Four Ducks on a Pond (10 page)

Achaban House

You’d think that it was Flora who had been the Fellow Traveller, the way Arnish talked! And I think poor Flora was quite ready to believe so herself, by the time Arnish had finished.
Anyhow, she became very quiet and subdued, and would give way to Arnish over any fancied tit-bit without so much as an attempt at a butting-match. And so Arnish not only cleared her own conscience
but established her position as Flora’s superior.

But Arnish could not go for long without laying down the law on something, and one day when Grandpop was having a bonfire just outside the back gate, she grabbed from the flames a book about
Madeira, which someone had received from a travel agency. Of course she ate it, but before she ate it she read a whole lot of information about the glorious sunshine, and the flowers, visitors to
the island would enjoy. Soon she was endlessly extolling the virtues of a sunny climate, and of Madeira in particular, to Flora, and I would hear the pair of them, at night, after they had been fed
and milked, chewing the cud and discussing the desirability of emigration to such a clime.

Of course it was all talk and no do, as it always was with the goats. And as I sat outside their house and overheard what they were saying – for of course I was not listening, but only
happening to hear – I thought how easy it would be for a cat to emigrate, but how difficult for a goat! Nobody would think it remarkable if a cat stalked up the gangway of a ship, and settled
himself as a member of the crew. But a goat, never! And I was greatly comforted by the thought, for though I knew this was only silly talk, it did occur to me how very sad it would be for Puddy to
come one day and find that the goats had left her. And I don’t know how Kitten would manage without their milk.

However, it was not long before both of the goats had more important things to talk about. It was the mating season now, for goats mate during the winter, and Puddy knew by the plaintive sound
of their ‘baas’, and by the wagging of their tails, when Arnish and Flora were calling for ‘Billy’. There was no billy near, but there was one five miles away, along a very
bumpy and out-of-the-way road. Florrie doesn’t mind bumpy roads, because cars aren’t made so they mind things at all, so one day Puddy took the back seat out of Florrie, and she put
some sacks down where the seat had been, and then she put down a bundle of hay, and soon she had coaxed Arnish to climb into Florrie to nibble the hay. And off they went to the outlandish place,
with the blue smoke pouring out of Florrie’s exhaust, and a few hours later back they came, with Arnish looking very smug and with Puddy full of praise for the way everything had gone,
including Florrie, who, in spite of the ominous blue smoke and the rattle of the engine, had not once stopped, except when Puddy made her.

I don’t know what Arnish told Flora about her adventure, but a few weeks later Flora made such a to-do about looking for Billy that Puddy brought out the back seat of Florrie all over
again, and put down the sacks, and finally drove off with Flora. But this time Florrie didn’t behave well and stopped several times, and when Puddy arrived home she was so annoyed with
Florrie that she didn’t say what had gone on with Flora. So I don’t know whether she had behaved herself or not.

Now all the talk in the goat-house was of kids. Arnish wanted a billy, and Flora wanted a nanny, and they were never done telling each other so. But I knew Puddy didn’t want any billies
about because he would not be pure bred (since the father was a Brown Toggenburg, not a British Sanaan), so she could not keep him for breeding purposes, and a billy is no use for anything else.
This would mean that Willie Campbell, who is a butcher as well as a farmer, would have to come along with his humane killer, and that would be the end of the baby billy.

I said nothing of this to Arnish of course. And for her sake, as well as for Puddy’s, I hoped she would not get what she desired.

The darkness fell earlier and earlier, and there was less to do outside. The bracken was bronze-coloured now, and the fields were a misty shade of gold. The harvest was in, and the garden needed
nothing now but rest. Puddy would go out every day with her little gun, and in next to no time she’d be back with a rabbit, for she is a very good shot, and rabbits were very plentiful
indeed. But suddenly the rabbits seemed to vanish, though Puddy could not possibly have killed them all.

Soon somebody was able to give the reason for this. A polecat had come to live near us! Now rabbits are terrified of polecats, and so, I confess, am I. The hens would be terrified too, had they
the wit to know of their new neighbour, for polecats are very partial to hens, but somehow the word never got round to them, and Puddy shut them up so securely at night that no marauder could get
at them. So although the tufts of fur lying about the place indicated the number of rabbits that had fallen victim, the hens remained immune and unaware of these attacks.

Inside the house, Kitten was busy making Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings. She had bought the ingredients for these in the village post-office-cum-stores, and I assure you that the very
grandest grocers in London don’t have better groceries than does our village shop. Of course, you can’t buy things like chicken-in-aspic there, for who would want chicken-in-aspic when
they can have a nice fresh hen from their own back yard? But as well as currants and raisins and flour and other edible things, you can buy shampoo and writing paper and lamps and string and all
manner of things besides. Everything in the shop is fresh and polished, and Betty-and-her-Mother, who own the shop, will do things for you that you’ll never get done in the grand towny shops.
They’ll ring you up and tell you if something specially nice is in. They’ll tell you when you must send in your National Health card, and how many stamps you’ll need for it, and
that you’ll be in trouble if you don’t renew Carla’s licence (just imagine her having to have a licence, like a radio or a gun! I consider it most demeaning).

Indeed, but for Betty-and-her-Mother, I don’t know where the family would be, and I’m sure they don’t know either. And I’d like to say here that until not very long ago
it used to be Betty-and-her-Mother-and-her-Father who did all these things. The father was called Johnnie, and there was not a family joy, or a family sorrow, or a family trouble, that he was not
told about at once. And because he was such a friend and adviser of the people I love, I feel he must be included in my book, and that I must state how sad they all were that he is not smiling
behind the counter any more.

The early Christmas preparations didn’t interest me much. Carla would temporarily forsake Puddy to sit pop-eyed and whimpering on the floor, willing Kitten to toss her the odd raisin or
stray bit of dough. But I remained happily curled up by the fire in the wee sitting room, watching Grandpop filling in his pools coupons or nodding gently over his book. Indeed, it would be
Christmas Day itself before my interest was really roused, for though I find a bit of raw chicken very tasty, I knew my family would not give me any until it was cooked. So I waited in patience and
did not even evince interest in the discussion about which two hens were to furnish the main course of the Christmas dinner. I’ve said before, as personalities I find the hens a bore, and
which one gets its neck wrung, and when, is a matter of indifference to me.

As a matter of fact it turned out that instead of two hens it was a turkey that graced the table that Christmas Day. Kitten went to the mainland to fetch Fionna from school, and when she
returned she had a huge turkey with her as well as Fionna. So the hens had a reprieve, but as they didn’t know they had been sentenced to death, they experienced no sense of relief at
all.

With the arrival of Fionna, things really did get busy. Puddy and Fionna set off in Florrie to the little plantation two miles up the road, and when they returned, Florrie looked more like a
mechanical forest than a car, for branches of trees were tied all over her. Soon these trees were placed in tubs, one in our drawing-room and one in the church, and Fionna and Puddy decorated them
most beautifully so that they sparkled and shone and gave a real air of gladness, which of course is just how it should be at Christmas, one of the happiest seasons of the year.

Margie was arriving on Christmas Eve, so of course her bedroom had been getting prepared ever since the first pudding went into the pot, and long before the Christmas cake, with its white icing
and gay decorations, was placed on the sideboard in the dining-room.

Johnnie-the-Postman was laden every evening, delivering stacks of cards and heaps of parcels. The cards were opened and hung on string across the dining-room and drawing-room (this is a very gay
effect, and better than arranging them on tables, where they have to be removed for dusting). The parcels, however, were hidden away by anyone to whom they were not addressed, for no presents are
opened until Christmas Day by our family.

I noticed with some pleasure that there was a parcel on the Christmas tree for me. I guessed by its shape that it was probably ‘Katteo’, but I’ve always been brought up to
appreciate the thought rather than the gift. There was a parcel, too, for Carla, and I guessed it was a rubber ball. There was also a parcel which puzzled me very much. It was very small and bore a
huge label on which was written the one word, ‘Lottie’.

Who on earth was Lottie?

I cleaned my paws, and racked my brains, but could not place that name at all.

But when Christmas Eve came, I knew.

By half past four the electric-light plant was humming, and Fionna had switched on every light in the house, because that is the sign of a Highland welcome.

As I walked up the drive the frosty earth was cold under my paws and my legs were feeling rather stiff because, being Christmas Eve, I had felt it my duty to visit my various families to wish
them the compliments of the season.

Lottie and Nicky

The Christmas tree in the bay window of the drawing-room looked wonderfully festive, its branches laden with sparkling balls and gaily wrapped parcels. Because of the illuminations, I could see
Puddy and Fionna standing by the window above, which was Kitten’s bedroom, and I knew they were watching for the glimmering light, away in the darkness, that would indicate the approach of
the mail bus. And in the bus would be Margie.

I sat for a while outside the drawing-room window, but although the fire burnt cheerfully within, no one was there. Kitten would be busy in the kitchen, for she knew that after that long, cold,
drive there was nothing more welcoming than a good hot meal, and Grandpop would be watching for the bus from his office window, thinking, perhaps, that Puddy and Fionna would be chattering so much
together they’d not notice it until too late.

So, since nobody would notice me and let me in, I settled down for a chilly nap. It was the sound of Puddy and Fionna’s voices that awakened me. They were running down the drive, flashing
a torch, and just in time to see the mail bus draw up at the gate.

I slipped into the house, for Grandpop had left the door open when he followed the others down the drive, and I awaited the arrival of Margie with dignity, sitting on the sofa.

But when the drawing-room door, which was ajar, was pushed open, it was not any of the family that entered the room. It was – what? A queer little black animal, about the same size as me,
with funny bushy whiskers, a stiff black tail, just like a wee black mop, and the queerest animal legs I have ever seen – I thought at first it must be wearing high heels.

I am afraid I gave the newcomer a very unfriendly reception. I arched my back and spat, then, remembering my manners, and realising that these tactics had made the queer thing withdraw a couple
of paces, I asked, ‘Who are you?’ And even as I spoke, I realised what the creature was, for I had seen pictures like it in Puddy’s animal books. It was a French poodle! In some
alarm, my thoughts flew to the
Petit Dictionnaire
in the cottage, and I wondered if I would have to address this creature in French, and if I had learnt enough French phrases to be able to
hold my own in such an event. But as these thoughts flashed through my head, the strange visitor put me at ease.