UNCLE EDITH
This poem, I regret to say
Is quite untrue.
Uncle was really Auntie, of course
And Edith, actually, Hugh.
Allan Ahlberg
‘I am the best of swimmers.’
Yes, I expect you worked it out, it was the Sheep back there in the orchard. Her creamy fleece half luminous in the dark. Her mild face with its surprising glint of spectacles. Her woolly (?) scarf.
We did not talk much at that time, the Sheep and I. It was late, I was weary. Percy, I may say, was yet full of beans, nattering on there in his hammock with no more audience than a couple of moths and a hedgehog.
The following day began with a colossal downpour. For a whole hour I stood up at my bedroom window watching grey curtains of rain sweep in above the trees. The rain bouncing up from the patio slabs, the table and chairs, the mower. Another hedgehog's progress along the shrubbery. My beloved roses swaying and glowing even then in the gloom.*
It was late afternoon before I was able to return, by mud-splattered bicycle, to the McFirkins' place. I sought the Sheep out where she sheltered, snug and dry, in a corner of the barn. With some reluctance – there were secrets here as well as lies, she implied – she nevertheless embarked upon her version of events.
So here we are again on the day in question, early on a bright and fragrant morning (no disagreement there). Sunlight slanted across the house, the barn, the paddock. In the paddock – dew on the grass, cornflowers and buttercups – one VERY IMPORTANT SHEEP was safely grazing. A journey was necessary. The Sheep must be transported, with the utmost care and no delay, to Professor Bodley's. The McFirkin boy received his instructions. The Sheep was brought into the cart, made comfortable on a pile of blankets. The journey began.
The Forest. The Sheep had little to say about the forest. She was no devotee of trees, preferred an open field – hedgerows – sky. In response to my enquiries, she confirmed that it was ‘Professor' not ‘Mr' Bodley (actually, it turned out ‘Doctor' was a possibility – Ha!), and that, as it happened, though no concern of hers, there was a wolf and a lettuce in the cart too. Naturally, I pressed her on this matter.
‘What can you tell me about the Wolf?’
‘He was a wolf.’
‘A tame one?’
‘Hardly. He was common.’
‘And the Lettuce?’
‘I scarcely noticed it.’
Truth is, she was eating what might well have been a lettuce when I first arrived in the barn. Tucked it out of sight as I came in.
The forest part of the story, so said the Sheep, was boring, bumpy and slow. The boy – Percival? – had an irritating inclination to whistle. The Wolf kept giving her looks.
‘What sort of looks?’
‘Wolf looks.’
‘No. Yes. Sometimes.’
The Sheep fell silent and stared studiously (it was the spectacles) about her. More rain was rattling on the roof of the barn. High up, suspended from a beam, a family of sleepy bats was twittering and squeaking. A lone cat sat in the open doorway looking out.
I endeavoured to keep things moving.
‘Did you see any bandits at that time? Any tigers?’
‘No, not a one.’
‘A polecat maybe. A man with a wriggling sack?’
‘No.’ The Sheep shook her head. ‘Saw a squirrel – a multitude of mushrooms. Saw a milkman. Hm.’
On went the story, eventually, and the cart with it. Out of the forest, along the wider road, dipping and swinging, with tantalizing smells of clover and cut grass (no broccoli?), down towards the river.
And YES there was a bridge, and YES it was closed off, who knows why. And YES AND YES there was a pier – no ferryman though, or ‘missus’. No ferry boat.
So now we come to it again: the river crossing. Actually, consulting my notes, I note (!) that this was the part the Sheep chose to tell first. Eager to contradict Percy's account, I suppose. As you can see, I have rearranged things chronologically. This tale is tangled enough as it is.
On the subject of these notes, I should point out that even they are not always one hundred per cent reliable. There's a page here, for instance, all smudged with rain; a couple of others almost shredded (claw marks – I will explain later). And, of course, they are, after all, just notes, brief records or summaries set down to assist the memory.
Except – and this is the point I want to make – Oh, Godfrey, it's taking an ETERNITY though for me to make it. Words do have a mind of their own, don't they? We struggle and sweat with all our might (some of us) for clarity – simplicity – concision. Yet somehow, time and time again, it all just gets away from us, and we are left…bamboozled. Yes, that's the word.
Where was I?
The Sheep. The point is, in her case the notes really are reliable. She talked in notes, little telegrams, all the time. Getting her to put ten words together was a triumph. Percy, you could say, made it up and said too much. The Sheep kept it to herself and said too little. The end result, in my opinion, was the same: DECEPTION. But never fear, rely on me. They cannot keep us in the dark forever. We will unravel this tangle yet.
So CLARITY, SIMPLICITY, CONCISION:
1 With no bridge and no ferry boat, Percy makes use of a canoe he's found.
2 The canoe will accommodate only Percy himself and one other at a time. No problem, in the Sheep's opinion. Simply take her over, utmost care, no delay, and leave the others behind.
3 Percy thinks differently. He takes the Sheep over first and goes back for the Lettuce.
4 Realizes he can't leave the Lettuce with the Sheep, returns with the Lettuce and goes back with the Wolf.
5 Realizes he can't leave the Wolf with the Sheep, returns with the Wolf and goes back for the Sheep.
6 Sits on the bank with the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce.
7 Scratches his head… and reads a comic.
8 Whistles.
Naturally at this point I asked again about the raft. Here, more or less word for word, is the exchange that followed:
‘Could you say a word or two about the raft?’
‘Yes: no… raft.’
‘Percy tells me he took (I consult my notes), he took his little axe and –’
‘No little axe.’
‘Ah!’
‘Little fibber – little shrimp.’
‘I see.’
‘Could not chop his way out of a paper bag.’ (Ten words.)
‘I see, of course. So, er… no rescue then?’
‘Told you that already.’
‘No crowds – hm? No cheers?’
Silence from the Sheep.
By this time the rain had stopped for good. Dazzling rainbowed light, refracted from the puddles, bounced back and up into the barn through the open doorway. Soft waves of straw dust, hay dust, bat dust for all I know, swirled in the brighter air. Outside, children's voices, yelling and laughing, and the thud of a ball.
The Sheep was becoming grumpy. She had a secretive nature, I realized, and disliked being questioned. Even so, I pressed on. (How else to sort things out?) If there was no raft, if Percy merely sat on the bank and read his comic, as the Sheep suggested, how in blazes did they get across? Because they did. That much is known; half a dozen witnesses at least confirmed it; confirmed their arrival, that is, if not the crossing itself.
The Sheep frowned. Well, it was no thanks to Percy, according to her. It turned out not only did he read his comic, drink his fizzy drink, kick his football, he fell asleep as well. ‘Without help,’ (pay close attention to this), ‘Without help,’ the Sheep declared, ‘we'd still be there.’
Whereupon, in one of those coincidences good stories are supposed to avoid, the football itself came flying through the doorway, scared the cat, bounced off a barrel and caught the Sheep a glancing blow on the side of her head. Which was rotten luck for all concerned, except the ball. The Sheep acquired a muddy patch on her otherwise spotless fleece, her glasses were undamaged though, and I lost any chance of continuing my investigations. What help?… Who from?… And when?… And where?… And… Oh, botheration, how exasperating.
The Sheep rose to her feet and huffily, peevishly, silently departed. Meanwhile, Percy and his little sister came charging into the barn, all smiles and greetings, recovered the ball and charged out again. I packed my bag and trudged off. Mrs McFirkin was across the yard, pegging washing out. Sensing my dejection, perhaps, though she was a kindly soul in any case, she invited me onto the veranda for a cup of tea. Presently, up rushed Percy, eager to show off his latest acquisition, a bowlful of little frogs, and tell me his latest adventure. Came down in the rain, they had. Sucked up by a waterspout, he wouldn't wonder. Caught 'em in his hat. And Rosalind, perched up on her mother's knee with a biscuit, mouthed a single silent comment of her own in my direction.
‘Fibber!’
