Thomasina. Paul Gallico
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