Four Ducks on a Pond (7 page)

My family affairs had kept me out of the house for some days, so I had heard no murmur of this impending disaster.

I slunk up the drive and found Carla lying in the grass, not far from Puddy of course. I sat beside her, and seeing that she was in a quiet mood, I poured out my troubles to her. I had to tell
somebody, and I could not tell Corrie of her fate.

Carla was very nice. I’ve forgiven her for all the bouncings she’s given me before and since, because she was so kind when I needed comfort so badly.

‘I’m always with the family, I hear every word they say,’ she said. This was true, though I wondered whether her volatile mind took in what happened around her.
‘And’ – she paused, to give her words impact – ‘I can put your mind absolutely at ease.
CORRIE IS GOING TO A SHOW
.’

‘A show?’ I sat bolt upright, in dismay.

‘Yes, the family think her beauty is wasted here. So they’ve had a whip-round and they’re sending her to Perth, where she came from, to get groomed. Then she’s going to a
show.’ She snapped at a fly, then rolled over on her back. This meant she wanted to play, and already her interest was wandering.

‘What show is she going to?’ I asked quickly.

‘The best of course. The Royal Highland.’ She sat up abruptly as Puddy disappeared outside the gate. In a moment she had scampered off too, though she knew as well as I did that
Puddy was only seeing Kaya off, and wouldn’t go far.

The Royal Highland Show! Oh the relief I felt, and the joy. Corrie was going to the Royal Highland, and of course she would win the first prize and come home in a blaze of glory! And maybe her
dream would come true, and she’d be invited to the big show in London.

I set off to tell her. Then I paused for thought. Either she knew about it and didn’t want to tell me yet, knowing how much I would miss her. Or she didn’t know, and I must let Puddy
be the one to tell her.

And with great self-control, I retraced my steps and returned to the wall.

It was not long before everyone in the neighbourhood was talking about Corrieshellach and the Highland Show. There was such pride and such excitement that you’d think she
belonged to them all, and not just to the family.

Corrie took being a celebrity very calmly, indeed she protested at my calling her a celebrity at all. ‘Och, maybe I’ll chust be thrown out of the ring with the rubbish,’ she
said, ‘and I’ll make a fool of myself after all.’

Kitten and Nicky in the garden

Several times a week now a bus would pass our gates, taking people on a tour between Tobermory and Iona. The bus of course didn’t cross to Iona, for there is no car ferry, but the people
got off at Fionnphort, and Angus or Dan, the two ferrymen, would be waiting there with the smart white motor boat to take them across the mile or so of sea. There are wonderful things to see in
Iona, and if you’ve never been, you’d better start saving up to go right now. You’ll wonder at me telling you that, for I’ve already remarked that I don’t know why
people go there instead of staying on lovely Mull. Well, I’ve learnt what the attraction is, and I hope you’ll realise how ready I am to admit when I’ve been wrong about
something.

If I were to tell you all about Iona, I would have to plunge back through the centuries, right to the year when St Columba, with his band of monks, arrived from Ireland and set about converting
the Druids, bringing that religion called Christianity to western Scotland. I doubt if I would finish that history before my dying day, even with all the lives I’m supposed to possess. So
I’ll have to leave all that to the historians, for they have longer lives than cats, and instead I’ll just say that St Columba founded an abbey in Iona, and later a nunnery was built,
and although through the ages both of these had fallen to ruin, and had been rebuilt and altered, there came a time when they were ruins again. At last money was raised and the abbey restored, but
all the surrounding buildings remained little more than a heap of stones. And so it might have been for ever, had not a very good minister devised a scheme for rebuilding the abbey precincts, and
at the same time remoulding the lives of the people who built it.

All sorts of people there are; ministers, labourers, rich men from big estates, poor men from the cities. Every summer they come, and they all share in the work of rebuilding, and though they
haven’t finished yet, there is not much more to do. Meanwhile, they live cheerfully and helpfully on the island, and in the winter they return to their normal work. Usually this is helping to
bring the joy of Iona into the depth of the slums, and of course they carry on the work started by St Columba by preaching Christianity to the people who perhaps hadn’t much bothered about it
before.

I might not have heard any of this myself had not John become interested in the work, and it wasn’t long before being interested compelled him to take an active part. He would spend days
on end in Iona, busy digging up stones, cutting grass, pushing wheelbarrows, singing in the choir; and when he came back home he would talk of what he had been doing, and I too became infected with
his enthusiasm. So one day I slipped into the ferry boat and I went over to see for myself. Now when the buses pass our gate I envy the people inside them, and I hope they will be as impressed with
Iona as I was.

I hope you will not think it improper for me to touch upon a religious subject. I don’t think you will, as people who think like that wouldn’t read this book. Remember the ox and the
ass in the stable in Bethlehem? It’s a pity the narrator didn’t mention the stable cat, but of course with such a terrific thing to write about, he couldn’t recount everything.
There are people who forget that animals also are the work of the Creator, but since Corrie told me about Horseman’s Sunday, I have taken heart, for it shows that there are plenty people too
who understand.

One day the bus stopped near our gate on its way back to Tobermory, and I saw the people inside peer through the windows, and I saw the driver’s arm pointing over to Corrie, who was
unselfconsciously munching in the field beside the loch. I sidled up to the bus, and I heard what I knew I would hear. The driver was telling the people about Corrieshellach going to the show. I
was proud! And when the bus moved on, I went down to tell Corrie. But before I could speak, she had something to tell me.

‘When I am away,’ she said, ‘I am going to be put to a very fine stallion, the champion at last year’s show. And then I’ll have a foal.’

A foal! I was too excited to speak, but I knew Corrie would understand my silence. With the blue sky above, and the loch lapping in gentle froth against the red sand surrounding it, and
Corrie’s soft munching nearness, this must be the happiest time of my life. And here I think I was right, for it was not many days later that Kaya came, and Puddy gave him the halter, and
Corrie, who usually came the moment she saw the halter, was suddenly afraid of the journey, and strangers, and all the unknown terrors of a show, so that she dodged away just before the halter was
slipped over her head. Even the bucket of oats failed to tempt her, but when finally she was caught she submitted with that grace that is an enchanting part of her character, and clumped off along
the road, evidently resolved that she would give Kaya no further trouble on their five-mile trek to the boat.

I watched her go. I watched until she had disappeared round the little hillock, a mile up the road. Then I returned sadly to the house, where I found Kitten and Grandpop and Puddy, who had been
watching Corrie’s departure from a window, and were now talking very hard to impress on each other that nothing special had happened, and preparing that beverage which humans find so
comforting when things aren’t right. Tea.

Carla was there too, of course, nonchalantly chewing at her rubber bone. How she can chew and chew at that bone is beyond me. She must have discovered long ago that it conceals no tasty morsel
inside. It’s not as if she were teething.

Time never stands still. Doesn’t that sound profound, until you pause and realise what a silly obvious thing it is to write! However, I’ve noticed that most of the profound books
I’ve read are full of mundane facts, wrapped up to sound grandiose and clever. So I’ll not delete it, as I ought.

Kitten began preparing Fionna’s bedroom. When any of the family were away, you knew weeks before they returned that they were coming back because Kitten got busy airing the bedding and
polishing the furniture, and airing the bedding all over again. This was because she was so excited that making preparations seemed to hasten the day of arrival.

On the day itself, Puddy would be up earlier than ever to get the morning tea, which she would carry up to Kitten and Grandpop on a tray, and they’d have a good grumble about the cost of
living. At least, from the odd snatches of conversation I’ve caught, that’s what I think they talked about.

After breakfast the house had a bigger cleaning than usual, so I don’t know how the carpets stood the wear and tear. Then Kitten went into the garden and picked some of the flowers that
had managed to survive the wind and the rain and the rabbits and Puddy’s church decorations. When she had finished arranging them, the house looked lovely, and the little pink vase on
Fionna’s blue dressing table was just right for the rosebuds Kitten had put in it.

Then I got a surprise. I had been so busy watching the bed airing in Fionna’s room that I hadn’t noticed that Kitten had been carrying out the same rite in Margie’s room. If I
had been sensible, I would have realised someone must be travelling with Fionna, who could only go under school escort as far as Glasgow. Kitten or Grandpop or Puddy used to meet her there, which
meant leaving Mull the day before she was due to arrive. And as they were all here, and none of them over meeting her, then Margie must be coming on holiday too.

Florrie was in disgrace, as she had developed a tiresome habit of stopping, due to a petrol block. A moment’s tinkering with her engine and off she’d go again, but getting out and
tinkering with her every few miles was a nuisance, so she was not taken on long outings until the man from the garage in Oban could come over and sort her. The trouble about cars is that, being
inanimate objects, you can’t appeal to their better selves.

It was therefore by bus that Margie and Fionna came, and I sat in the window of Grandpop’s study, which had a good view of the road, right to where it disappeared around the hillock. When
we saw the white top of the bus, Grandpop called out, ‘Here they come!’ and Puddy and Carla ran helter skelter down to the gate, while Kitten and Grandpop followed more slowly, Grandpop
humming his little hum.

Because of the twisty road, they were all at the gate before the bus. As a matter of fact, it had stopped at the cross road by the old smithy to let someone off, but I was the only one who
noticed that. When it arrived Fionna was first to fling herself out, hugging and kissing everyone, while Margie and Neilachan (you remember, he’s the driver) dived about among the mailbags
stored in the back compartment of the bus, and hauled out their cases. Fionna’s trunk wasn’t there, as Archie would bring it on his lorry on Thursday. There were a lot of people on the
bus, and it was the big bus too. Sometimes at this time of year there were as many as four buses, one being the HUGE bus. But the family never travelled in that. Nearly all the people on the bus
were visitors to Iona. Some of them looked rather sick after the long, bumpy drive.

I had kept a little distance away during all the greetings, as excitement would make Carla very bouncy. But both Fionna and Margie noticed me and stooped down to pet me. When we all went up the
drive, we found Arnish and Flora peering through the big white gate that keeps them from getting to the front of the house. Sometimes somebody forgets and leaves the gate open, and in no time Flora
and Arnish are through, eating the rambler roses and ivy which for years and years the family have tried to grow against the house.

Fionna and Margie stopped to greet them, too, and by the time they went into the house Kitten and Puddy had put the big willow-pattern teapot on the table in the dining-room, and had dished out
the bacon and eggs. It was a family tradition that high tea was served whenever anyone arrived home, and the high tea was all that one could dream about. There were plates of pancakes and scones
and potato scones and ginger cake and a fruit cake – and an iced cake with ‘Welcome Home’ written on it in chocolate. Kitten had been very busy cooking as well as airing beds.

After tea the cases were unpacked and of course Margie had presents for everyone. She had also brought a present for me, a nice packet of ‘Katteo’. To tell the truth, I don’t
much care for ‘Katteo’, preferring the ‘Lassie’ Margie had brought for Carla. But I’d eat it with relish, so’s not to hurt her feelings. Please note, I have
deliberately given an invented name to that cat food. This is so that I can’t be sued.

Margie and Fionna spent the evening looking round at the changes which had happened in their absence. Puddy’s chickens were now white hens; the ducklings were so big they looked like
ducks; Peter and Iain were quite tame, and didn’t mind being stroked; the grass in the paddock had turned into hay; and the oats were tall and beginning to turn gold. The heather and bog
myrtle, growing profusely all over the moorland, gave the air that delicious scent which, mingled with the smell of seaweed, is the ‘Tangle of the Isles’ that poets write about. Flora
and Arnish staged a boxing match to show how pleased they were to have more of the family home, and I felt very content with life, except for one thing.