Читать книгу Thomasina - Paul Gallico - Страница 10

I was checking a mousehole when Mary Ruadh came to take me away to go down to the quay in the town in company with Hughie Stirling to see the steamer arrive from Glasgow.

The interruption did not leave me in the best of humour for I had put in a lot of time and work on that hole and felt that I was just about to achieve results.

It was the one by the larder, the important one. I had been treating it for days and it was a nuisance being dragged off. Mousehole watching to me was duty, and I always did it thoroughly and well. All of the other things I had to do for Mary Ruadh to keep her happy and contented including submitting to being carried about by her everywhere she went were her idea and not mine.

People are inclined to forget or overlook our primary purpose in a house – and out of purely selfish reasons such as when they try to turn us into babies – and when made to live unnatural lives, we become spoiled and lazy. Even when every so often we bring them a mouse as a reminder and lay it at their feet, people are so conceited and stupid as to accept it as a personal gift, instead of realising that we are calling attention to our reason for being there and paying up for board and lodging.

I suppose you think that checking a mousehole is easy and no work at all. Well, all I can say is YOU try it sometime. Get down on your hands and knees and remain in that position, concentrating and staring at one little hole in the wainscoting for hours at a time, while simultaneously pretending that you are not. Checking a mousehole isn’t just giving it a sniff and going away as a dog would do. On the contrary. If you are as conscientious and dutiful as I am, it is a full-time job, particularly if there are two or three or you suspect one of them of having two entrances.

It isn’t catching mice, mind you, that is the most necessary. Anyone can catch a mouse; it is no trick at all; it is putting them off and keeping them down that is important. You will hear sayings like – “The only good mouse is a dead mouse,” but that is only half of it. The only good mouse is the mouse that isn’t there at all. What you must do if you are at all principled about your work, is to conduct a war of nerves on the creatures. This calls for both time, energy and a good deal of cleverness, which I wouldn’t begrudge if I wasn’t expected to do so many other things besides.

Just to give you an idea of what mousehole watching entails, after you have located and charted them and decided which ones are active and which extinct, you select one and go there, but, of course, never twice at the same time exactly. A mouse is no fool and soon learns to time you if you are regular. I find that hunch and instinct, or just plain feline know-how are the best things to guide you. You just KNOW at a certain moment; it comes over you as in a dream that THAT is the time to go there.

Well, first you take two or three sniffs and then settle down in front of it and stare for a while. If the mouse is in, he or she can’t get out, and if they are out they can’t get home. Either way it is worrying. And so for the first hour you just remain there staring. At the same time, when you get used to it you find that you can think about all sorts of other things, make plans, or wish, or remember who you were, or what happened to an ancestor thousands and thousands of generations ago, or perhaps think about what there is going to be for supper.

THEN, suddenly you close both eyes and pretend that you are asleep. Now, this is the most important and delicate part of the entire operation, for now you may rely only upon your ears and the receiving antennae at the ends of your whiskers. For this is when the mouse, if it is out, will try to get in, or try to get out if it is in, and just at the psychological moment when it thinks it has you, you open one eye.

I can promise you that the effect upon the mouse of finding itself suddenly stared at by that single eye of yours is absolutely tremendous. I am not sure what it is exactly, unless it is to be confronted with the evidence that you actually need only one eye to watch while the other one sleeps that is so upsetting to the mouse, but there it is. A few doses of that and it is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Its nervousness soon communicates itself to its family, they hold a consultation and decide to move away.

This is the manner in which any responsible member of our species handles the mouse problem in the household, but as you can see it calls for technique, practice and time; above all, time. I managed to keep the house reasonably clear in spite of all the other things I had to do, room and parcel inspection, washing, exchanging news with the neighbours and looking after Mary Ruadh, for which, of course, I got no thanks or appreciation at all from Mr MacDhui, and little more from Mrs McKenzie, from whom I had to listen to such complaints as – “Och, ye lazy Thomasina. The mice have been at the larder again. Do ye then no ken a moosie when ye see yin?” – which was supposed to be very cutting and sarcastic, but, of course, rolled right off my back.

So there I was, just settled down to put the cap on three solid days of nerve war, when Hughie Stirling came whistling outside the house, and the next thing I knew, Mary Ruadh, in a blue pinafore with blue socks and blue shoes, was picking me up and carrying me off through the town down to the quay. I had never been there before at steamboat time.

Hughie Stirling was the Laird’s son. He was almost ten, but already tall for his age. He lived in the Manor, whose grounds reached almost to the back of our house, and he was a great friend to Mary Ruadh.

You can have boys, for my part. I find them nasty, dirty, cruel, in the main, and unkind and heartless to boot, selfish little beasts, but I must admit that Hughie Stirling was different. He managed to keep himself clean and had a kind of noble look about him with a lean face, dark, wavy hair and light blue eyes, the far-seeing kind.

Mary Ruadh tagged after him whenever she could, or he would let her, which was quite often, for he seemed to like to look after her. Most boys of that age will have no part of little girls at any price, but a few, like Hughie, seem to like having them about, particularly if they have no sisters. They watch over them, picking them up, brushing them off and wiping away their tears when they fall or hurt themselves, and see to it that their noses are blown when it is necessary. Like Mary Ruadh, Hughie was an only child and so he liked to borrow her occasionally and, of course, I went along over Mary Ruadh’s arm, for she would not go without me. Hughie never seemed to mind this and appeared to understand it and not think it curious. Perhaps he appreciated my worth. I am not surprised to find this attitude in one of the aristocracy.

If I could live my own life, that is to say, if I were not ‘house’, I should move to the waterfront and spend the days sitting on the jetties in the sun, sniffing the tar in the ropes with which the boats are made fast, and when the fishermen’s skiffs came in I would strut along the granite flagstones of the quay with my tail a-quivering in the air and go down to greet them and see what they had brought in from the sea.

Next to lavender, I think the smells I like best are those of the sea, boats and piles of old oilskins, sweaters, gear and tackle and rubber boots in the boathouses, and the beautiful smell of fish; fish and seaweed, crab and lobster and the green sea-scum that fastens to the grey stone landing steps. And there is a wonderful odour by the sea in the very early morning too, when the sun has not yet pierced through the mists and everything is soggy with damp and dew and salt.

And so once I was there with the children in the square by the quay where the statue to Rob Roy stands, I was not too ill-pleased for there were many interesting and exciting things going on, except that when the steamer came in and blew its whistle it frightened me so that I fell off Mary Ruadh’s shoulder and hurt myself.

That wants a bit of explaining, I know, for we always fall on our feet, particularly when we have time to turn over, but this all happened so quickly that I didn’t.

The steamer was all white with a narrow black funnel, and how was I to know that it was going to make a horrible noise? I was quite fascinated watching the ship come puffing up to the edge of the stone jetty, with bells clanging and orders being shouted, and much white froth of water all about it as it went first forward, then backwards, then even sideways, and suddenly, without warning, the loudest and most frightening shriek burst from the top of the stack and I fell over backwards.

Well, I suppose I could have saved myself, but it would have meant digging my claws into Mary Ruadh’s neck, for I had been lying across her shoulders. If it had been anyone else I should not have hesitated to anchor my claws, you may believe me. But it all happened so quickly, the awful noise that seemed to split my ears open, and then there was a bump and I was lying on my side, hurting.

Mary Ruadh picked me up at once and rubbed it, and so did Hughie Stirling, and they made a fuss over me, though Hughie laughed and said – “The old whistle frightened her,” and then to me – “You’ll have to get used to that, Thomasina, if you’re going to be a sea-going cat.” It seems that he and Mary Ruadh were planning a trip around the world in a yacht he was going to have when he grew up and, of course, she had said she wouldn’t go without me.

The rubbing made it feel better; Mary Ruadh cradled me in her arms and held me tight, and the next time it hooted I wasn’t nearly so frightened, and almost forgot the pain in the excitement of watching the mail sacks being tossed on to the pier, followed by the luggage of the visitors, which was covered with the most interesting-looking labels, after which the visitors themselves came ashore down a wooden gangway that had been run on to the side of the ship from the quay.

Many of them had children by the hand and that, of course, interested Mary Ruadh and Hughie and Geordie McNabb who had joined us. Geordie is eight and a Wolf Cub and he goes all over the place by himself and sees everything. There were half a dozen or so dogs on a leash that came ashore, and a cat basket; overhead the gulls wheeled and screamed; taxicab drivers honked their horns and shouted at the people and all in all, except for my tumble, it was a most satisfactory landing. And Geordie had some interesting news.

He told Hughie and Mary Ruadh: “There’s gipsies and tinkers come to Dunmore Field at the foot of the glen, across the river. Lots and lots of them with wagons and cages and caravans and things. They’re camped beside the woods on Tarbet Road. Mr MacQuarrie the constable went out to have a word with them.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hughie Stirling. “That’s exciting! I wish I had been there. What happened?”

Geordie McNabb drew in a deep breath and his eyes became quite as round as his head because of the importance of answering the questions put to him by the Laird’s son. I could see that.

He replied: “Constable MacQuarrie said as long as they behaved themselves and didn’t give any trouble they could stay there.”

Hughie nodded his head. “And what did they say?”

“Oh, there was a big man there and he had on a big leather belt and it had nails in it. And he put his hands in his belt and laughed at Mr MacQuarrie.”

Hughie said: “It’s not clever to laugh at Mr MacQuarrie.”

Geordie continued: “Another man, a little one wearing a waistcoat and hat, came up and he pushed the man with the belt away and said that they were grateful and would not give any trouble, but would just try to earn a few honest pennies. Then Mr MacQuarrie asked what they meant to do with the animals in cages.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hughie, even more interested, and by now so was Mary Ruadh, and so was I. “What animals, in what cages?”

Geordie reflected before he replied – “Well, they had a bear and an eagle and a mountain lion and some monkeys and dogs and an elephant and horses, and—”

“Poooh!” remonstrated Hughie. “Gipsies never have elephants.”

Geordie looked as though he was sorry he had said it. “Well, maybe they didn’t really have an elephant, but they DID have a bear and an eagle and a mountain lion and monkeys and they said they were going to let people look at them for a shilling.”

“I say,” Hughie burst out with enthusiasm, “if I can wheedle a couple of shillings out of Mummy, we must go.”

Geordie had not yet finished his account – he continued: “Mr MacQuarrie said he supposed that was all right as long as they did not ill-treat the animals, or give a performance.”

Mary Ruadh asked: “What’s a performance?”

Hughie replied: “Standing on their heads and doing tricks, I suppose. I’ll bet they’re going to when the police aren’t looking.”

Geordie concluded: “The man with the belt started to laugh again, but the other gipsy with the hat and the waistcoat went over and pushed him with his shoulder and Mr MacQuarrie went away. I tried to look under the cover of one of the wagons to see what the animals were like, but a big boy came and chased me. He had a whip.”

All this, Mary Ruadh recounted to her father that night, during the time he gave her her evening bath, and he listened to every word she said as though she were as grown up as he, which, I must say, astonished me, for grown-ups have a way of talking to children – yes, and to us too – that is most patronising, irritating and humiliating. But Mr MacDhui just nodded and grumbled and grunted seriously, as he listened, all the time soaping the back of her neck and ears with the flannel. “Well, little pink frog,” he said finally, “just see that you keep well away from those gipsies whatever they mean to do, for they were always a filthy, thieving folk and you cannot tell me they have reformed their ways in the last generation just because the police are willing to condone their presence, eh?”

I think that Mrs McKenzie was shocked at the idea of Mr MacDhui giving Mary Ruadh her bath, but much as I dislike the man, I, who have been a mother, can testify that no kitten ever received a more painstaking and thorough washing than she at the hands of her father when he came home at night, for this was the moment in the day that he seemed to enjoy the most, and therefore was most pleasant – though, of course, not to me, for I was not allowed to come into the bathroom, but sat outside in the hall and looked in.

He sang to Mary Ruadh, can you imagine, in his loud and most disgusting voice, the silliest words ever. I remember them. They were:

There dwelt a Puddy in a well,

Cuddy alane, cuddy alane,

There dwelt a Puddy in a well,

Cuddy alane and I

There was a Puddy in a well,

AN a mousie in a mill;

Kickmaleerie, cowden doon,

Cuddy alane and I.

Now, I ask you, where was the sense in that? But somehow, Mary Ruadh seemed to understand, and when her father bellowed “Kickmaleerie, cowden doon!” she screamed and shouted and splashed with her bath toys until the water shot all the way out into the hallway where I was sitting.

Then Mr MacDhui picked her out of the tub and gave her a tousle and a rub-down until her whole body was red when he would say – “How now, little pink Puddy! Now this fine blue towel really becomes you. What shall we have for tea? Kickmaleerie Mary Ruadh!”

But me, he never so much deigned to notice.

After they had their supper in the dining room, with Mary Ruadh sitting on a pile of cushions so that she would be higher, they would go into her room across the hall where he played with her, or sometimes told her some ridiculous kind of story, or she would climb into his lap, and laugh and gurgle ridiculously and play with his bristly face and pull his fur and tease him, or sometimes they would even join hands and dance around the room together, and if you think THAT is any way to bring up a child or a kitten, you won’t get me to agree with you.

That night, Mary Ruadh became so excited that she would not calm down to say her prayers that Mr MacDhui always insisted upon. These were kind of a petition and rhyme that she had to say every night before she went to sleep, and sometimes having to do it made her very wilful and naughty. Well, I know, for one thing, how I am when I am made to do something.

Then Mr MacDhui changed quite suddenly from being kind and gay to becoming most stern and ugly. He pushed out his great red beard at his daughter and growled: “That will be all and enough of that, Mary Ruadh. You have had plenty of play. Now say your prayers at once or I shall have to punish you.”

Mary Ruadh asked: “Daddy, WHY do I have to say my prayers?”

If she asked this once, she asked it at least four times in the week. I had to smile inside to myself for, of course, I knew it was just to keep putting it off, just as when we are ordered to do something we suddenly discover that we have a most important bit of washing to do.

His answer would always be the same: “Because your mother would have wished it; that is why. She said her prayers every night.”

Mary Ruadh then asked: “Can I hold Thomasina while I say them?”

I had to turn away to conceal the smile on my face because I knew the explosion that was coming from Mr MacDhui.

“No, NO, NO. You cannot. Kneel now and say your prayers properly this minute.”

Mary Ruadh asked that same question every night, not, I think, to make her father angry, but rather as a kind of routine in case some day he changed his mind and said yes.

It always succeeded in making him quite furious, and whereas at other times he simply ignored me as though I did not exist, I am sure at that moment he hated me.

He then stood beside her bed while she knelt, folded her hands together in the manner that was prescribed for her, and began her petition:

“God bless Mummy in Heaven and Daddy – and Thomasina –”

I always waited to make sure that my name was mentioned well up in the list that included such odd bods as Mr Dobbie, the grocer, and Willie Bannock and Mr Bridie, the dustman, of whom she seemed to be fond, and then I went over and rubbed against Mr MacDhui’s legs, purring and putting hairs on his trousers, because I was well aware that it infuriated him, but he didn’t dare shout, or kick, or swear, or do anything about it, because by that time, Mary Ruadh was in the middle of her rhyme which went:

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,

Look upon this little child;

Pity my simplicity,

And suffer me to come to thee AMEN

and which was a very important one so that he could not stir until it was properly finished, by which time I would be under the bed where he could not reach me.

But he seemed to forget that he was angry when the prayers were finished and she lay upon her pillow with her ginger hair tousled about and he looked down upon her after he had kissed her goodnight. I used to watch his face, and all the bristle seemed to go out of his beard at once, and his fierce eyes turned soft. It was even more than soft. Soppy! Then he would blow himself up with a deep breath, turn, and stalk out of the room, like somebody in a play.

But I just stayed under the bed and waited my turn.

When he was gone, Mary Ruadh would call – “Mrs McKenzie! Mrs McKenzie!” and when she came in, she would say – “I want Thomasina!”

I wouldn’t make it difficult for the poor old soul, but by that time would be cruising close to the edge of the bed. Mrs McKenzie would reach down, pick me up, and put me into Mary Ruadh’s bed. Mr MacDhui who had gone off to his study always heard her doing it, and knew that it happened, but pretended that he didn’t …

Well, that was what THAT day in my life, in fact, what many days in my life were like – for in most respects one day was very like another – except for the pain I felt at the base of my spine from the bump I had received when I fell off Mary Ruadh by the statue of Rob Roy, as I have told you already, and which was followed by the morning of my assassination.