|
Miller H Caldwell, click here
to update your web pages on AuthorsDen.
|
|
|
|
Glen grows older
Chapter 2
At Home in a New World.
Miller, Glen and Joan at Fairlie, Ayrshire 1954.
Coming to live in the manse was the beginning of Glen’s new adventures. But Nessie Buchan, the instigator of this canine acquisition, always gave Glen a special welcome when she called to deliver the post. Their bond strengthened each time she called, then one day, Nessie suggested Glen should accompany her on her postal rounds. This arrangement was in no way attributable to the minister and his wife. It was one of those natural inklings of a collie to serve. Marjory did not fear Glen running away but was slightly concerned that Nessie might be taking on an unknown quantity. Nevertheless she agreed the suggestion should be given a trial run.
Glen never strayed from the revolving spokes and sat outside each house to await Nessie deliver her letters. The initial trial was a great success and so Glen began his working life as a postal assistant in Bishopton. Villagers saw him scurrying along the road home from his postal round; his scraggy little string of a tail wagging from side to side. That tail was to grow thicker and stronger, black with a white tail-light at the end, a handsome tail indeed. He was constantly observant and mystified when Marjory lit a fire in the fireplace of a room to see smoke curling its way up the chimney.
‘How clever people are,’ he thought.
Glen became familiar with sparse furniture in the rooms; second hand chairs and tables, a large sideboard in the dining room which had once occupied space in a hotel foyer – but he was never allowed to enter the dining room. He knew the places where the door was shut to him. He could however go freely into the sitting room where the second-hand “What Not” with its tiny shelves holding knick-knacks intrigued him.
Sometimes his actions led him back to times thousands of years ago as he turned round several times before lying down. This was him imitating the primitive behaviour when his ancestors trampled down the long grasses to make their beds. Sometimes he lay fast asleep; his limbs twitching as he dreamed perhaps of some adversary of whom he was afraid. But Glen was no coward and he was gentle by nature.
Like all dogs, Glen had his likes and his dislikes. The latter were few in number but first fear by far was The Order of the Bath. It seemed unnatural to be immersed in warm soapy water and be rubbed all over with some soapy substance which sometimes got to his eyes and stung. It was a great relief when the operation was over and he was rubbed down with his own special coarse towel. That however was often too late, for immediately he was set down on the floor, he shook himself so violently that the sprays of water scattered in all directions. He would pause, asses his degree of dryness then give it one last dervish dance. His mournful eyes said it all. This was a disgusting heathen practice he must endure at least a few times a year.
The result was magnificent of course. A brushed Glen after a bath brought out sheen as he lay contentedly and exhausted on his special black rug. So Glen did not enjoy a bath, yet he loved to plunge into the sea or into a less salty river.
The world was a happy place for him. He relished his food and always licked the dish clean, smacking his lips and nosing the empty dish around the linoleum kitchen floor.
Much remained a mystery to him. At first, the year’s seasons must have mystified him. But rain, sleet, snow or sun he enjoyed being out with the bonus thought to return to the fireside and black hearth in winter or stretch out on the cool kitchen linoleum in summer. Growing up near Greenock, one of the wettest town in the UK, meant he took spring and winter floods in his stride for they gave him an opportunity to swim, his favourite exercise in which his master did not indulge, even on holiday. He found summer’s cloudless skies rather exhausting but of course he could always retreat indoors to the kitchen whose linoleum covering lay over a stone cold concrete base. The kitchen was his base. Brief forays into the hall or the sitting room marked out his territory but frequently the bottom step of the stairs marked the end of the indoors world for him.
The first floating flakes of a snowfall that hung tantalising in the air before they fell and lighted on his nose, touched him with pleasurable excitement. He saw no menace as the fall got steadier and heavier, and as night fell and his master put up the shutters without any apology, Glen dropped off to sleep and dreamt about the soft white carpet he’d be frolicking in when morning came. He lived for each day and it made Jim and Marjory happy to see the expressions of contentment in his beautiful brown eyes.
The only one day in the week he detested was Sunday. There were no letters to deliver with Nessie on that day. Even walks with master and mistress were shorter than on other days. The signal that that day had arrived was the 10am Church bells. It was the call to Sunday school. Glen could hear the chatter of the gathering school children. For him it was to be the day of silence. In the Church hall Jim and Marjory would be talking to the children about something that held no interest for a dog on a manse rug. To make matters worse the bell-rope got pulled again at half past eleven to call the grown-ups to morning service; and this was a much noisier affair for Glen as he could hear the drone of the church organ and the singing of the congregation.
The master and mistress came home for an early lunch but they were gone again for a Bible Class at three in the afternoon. This meant that his first walk would be a short one between lunch and Bible Class and the next one would be after dark. Briefly his owners came back for afternoon tea, but the terrible bell rang again for evening services at six-thirty and when that service ended Glen would not see his master again for he and Marjory went to a meeting called the Youth Fellowship and they never came home again till 10pm. It was a day wasted for a dog. How Glen wished that Sundays were not part of a week.
By Monday morning all was forgiven. Dogs rarely nurse grudges. After all Nessie had five more days of postal deliveries to attend to with Glen. One weekly walk was enjoyed by Glen so much so that he became hot-paw excited as soon as he knew the direction Jim or Marjory would be taking. It was to the monkey-house at Formakin. It was a tree lined walk with much sniffing to attend to but at the venue were the monkeys. It was a rather deceptive description because there were no monkeys, well not real ones. They were stone-made and sat on the roofs of the mansion, without a scent.
On another walk Glen would accompany Jim and Marjory by the back minor Greenock Road to the Viewpoint. They were always keen to take visitors there for the magnificent view over the widening River Clyde to Dumbarton Rock and down river to Gourock and across the Firth to Kirn and Dunoon. A human perspective outshines that of any dog whose four feet on the ground prevent such panoramic views. But Glen did not mind as long as they did not stay too long at one vista. Smells and sniffs were always more interesting. In mid-September when they went brambling on the road to Glenshinnoch farm, Glen would sniff round the hedges whilst his elders took pleasure standing around picking berries, putting the plump ones in their mouths with stained fingers and rolling them around their reddened palates.
‘Freedom to roam is my birthright,’ thought Glen. ‘The manse garden is large enough to run in, to chase a ball the master kicks into the weeds, to play hide-and -seek among the potato shaws, to bury my chewed bones in the lanes after the potatoes have been harvested. The field over the garden wall is fine to romp in among the wheat stooks and the corn stacks at the farm nearby are worth investigating. But such observations was not my purpose in life, I am a working collie,’ declared Glen.
And work there was for him, apart from his postal duties. When his owners went on holiday they decided Glen should have a break too. So a nearby farm agreed to take care of him during their absence.
Nobody intended that he should be given work to perform but the farmer took him to a field where there were cows to be brought in for milking. He gave Glen firm instructions and he quietly brought the animals home, keeping control; with amazing steadiness.
‘A born leader,’ said the farmer, ‘a natural worker if ever there was one, an’ I’m a regular judge of a good collie,’ he told Jim on his return from holiday.
Such praise pleased Glen but left him confused. If he was so diligent, why then was he not allowed to climb the stairs?’
There were two occasions when he conducted himself with deliberate disrespect for the rules of Jim and Marjory’s home.
The first occasion was one when Jim and Marjory had gone visiting friends at the seaside town of Ayr. (Visiting in 1947 meant changing buses as the minister was not to own a car for almost another five years.) They had hoped to return from Ayr in the early evening to take Glen out for a later than usual walk. But they were delayed and had to catch the last bus home that day.
Meanwhile Glen wondered why he had been left alone hour after hour. ‘What a humdrum life’, he thought. He began to censure his master and mistress reproachfully. Then there occurred to him, a beautiful idea. He’s do a naughty thing. He’d climb the stairs to the master’s study.
It had been a windy day and the study door was ajar. He slipped into find a room whose walls were lined with bookcases and filled with volumes. ‘What’s in these books,’ he wondered. ‘Surely they had stories to tell?’
Glen walked around the room straining his neck at the high bookcases. ‘I am just a dog,’ he exclaimed, wringing a paw in exasperation. But there are compensations. I don’t have worries; or a master’s furrowed brow, I don’t have people to visit, go to hospitals reeking of disinfectant, attend dull meetings or write dull sermons. Yet it would be good if I could write a story one day,’ he thought.
It would not be easy. He’d have to sit down quietly and think, think, think. He’d have to have peace and quiet, no disturbances and no interruptions. And it had to be original. Not commonplace; not about hiding bones and going walkies and sniffing delightful smells. Every common or garden dog did these things. It would have to be a brilliant story, a composition about bringing in the cows and driving sheep, helping children and minding babies and doing all the out-of-door things that a collie was meant to do. He hoped when the book was finished, he’d earn a large sum of money and it did not take him very long to decide just what to spend the earned money on. The minister would have his first car. That would mean he’d get round his parish quicker. That meant more time devoted to me and my walks. It would also mean seeing more of the world.
With these mighty thoughts in his mind, he was aware that the window was slightly ajar. A blast of wind had found this crevice in the window frame and had whisked over the minister’s desk whipping some of Sunday’s sermon pages which were now scattered on the floor. Glen poured over the meaningless sheets; then came to the conclusion that they weren’t worth reading. It all seemed such nonsense. But there came to mind in his jumbled thoughts an expression he once heard his master utter, when speaking about a man who hopped around Sunday by Sunday from one church to another; from one denomination to another. Jim had called him a sermon-taster.”
‘Ah’, said Glen to himself, ‘here’s my chance. I can be a sermon taster too.’
He made his way to one of the sheets now on the floor, seized the corner of it, and tore it. He started to chew it. It was not pleasant to the tongue so, sadly he spat it out thinking that sermon tasting was such nonsense.
Jim and Marjory lived in that manse in Renfrewshire for six and a half years. With a paw on his heart Jim recalled that there was only one other occasion Glen chose to be of service upstairs.
It was when Marjory without any word of complaint took to her bed one Monday morning after breakfast. There had been a bit of excitement the previous day. Her parents had come to visit. Her father was making a fuss of her, but her mother was cool, calm and collected. Jim was making a big effort not to appear too excited. Clearly something was afoot. Someone telephoned the district nurse but not the doctor. The family doctor had recently died and no successor had been appointed. Instead a young doctor from Glasgow each day attended to the patients whose names he had on a list. The doctor arrived each day in the village at 9am. Jim had met him on several occasions.
That Monday morning Marjory’s parents arrived early, just after 7 o’clock. That had never happened before. Jim was up and dressed and that was unusual at that time too. Marjory’s father left before 8 o’clock in time to be at his shipping office in Glasgow.
In the large front bedroom were my mistress, her mother and the district nurse who had just arrived. Jim and I were downstairs and listening for something unusual but I wasn’t quite sure what. Then I heard someone come out of the bedroom. It was Marjory’s mother. The nurse had held the bedroom door open for her and like a flash I was upstairs slipping unnoticed through the open door. No-one noticed me as I slipped under the bed and lay there quietly panting and eager to know what was happening.
It was all over before I realised it. There was a new sound coming from in the bed. I crawled out from underneath.
Out popped baby Joan. Up popped Glen on to the bed and licked her face clear of mucus. His final instinctive act was to swallow the nutritious after-birth. And so Joan was brought into this world by a mother and nursing collie. This experience did not make Joan a particular dog lover. She seemed to have my father’s genes and no dog ever entered their marital home in Surbiton.
The nurse tried to shoo Glen away and scold him in the process but Marjory informer her that there wasn’t a bad bone in his canine body.
|
|
|
|
|
enjoyed the read
Ron