Free Four Ducks on a Pond by Annabel Carothers Page B

returned to London, she helped to bring in the hay, raking it up after Puddy had cut it down with the cutter attachment on Puffing Billy and forming it first into little stooks,
and then, helped by Puddy and Fionna and Grandpop, into big ricks. Fionna’s job was to stand on top of the rick, receiving the hay the others tossed up to her, and bouncing on it, to compress
it and make room for more. It was a wonderful job, and she made the most of it. Sitting quietly nearby, I was sometimes afraid she would bounce right off and land on the ground. But she
didn’t.
    There were also the peats, which had been cut earlier in the year, to be brought in from the peat moss behind the house. These were stacked near the back door, and the family had to carry them
in sacks on their backs as Corrie wasn’t here, with her panniers, to do the job for them.
    One of the ducks and one of the drakes helped to make Margie’s last supper at home a gala occasion. I don’t know if ‘helped’ is the right word, because it implies free
will and desire on the part of the helper, and I’m afraid there was no free will about the ducks’ presence that night. Indeed, they protested loudly when Grandpop caught them and tied
up their legs, and handed them over to Johnnie-the-Postman who obligingly acted as poultry executioner in the district. It was a convenient arrangement, as he delivered the letters, then wrung the
bird’s neck, so he didn’t have to make a special visit. Doing it in the course of his work made the whole thing less morbid, except, perhaps, for the victim. However, he was skilled at
the job, so I don’t suppose it hurt, though I’m glad it won’t ever happen to me. It’s a mercy people don’t eat cats.
    Green peas and apple sauce traditionally go with duck, and so they did that night. And Puddy made excellent meringues, which Kitten filled with goat’s cream. And Carla and I were not
forgotten. So the whole evening went well and was a memorable occasion.
    I’m afraid I overslept the next morning, so I did not see Margie leave by the mail bus, which passes our gate at 7.15 a.m. That is a very early hour at which to start a journey, and the
bus would bump over the rough roads for nearly two hours before arriving at Craignure, from which the brave little
Lochinvar
would take the travellers to Oban, and thence to the four corners
of the world – that is if they wanted to, and could find corners in a world the books in the cottage assure me is round.
    That is a very long sentence, and because the
Lochinvar
is of supreme importance to the people in Mull, I feel that I must pause to tell you a little about her.
    I’ve never seen the
Queen Elizabeth
or the
Queen Mary,
or any of the huge ocean-going ships, though the
Caronia
sometimes comes to Oban, with very rich tourists from
America, who buy all the tweed and woollens from the Oban shops and leave lots of dollars behind. But that is to diverge. What I’m trying to say is that compared with big ships, the
Lochinvar
is very small indeed. It carries mail and passengers and animals and cars between Oban and Tobermory daily, and although it is a little ship, the sea is often just as rough as it
is for the big ships, so to my mind the
Lochinvar
and all her crew deserve a big George Cross to hang on her little artificial funnel.
    The passengers from Craignure could do with a little official recognition, too, because since there is no pier at Craignure they have to scramble into a motor boat, which transports them to the
Lochinvar,
then they have to scramble out of the motor boat and on to the
Lochinvar
, often in very heavy seas, so that this is no mean feat, especially for old or corpulent people.
(According to the grammar books in the cottage, the word ‘fat’ would be better English, but I think corpulent sounds more grand.)
    The building of a pier at Craignure is one of the chief topics of discussion, and grumbles, on the island, and I understand has been so for