could tell by Grandpop’s ‘hum-hums’ that he thought she was fussing, and frankly so did I. But she put the brooder on the red table beside the Agamatic boiler, and I
hoped she’d sleep the better for knowing it was there.

Now John came in, and said he was hungry and wanted
FOOD
– I’ve printed it big, just like he says it. This simple statement was followed by a wild dance, with
leaps in the air and clicking of heels, which John alone can execute, and which, he says, is his Russian dance. The noise he made of course brought Kitten and Fionna into the kitchen. Kitten is not
related to me. She is married to Grandpop, and this is her pet-name, something to do with the Gaelic for dearest, for Kitten belongs to this house and always has done, and that’s why the
family lives here. She is still very beautiful, although her inky black hair is now streaked with grey, and she is very temperamental, like all good Highlanders. Fionna says she is disappointing as
a granny because she doesn’t wear a bonnet and shawl, but Fionna also allows that there’s something to be said for an old lady being slim and smart and agile, and able to do Highland
dancing steps or a funny dance she calls her Fairy Dance, kept usually for birthdays or Christmas or to cheer up someone who is ill.

Of course, when Kitten heard John wanted
FOOD
she got busy with the kettle and the bread-knife, although it was bedtime, and Grandpop was standing there looking at his
watch and hum-humming about getting up in the morning.

Margie was already in bed. She still went early, but I knew she would want to eat whatever the others were having, and, sure enough, Fionna began to lay the tray with six cups and saucers. I say
‘began’, for Fionna rarely finishes anything. She says something she wants to say, and by the time she’s said it, she’s wandered off and forgotten what she was doing.
She’s at the age when children can’t talk without climbing absently about the furniture, or hugging whoever she is addressing and wanting to get round. Fionna is getting tall, but is
slim and neat, when she is tidy, which is not often. Her chestnut hair is straight and straggly round her shoulders, and her eyes are the colour of peat. She has a slow, purring voice, and a wee
bit of a Highland accent, which she gets from Kitten. She has a beautiful nature, which Puddy says she gets from her father. Fionna’s father is the man in the photograph on Puddy’s
dressing-table. He is wearing uniform and medals and a badge with a world and a laurel leaf round it. Once a year, for a few days, Puddy fixes a poppy to the picture frame. Puddy is Fionna’s
mummy. She is not a ‘puddy’ now, but she was when she was a little girl. She is not much bigger than Fionna, and has fair hair, usually wind-blown, and green-brown eyes, and she’s
the one who mostly looks after us all. As I’ve said before, she worries a lot, and John says she’s very obstinate.

I think I’ve managed to tell you something of all the people inside this house, though there’s not been much about Margie. That’s because, being ill, she is still a bit
shadowy, but you’ll know more about her later. She is Puddy’s sister, and of course John’s as well, and Fionna calls her Aunt. She has dark hair and big blue eyes, and she has
never married, because she didn’t want to, not because she couldn’t. And that, as you know very well, makes all the difference.