Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it with my little hatchet.*
George Washington
I have talked to this boy, or rather listened to him. He's a bit of a chatterbox, no shortage of detail here. This is a simplified version – he's a bit of an exaggerator too – of what he says, what he claims happened. It's a version all right, but keep that pinch of salt handy.
The boy's name was Perseverance McFirkin, a ridiculous name, I'll grant you, but what passes for normal in our part of the world. (Wait till you hear the wolf's name. Wait till you hear the lettuce's!) The boy, as mentioned earlier, was not a farmer's boy at all, he was a woodcutter's boy and his mother was the woodcutter. His father was a partner in a window-cleaning business.
So here we are on the day in question, early on a bright and fragrant morning, with marigolds blooming in the window box and little larks out on the sill. Young Perseverance arose from his bed, washed his face, ate his breakfast and attended half-heartedly (he was reading a comic) to his mother's instructions.
‘Now Percy,’ she said, ‘I require you to get dressed and run a few errands. Take this lettuce to your Auntie Joyce, this sheep to Mr Bodley – Oh yes, and drop this wolf off at Grandma Pumfrey's.’ Grandma Pumfrey was the local vet. What business a wolf had with a vet, you will presently hear.
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Percy. Whereupon, up he leapt and away he flew, like a pip from an apple, according to him. Up the stairs to throw some clothes on. Out into the yard to hitch up the donkey. Round to the front of the house, plus donkey, plus cart for loading:
sheep
wolf
football boots
fizzy drink
comic.
Kiss for his mother, blown kisses for his little sister (told you there was a girl), still in her nightie and waving at him from an upstairs window, brisk ‘Giddy-up!’ for the elderly and somewhat deaf donkey, thence through the gate,
down the cowtrack,
round the bend and off…
into the forest.
The FOREST. This boy had much to say about the forest. It was his favourite place, apparently. A place of ancient trees and clearings – flickering sunlight – high winds – snow at times. A place of tigers and bears, according to him, and bandits. I see from my notes that he was in the forest for twenty minutes or so and that it took him three quarters of an hour to tell me about it.
But let us move him on. The road through the forest to the town rose and fell with the contours of the ground. From time to time little racing streams cut across it. It was the width of a cart, no more. (You must hope on your journey not to meet one coming the other way!) The boy sat up on the cart, whistling. On his left, in a wooden tray, the Lettuce; on his right, with his lead – yes, lead – wrapped round the iron frame of the seat, the Wolf. And in the bed of the cart, curled up on an old blanket and gazing back the way they had come, the Sheep.
Actually, to be fair to this boy, to Percy, this is his version after all, let me quote a little from his actual words. It is not necessary to believe everything he says, though some of it, surely, is likely to be true.
‘It were an easy trip' (he has an open, smiling face, gingerish hair, freckles), ‘I were never scared. I know that old forest.’ He whistles at this point. ‘Seen a polecat up a tree – I never minded it. Seen a bandit or a robber or somebody, off in the trees.’ Whistles. ‘Stood up in the old cart and picked me a pear off a pear tree. Seen another man with an eye patch and a wriggling sack. I never minded.’ Whistles.
‘But what about your companions?’ I asked. ‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ I didn't want to put words into his mouth, you understand. It was the TRUTH I was after. In any case, his mouth was fairly well full of words as it was.
‘Well, see, that sheep I was taking to Mr Bodley, it were his sheep. The Wolf was going to Grandma Pumfrey's. I was supposed to leave him there and my dad would pick him up after. I had it all writ down. See, he needed his claws clipping, his teeth scraping – a build up of tartar or something – and his booster wolf-flu jab.’
‘But a wolf –’ I could hardly contain myself, ‘– to a vet?’
‘Oh, he were some old wolf. Tame enough. I was never scared of him. Not like the tigers. See, the tigers –’
‘What about the Lettuce?’
‘The Lettuce was for Auntie Joyce, I forget what for. Don't believe she was supposed to eat it, though. There was something else. I forget.’ Whistles.
On went the cart (we will get there) with its effervescent boy, patient donkey and UNLIKELY PASSENGERS. By and by the trees thinned out and the track widened. Small fields appeared (broccoli mostly), the odd cottage, telegraph pole, bus stop. Then, straight ahead and glittering under the rising sun, the river. And beyond the river, right up against its further bank, the green slate roofs and smoking chimneys of the town.
There was a bridge which was closed off, on account of an unfriendly, blackmailing troll, according to Percy, but it was roadworks, really. I checked it out.
‘So how did you get across?’ I asked. ‘Was there a boat?’
‘There was – a ferry boat. Warn't there, though – disappeared – and the ferryman – and his missus. Kidnapped, I heard, or gone on holiday, somebody said.’
‘So what did you do?’
Percy smiled, and I saw that he had a tooth missing. ‘I Percy-vered!’ he cried. (An old family joke, apparently.) ‘That's what I done. Found this titchy little boat with a paddle – like a tennis bat.’
And thus the tale, or the disentanglement of the tale, as it were, continues. Young Perseverance McFirkin, in the peace and solitude of his own orchard at the side of the house, in the swing and serenity of his own hammock stretched out between two plum trees, expands on and delights in his own cleverness – coolness – presence of mind. (I sit there, taking notes.)
‘I think to m'self, this'll do it. I'll take 'em over one at a time. Only trouble was –’ He flicks a moth away from his nose. ‘Only trouble was, I couldn't leave the Wolf with the Sheep, and I couldn't leave the Sheep with the Lettuce. Tricky that.’
But solvable, apparently, for what young Percy did, or so he says, was grab his old woodcutter's axe (or hatchet) out of the cart, chop a few trees down and make himself a raft. Found a pole. Drove the donkey plus cart onto the raft… and floated over. And the Sheep fell overboard and he rescued her. And a crowd gathered on the further bank with much cheering. And the Wolf, Sheep, Lettuce all got to where they were supposed to. (I am rushing a bit here. We had been in that orchard half a day, my notebook was full and it was getting dark.) And (too many ‘ands‘, sorry about that)* Percy played football, and scored, you guessed it, the winning goal. Had tea at his friend's house, spent the night at Auntie Joyce's… and slept the sleep of the just, whatever that means.
P.S. All in that rush there at the end, and in my natural eagerness to REACH THE END, I must confess I skipped a couple of things. Allow me to rewind a little. As I mentioned, it was darkening in the orchard. Pinholes of starlight appeared to hang in the branches of the trees. The earlier heat of the sun, soaked down into the earth, was rising up again full of the smells of fallen fruit and grass. Percy was expanding on his heroics in that river crossing. The Sheep was overboard, the brave boy poised to rescue her.
I should add that Percy's little sister had joined us at this time, back in her nightie again, ready for bed and up there in the hammock with him. Anyway, Percy was telling his tale. I was sat there in a folding camp chair. Rosalind, that was his sister's name, was dangling her chubby little legs over the edge of the hammock. The rescue was in progress, yes, the crowd cheering. And then… a movement in the shadows. A cough. A voice. ‘Not true,’ it said, so deeply and yet quavering too. ‘A fiction altogether. I am the best of swimmers.’