Telling Tales Page 3
Granny chased after her into the hallway, crying, ‘Now, let’s not be hasty. I just thought for a minute they were my good specs and she’d broken them. You know I’d be blind without them.’ Her voice floated back. ‘Anyway your sister’s always been tricky: she’s just like your father!’
After she stopped Elizabeth from dialling 999, and the dust had more or less settled, she grabbed Rabbit by his ears.
‘This thing stinks. It’s positively unhygienic,’ she declared and, before I could stop her, she’d popped him into a pan. It was so full of hot soapy water I’m sure she’d have heard him scream if his head hadn’t been held under the suds.
Remembering the lowest point of that holiday, I bury my nose in his soft ears and inhale. It took ages to get that poor Persil-smelling Rabbit back to normality. I can’t really understand her thinking that she was doing us both a favour. Still, it’s maybe time to forgive her.
‘She can be scary, Rabbit,’ I now whisper, ‘but she’s brave as well. I don’t know how she managed to look so cheerful saying cheerio at the end of our holiday. After we’d gone, she’d have to go back to living all on her own in that big empty house.’
In case he’s not feeling so charitable, I say, ‘At least we have each other. Woops!’ We spill out of the box and I show him how to make a game of filling it. ‘It’s a game of Aim. You throw the toys in from a distance – the further you’re away, the better the sound. For a start, I’ll hold onto you so you can watch.’
Eventually, it all becomes so noisy that Rabbit, getting hot in my grasp and a bit sweaty, admits to having a sore head and suggests that he goes back to bed whilst Mum appears, waving a dish cloth.
‘Hoy! Instead of making that racket, come and give me a lift out to the henhouse with the mash pot. Mind the handle, though. It’s just off the stove and it’s hot.’
A larch fence separates the house from the farm, as well as enclosing a space that Mum says she wants to make into a garden. There’s only grass there at the moment, so it’s not clear why she gets in such a rage when the rascally stirks break in. It’s a shame she doesn’t read their hoof marks embedded in the ground as luck signs. ‘Hoodlums,’ she calls them. I tried the word out on Rabbit. He liked it.
I’d supposed Mum could use Tombain’s old kitchen garden, even if three gean trees have established a strong foothold in the collapsing stones of the lichened dry-stane dyke surrounding it. It’s a few yards away from ours and close to the original house, where Dod and his parents now stay. His dad minds what’s left of the garden, so maybe that’s why Mum wants to leave it to his care.
Dod calls him the Old Boy but everybody else seems to call him Lala.
‘Why’s he called that?’ Elizabeth and I asked on a day that Mum had time to answer questions.
‘Some wee bairn found it easier to say than his real name, William. I think folk may have thought it cute and the name stuck.’
Cute or not, Elizabeth and I are both a bit wary of Lala. If he’s in the garden, rather than approaching we’ll climb the gean trees and spy on him kneeling at work.
He looks a bit like Granny when she’s praying but she hasn’t his permanent shake. Nor does she use a walking stick either for balance or poking unwary children. She only uses hers to keep on her hat when the wind blows. And she certainly speaks. Blackbirds caught under the strawberry net in her garden get a right row and, thanks to her sin-searching soul, a clout to help them get the message. I couldn’t imagine Lala doing that. He’s too busy shaking.
Bent over the tattie pit, he slowly inspects, then pulls and tugs at dockens, which have grown abundantly beside it but now tremble in his grasp.
‘I dinna ken fit the Old Boy thinks he’s daen, he’s only makin’ them worse,’ says Dod in exasperation. ‘He’s nay even managing tae get oot the roots.’
This may be true. The docken patch that Lala’s working on looks so healthy you’d think it’s an actual crop. Mum’s idea of her own garden begins to makes sense. She’s bound to appreciate the offer of some help.
The other day Dod was creosoting the barn doors. Attracted by its clean smell, I watched him making black swirling patterns with a big paintbrush. When the Knockack burn at the bottom of our fields is in spate, the water pools churn like boiling sugar on its way to becoming toffee. Dod’s artwork looked the same. Drawing with a pencil over our sour cream-coloured bedroom wall has its attractions but we’re running out of space and this looked far more exciting.
Standing back to admire his handiwork, Dod said, ‘Grand! As the monkey said when he painted the piano green.’
‘Dod, maybe I could paint our fence that colour too?’
‘Aye – fine that, but you’ll need to scrape off the lichen and moss first,’ he said, which finished any idea of fun, and the conversation.
Now, as Mum and I get to the as-yet-untouched fence, Duck, Shadow and some hens are waiting on the other side. As soon as they see us, they race to the separating gate in a state of greedy excitement.
‘They sound like Old Macdonald’s Farm,’ I say.
Mum laughs and opens the gate. ‘But not so musical. Shoo, you lot. You’re not getting this here.’ She kicks out in a casual way and clears the path from questing beaks.
The hens cluck in an irritated way. They look clumsy with their wings outstretched, as if they’re trying to fly from Mum’s gumboot, but Duck doesn’t bother. She stands apart with her head held high: obviously too grand to be seen with riff-raff.
Mindful of keeping out her hoodlum stirks, Mum shuts the gate then, pausing for a moment, says in the same kind voice she uses when we’re sick, ‘You know, Janie, when there’s a full moon I’m sure that Duck forgets she’s fat and wheezy and dreams of flight.’
‘But she aye wakes us up.’
‘She doesn’t mean to. It’s only because she’s warning the moon to watch out in case she lands on it.’ Mum takes a tattie from her pocket and, handing it to Duck, says, ‘Look, it’s nice and warm. Just how you like it. Actually, Duck, I’m thinking that if you were a proper mother and didn’t leave your eggs to rot in hidden places, you’d be a lot better off.’ She wags a finger. ‘Think of it, girl, you could settle down and lead a respectable life.’
It’s always a one-way conversation with Duck. She fixes a spot in the distance with a cold unblinking stare as she takes the tattie, then swills it down with a drink from an old basin full of water. Her beak makes a clattering racket against the enamel.
‘And a wee something for you too, Shadow.’ Mum drops a spoonful of mash on the ground. Shadow, forgetting her urge to follow, skids to a halt whilst the hens run after us and into their henhouse, where it’s warm and dry.
Even if it’s sturdily made, the homebuilt place creaks on stormy days. Mum, who grew up in seaside Hopeman, says it reminds her of a boat listing in the wind but I think of the witches catching a ride on the larches this morning. If I didn’t think she’d laugh, I’d tell her that, whatever the weather, the hens are safer to forgo those very branches where they sometimes fly and roost in their henhouse instead.
The old car windscreen makes part of a wall and lets in enough light for us to see to fill the trough. The mash smells almost better than our own breakfast porridge and I haven’t had any yet. I’m starving.
Dod’s mother, Mrs Bremner, makes something called brose that look likes this – it’s got oatmeal in it too. I sneak a look around. Nobody’s looking. I poke a finger into the mixture to taste it.
Yum.
6
A HOUSING MATTER
Despite the dished-up mash, the stay-at-home birds remain at post in their nesting boxes. As they look down from their straw-lined thrones, their stares give a very ‘clear off’ message.
Reading their sign, Mum says, ‘Oh, it’s OK, my hennies, we’re not going to steal your eggs.’ Then she whispers, ‘Come on, Janie. We’ll do it from outside. It’ll be easier. Then all we’ll need to do is lift up the nest box lid.’
Duck’s gone but
Shadow’s finished her mash and, hopeful for more, follows as we go to the jutting-out nesting boxes. Their tarred-felt lid is easy to lift and we’re able to look down on the hens. They must think we’ve gone because they’ve broken into a contented croon.
Mum whispers, ‘Your hands are fine and wee, Janie. Slip one in and see if there’s any eggs.’
What happened to the ‘we’ bit I wonder. I’ve never done this before and am anxious enough without hearing Shadow chewing in that nervous way she has in the absence of food.
‘I’m feart I might get pecked,’ I try.
‘Don’t be frightened. They won’t notice you. They’ll maybe even think your hand’s an egg. Anyway, Janie, these hens are Wyandotte’s and they’re lovely and easy-going birds. On you go, now.’ Mum’s very confident. Then of course, it’s not her hand, is it?
I sigh, shut my eyes, slip a hand down the side of a box, then, finding a hen, grope under her. It’s a strange feeling: warm, feather-prickly, damp – and belongs to a suddenly still hen. Quickly, my hand moves about and finds something that feels like a stone. Cautiously, I draw it out. It’s egg-like but heavier.
‘Ach! That’s a china one. You’ll need to put it back.’ Mum explains that it’s there to fool the hen into thinking she’s already halfway to making a clutch of eggs.
I think it’s a bit unfair to the hen but do what I’m told and move on to the next one. This time it must be a real egg because it feels light, slightly damp and as warm as the hen’s under-carriage. I draw it out carefully, hoping the hen doesn’t notice and that she’s laid it so recently she hasn’t recovered from the shock. She continues looking ahead whilst I glance down at the egg in my outstretched hand. It’s warm, brown and with a feather stuck to its slightly sticky surface. Perhaps that’s her signature, I think, and, more boldly, continue foraging.
Mum, teaching me how to count, says, ‘Eleven! You know, I don’t think there’s anything bonnier than a newly laid egg.’ She points to the pan, now full of them. ‘Look at their shiny bloom. That shows you how fresh they are.’
Once we’re back in the house, we put the eggs in the larder. It’s a room at the far end of our back door porch and handy for the scullery. ‘After you’ve had your breakfast, see if you can find where Duck’s been laying her eggs.’ Mum shakes her head in exasperation. ‘I don’t for a minute suppose that if you do find any they’ll be nearly as fresh as the hens’ ones, but I’m sure she’s been laying somewhere near. But don’t you be going near the stranghole. Remember what happened to Elizabeth?’
How could anybody forget? Mum used to call it the cesspit until Dod called it a stranghole. ‘Strranghole?’ she says, imitating him and making him laugh. ‘Now, that’s a better name for somewhere not particularly attractive.’
Unless the wind’s in the wrong direction, it’s far enough away from the house for its rotten-egg smells to be lost. Apparently it’s where the house sewage ends up and I bet I know where Duck’s gone.
It’s probably as fascinating for her as it was for Elizabeth and me. Last summer, we were drawn by the attraction of its black boggy depths, edged by grass an impossibly bright shade of green. For some reason, there was a wooden board across it.
Nodding at it and looking thoughtful, Elizabeth said, ‘The teacher’s been reading us a book on pirates. I loved it. It was so exciting, especially the bit about how they made their enemies walk the plank.’ She gazed faraway, plainly enjoying the memory, then took my arm. Her nudge bordered on a shove. ‘On you go, thou beastly varlet!’
I wasn’t sure what a varlet was but, knowing the meaning of enemy, broke free.
‘No! You go first.’
‘Ha! Softie!’ she scoffed. ‘Look! It’s easy-peasy.’
Confidently she strode onto the plank, and just as confidently, it tilted her straight into the marshy depths.
‘Help!’ Her scream interrupted the clear silver voice of a lark pouring out its song high up in a bright sky and the sound of the wind sighing in the nearby larch trees.
It was a terrifying sight. Instead of my nice, clean, bossy big sister balancing on a board, something horrible lay sprawled over the muddy stinking bog. She’d transformed into a smelly black monster. When it got on its knees, crawling and spewing out joined-up swear words, fear rooted me to the spot.
‘Dinna just stand there. Give me a hand and help me out,’ the black something shouted.
A juniper bush grows near the stranghole. When we first came to it, I’d been picking berries from it, pleased by their clean, cool pine smell. The bush is often planted near homes and is said to ward off evil.
Plainly untrue, I thought, throwing away the berries and readying for flight; only the monster’s voice was familiar. After a little consideration, taking care not to fall in beside it, and with my heart chased from my mouth, I stuttered, ‘Ssay please ffirst.’
Even if the reply was anything but polite, I relented and helped fish out what was, after all, Elizabeth.
Trying to comfort my wet, filthy and miserable sister, made a pleasant change. I said, ‘You’ll be fine but we’ll need to get you back to the house and Mum. Come on.’
Hearing squelching noises combined with sniffing, our mother looked up from the book she was reading whilst turning the handle of the butter churn in the scullery. It’s a really boring job, and one I suspect could soon be mine.
‘For the love of Mike, you poor darling!’
At the sight of a book being thrown down, the churn stopping and the anguish in our mother’s voice, all bravery went. Elizabeth burst into tears: a rare event.
‘Och, ma wee lamb!’ cried Mum, grabbing a cake of the red soap used for dirt-ingrained clothes and steering her now bawling daughter towards the bathroom. ‘Come on, lovie, you’ll need to have a bath. Dettol in it as well.’
‘I just hope there’s plenty hot water.’
Her voice, losing its thread of despair, now extended. ‘And if you’ve nothing better to do, Janie, you could take over the churn.’
It may have been during last year’s summer, but the stranghole memory remains fresh as I set off on another egg search.
‘Shadow, if that dratted Duck’s gone guddling for worms there, she’s welcome to them, but you never know, she maybe decided, for once, to use her own place and laid her eggs there. Let’s go and have a look.’
Our cute and cuddly lamb’s disappeared. She was given as a present last year when her mother died and her owner hadn’t time to look after an orphan. Elizabeth and I loved bottle-feeding and caring for her, but now she’s grown and so’s her appetite. She doesn’t look for a bottle any more. She’s happier hanging about the neep shed, waiting for a chance to burst in and gobble turnips as if she’s been starved for a fortnight. She also hankers after the calf nuts and treacle kept in the barn.
Meanwhile, as she can’t get either, she’s nothing better to do than follow me. Responding to my question, she stops chewing and squints down her nose. It makes her look snooty. Mum says it’s because Shadow’s tribe of Cheviot sheep all have long noses.
‘Like the Romans,’ she says. Wondering who they are, I stop for a moment.
‘Well, Shadow, we might not know who your grandparents are but, I can tell you, your straight white legs are just like Dobbin’s wooden ones and they’re so thin it’s a wonder they’re able to carry that muckle body of yours. Mind you, it’s just as well you’ve such a thick coat. Remember the bees?’
Shadow flicks an ear. She must be listening.
Last year, one of Mum’s friends living in the Laich of Moray asked if she’d keep his bees so they could make heather-honey. They came in autumn, their hives, cute-looking little houses,were parked beside Duck’s quarters. Nosy Shadow was curious about the new tenants, so she was lucky that when she upturned a hive, her fleece was thick enough to make her immune to the bees’ rage. The only beehive left now is the one she destroyed, but there’s a sharp edge left, handy for her to sort the itch her troublesome fleece gives her.
Duck’s house may once have been an old two-door sideboard, but as she doesn’t seem to be using it much, if at all, it’s been a good place to play stables with Belinda and Dobbin. There’s room because the shelves have been taken out. Branches from the sheltering nearby firs have made a resin-smelling bed. Wire mesh has replaced the wood of one of the doors to allow in light and air. Once we’re inside, and the other door’s closed, we can see out and settle down to watch the world go by, as horses do, according to my picture books.
Duck doesn’t seem to mind.
‘I can never get a hold of her, especially at night when sensible people are thinking of going to bed,’ says Mum.
‘And that’s when she keeps us awake,’ I remind her.
‘Well, I know some wee quinies who’ve also got a job going to bed,’ comes the unsatisfactory answer.
Sometimes, my playmates and I change from playing stables to making nests, thinking that Duck might like that, although we’re not sure we’d want to be too near that beak of hers. Now, if it wasn’t for the gentle shushing of the fir trees, and Shadow munching the grass, this would be a silent place. It’s certainly quieter than when she decided to investigate the bees. I crawl in and, leaving the door open, stretch out on the cushioning branches, trying to imagine where Duck may have laid her eggs.
‘Gettaway, Shadow. You smell!’ I shout, as she sticks her woolly head in.
She reverses, looking offended. I shut the door and try to settle down again but now feel bad about shouting at the poor beast and start to wonder where she’s gone.
It’s not long before it’s obvious. She hasn’t gone anywhere and neither has her itch. Realising that the wrecked beehive’s not as handy as the duck-house sides, she puts her shoulder to one and starts to shove. As it rocks under the weight of her labours, I’m trapped and tumbled about.