Four Ducks on a Pond (8 page)

There was still a background sadness in my mind, because of a very big disappointment I had recently suffered. I have put off writing about it because I just didn’t want to see it in
print. Yes, I think you’ve guessed it. Corrieshellach didn’t win the first prize at the show. It’s true she won the third prize, and her name was in all the papers, and people
rang up and congratulated Puddy and said that in the biggest show in Scotland, third prize was very, very good indeed. I’ve no doubt it is, but I’ve no doubt either that Corrie is the
most beautiful mare in Britain, and people should know that as well as I do. I’m not saying the judging wasn’t fair. Don’t think that. But I say the judges were wrong, and that,
after all, is my true opinion, and one I’ve a right to state. So I’ll write no more about it but, like Puddy, I’ll say bravely, ‘Never mind. She’ll try again next
year.’

There was a wonderful spell of good weather at the beginning of the holidays. In the mornings all the routine work was carried out as usual, but in the afternoon Margie and
Puddy and Fionna went off on expeditions, taking tea and sandwiches with them. Sometimes they went in Florrie, who had not yet been sorted as the garage man in Oban was so busy during the tourist
season, and sometimes they went to Iona. But there were occasions when they stayed near enough to home for me to slip after them, and although they would have been pleased to see me join them, it
amused me to keep out of sight and watch them.

Fionna in the granite quarry. Iona Abbey is in the distance

Once they went to a lovely sandy bay not far from the village and they stuffed their frocks inside their panties, and paddled, just like children. There were baby flounders skirmishing in that
bay, and you should have heard the yelps when the flicking movements of the tiny fish tickled the legs of one or other of the family. Then when they were tired of paddling, they dammed up one of
the streams running into the sea, and you’d be surprised how quickly a big pool formed! Then the dam burst, and the pool vanished, but the sea didn’t look any deeper, though it must
have been, by an infinitesimal fraction of an inch.

Another time they climbed over to the old granite quarry, and although I had often been there on my own, I did so enjoy going with the family, because I learned things from their conversation
that I would never ever have dreamed about.

The red granite of the quarry contrasted beautifully with the purple heather, now in full bloom, and with the gold-tipped leaves of the bracken, which was just beginning to turn bronze. There
was a wonderful view at the top of the quarry, across the incredibly blue sea to the green fields and white sands of Iona, with the abbey, which is built of this very same granite, only just
discernible against its background of barley and rocks. To the north were the mountains of Mull, across the sea which forms a deep loch almost cutting the island in half, and beyond that, very,
very dimly, were the hills of Rum and Skye. South, more sparkling sea, and the twisty rough road climbing over to Erraid, that island made famous in
Kidnapped
. If you haven’t read it,
read it now. It’s by Robert Louis Stevenson, and he was a friend of Kitten’s father, so I expect he wrote about David Balfour when he stayed in Mull. Which makes me feel I must read the
book again.

Down the steep slope of the quarry, where the truck lines once reached to the now ruined pier, rough steps have been hewn, and on either side were boulders and rejected cuttings of granite, with
here and there piles of granite, cut and dressed, ready for shipment overseas. But ships didn’t carry them overseas any more. Where once the sound of blasting rent the air, now seagulls wheel
and cry, and the cheerful voices of the quarriers no longer echo round the rocks. The closing of the quarries sounded the death knell in the district. The men who once had come here to labour now
had to seek elsewhere for work. In time their deserted cottages tumbled down, and, since desolation breeds desolation, even the crofters began to follow suit and sought better amenities and more
pay in towns.

So you will understand that even in the bright sunshine there is a sadness lingering in those quarries, and I was glad to hear Margie tell Fionna that it is there, on the summit of the hill,
that the bonfire is lighted at times of national rejoicing – Victory Day, a jubilee, a coronation. Then the quarry wakes up again, and people laugh and dance and drink tea and eat dumplings,
and it is all the more fun because carrying the stuff up that steep slope has been such a tremendous toil.

If you come to Mull, try to see the quarries. Only twenty minutes’ walk across the heather from the village and you’re there, and you’ll know every second of those twenty
minutes has been worth while. And when you’re in London, look at Blackfriars Bridge and Holborn Viaduct, for they are built of Mull granite. And don’t smile at the Albert Memorial, or
call it a hideous Victorian contraption, for it is of Mull granite too.

There is no village hall in Fionnphort, but for many years the village people have been trying to raise money to build one. They have sales of work and concerts and dances, which they hold in
the school, but with few people and not very many visitors, raising money is a slow business and gets slower and slower as more people leave the island, either by boat, or in a coffin, if
it’s not too morbid for me to say so.

I’ve told you that the Community who are rebuilding around Iona Abbey are also good at helping people. Well, they said they’d help us, and soon there was great activity at the
school, where something for the audience to sit on had to be provided and a piano must somehow be found.

The piano was easy, because Kitten and Grandpop said they’d lend the one in the drawing-room. So Archie’s lorry came one day, and Archie and lots of other men, including
Jimmy-the-Missionary (who belonged to the Community) managed to lift the piano onto the lorry, and off they went while Jimmy-the-Missionary played ‘Sing as we go!’ with his foot pressed
on the hard pedal, so that we could hear him above the sound of the lorry engine all the way to the school.

The seats for the audience were another matter. Planks were placed across empty oil tins, but this was not enough, so benches had to be brought by ferry boat and lorry from Iona. Which will give
you an idea of the hardships we face and overcome in a depopulated area like this.

While Jimmy and the men were arranging the big schoolroom for the concert (and Jimmy draped a Union Jack over the piano, which made it look most festive and patriotic) the village women were
busy in the small schoolroom preparing tea and sandwiches and cakes for the hundred or so people who would expect supper that night. It’s not easy to boil a cauldron of water on a wee primus
stove, and it’s not easy to produce sandwiches, and to make cakes, when you are not well off and ingredients are scarce. But these women did it, and very well too, as all the people who ate
the supper afterwards told one another.

The concert was advertised to begin at eight, because that was the only way to get people to come by half past eight. In fact it was getting on for nine before the audience had collected,
arriving by foot from the nearby cottages, and by car from further away. Puddy collected quite a number of people by doing trips back and forth with Florrie, who I am glad to say showed no signs of
her petrol trouble. This was luck, and no credit to her since, being inanimate, she doesn’t know things like we do.

Some of the audience looked very uncomfortable. These were the ones who arrived too late to sit on one of the benches, so had to be squeezed into the school desks, suitable only for children
under eleven, as this was a primary school. I had a good seat myself, on a windowsill, and I didn’t attempt to conceal myself, as everyone seemed pleased to have me there and amused that I
had decided to come to the concert. Though why it should amuse them I don’t know. I’ve told you before that I’m a musical cat, but of course I hadn’t communicated that fact
to them.

My word, how I enjoyed that concert! The Community people sang and recited, and even acted little plays which were funny enough to make a human laugh. But it wasn’t only the Community
people who entertained us, because coming from towns, they couldn’t play the bagpipes and they couldn’t sing in Gaelic, and our people do like to hear the pipes and the Gaelic songs. So
Hughie Lamont came from Bunessan, five miles away, and he brought his pipes, and he wore his kilt, and he played and he sang to us, and as he is very handsome-looking, and has won medals for
singing at the Mod, I don’t need to tell you how good he was. My word, how the floorboards shook as the people stamped out the rhythm of his tunes, and how the rafters rang as they joined in
the chorus of his songs! It was all I could do not to join in myself, singing meow of course, as I haven’t got the Gaelic. But I refrained, feeling that I might draw attention to myself, and
I never care to be in the public eye.

Towards the end of the concert, dusk was falling, and somebody lighted a paraffin lamp and balanced it on the piano (on which Jimmy-the-Missionary had been playing accompaniments all evening) in
what I considered was a very precarious way. But don’t be alarmed. There wasn’t a terrible fire disaster or anything like that. The people here know how to manage lamps all right,
though they seem so vague about them.

The grand finale (from the
Petit Dictionnaire
) was when all the entertainers stood on the platform together and sang ‘The Old Folks at Home’ in beautiful harmony. Somehow I
couldn’t turn my thoughts to Ealing, where I suppose they should have been, but I felt very sentimental all the same, and looking around the room, I knew that the people were thinking of
their old folks, some of whom I expect had been dead for years.

It took only a few minutes to pack away the benches, which had taken hours to arrange, and very soon Hughie was tuning his pipes and Johnnie-the-Master-of-Ceremonies was shouting out,
‘Take your partners for the eightsome reel!’ I had stayed quietly on my windowsill, and someone had now put a lamp up beside me, so that I felt rather illuminated, but it didn’t
stop my enjoyment of the dancing, and now and again I ventured a wee ‘hooch’, which nobody would hear, as they were all hooching their throats hoarse. The floorboards shook and the
paraffin lamps quivered on their hooks, but they didn’t fall down.

By midnight everyone was tired and thirsty after their exertions, for even the ones who were too old and stiff to dance had been tapping out the rhythm with their feet. The tea emerged from the
side room, with a tray of cups and a huge teapot, and milk and sugar. And others followed, carrying trays piled high with sandwiches and cakes. What a feast! Soon everyone had eaten all they
wanted, and even I had not been neglected, as Fionna, who was helping to hand things round, had given me a delicious helping of salmon out of a sandwich.

When all the dishes had been cleared away, the family said ‘Good night’ and slipped off home, as was the custom. But I stayed on, right up to the end, and I stood up like everyone
else, when Jimmy played ‘God Save the Queen’.

It’s surprising how quickly everyone disappeared for home. Archie and his lorry provided transport for all the Community from Iona, and cars gave people lifts to their various homes. So
soon I was alone on the road, feeling a very small cat, and I had to walk carefully, as it must have rained heavily at some time during the evening. The moonlight shimmered on the loch, and now the
moon was here, now gone, and black clouds were scudding across its face. A rat ran across my path, but I ignored it. I was glad to see the huge white gate of home gleaming, and I slipped under it,
up the drive, to my bed in the electric-lighting plant house.

The house was warm, and the engine creaked from time to time, as it always did when it was cooling down after being used. The family only switched it on now for special occasions, as it burnt
petrol, which is so much more expensive than the paraffin needed by lamps.

I curled up on the old red hospital blanket, specially there for me, and soon I was fast asleep and I didn’t know anything more until Carla bounced in on me to call me in the morning.

It isn’t often that Margie’s summer holiday coincides with Fionna’s birthday, but it did this time, which was a lucky thing, as Fionna loves to have all the
family together when one of them is having a birthday so that none of them misses the fun. So as she watched Kitten making the birthday cake, which was a layer cake in three different colours,
since that is her favourite kind, she chatted about John, and how especially much she would miss him at her birthday tea, and how she would like to send him some of the cake when it was iced. But
Kitten explained that this sort of cake became stale very quickly.