Armistice: Loss is the Great Lesson

One hundred years ago today a nameless British soldier was lovingly borne from a muddy battlefield in France to Westminster Abbey where he was buried with great ceremony.  To mark the occasion, poet laureate, Simon Armitage, has written a tribute using the analogy of sleeping rough and finally coming home to lie at rest. 

On the coffin lay a wreath of red roses interwoven with bay leaves; women who lined the streets carried white chrysanthemums hoping that the body might be their husband, their son. Always flowers at a funeral to mask the horror and symbolise the life that will go on, no matter how bloody the battle.  In her poem, Poppies, Mary Oliver, writes that 'loss is the great lesson,' but that it is also an invitation to happiness which can be 'palpable and redemptive'. 

The losses we are facing in this pandemic threaten to rob us of all meaning.  My hope is that I learn whatever lessons are here for me and do not die 'none the wiser and unassuaged'. (from A Bitterness by Mary Oliver)

The Bed by Simon Armitage

Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.
And because you are broken and sleeping rough
in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross

for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;

to hack through the knotted dark of the next world,

yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate

looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds.

That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,

fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.

And because frost plucks at the threads

of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain,

bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed

and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,

for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,

and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:

an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.

The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble

buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket

a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness

files past, through until morning, its head bowed.

Molten bullets embroider incised words.

Among drowsing poets and dozing saints

the tall white candles are vigilant sentries

presenting arms with stiff yellow flames;

so nobody treads on the counterpane,

but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers

will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.

All this for a soul

without name or rank or age or home, because you

are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.

Farewell to Raymond

Easter seems like a long time ago, but I have included a lovely painting by Sebastian in South Africa in this the final chapter of Rattus Runs Amok.  Also featured is our wonderful Easter Bunny aka Uncle Stephen. The original rat came to a soggy end in our garden...I wonder if Raymond will survive? Thanks for reading. 😃

Chapter Ten: Raymond Meets the Easter Bunny
Raymond could not have moved even if he’d wanted to; he was frozen with fear. The buzzard was hanging low in the sky and had spotted him with its beady eyes. Raymond braced himself for the attack and when it came he felt a talon clutching his soft fur and hoisting him into the air. Below them, the field was getting smaller and smaller.

So this is what it feels like to fly, thought Raymond. They were right over the garden now when suddenly the unthinkable happened: the buzzard dropped him and swooped down, picking up a baby rabbit, that had hopped out of the bushes, instead. It was all over in seconds: the rabbit was flying away and he was falling, falling…

He plummeted through a gentle broom bush and did a belly flop on top of something very soft and spongy. It was Orange Cat who was settling down for the night. She was not best pleased.

‘Get off me,’ she mewed. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to have nine lives.’

Raymond lay there breathing in the scent of coconut as delicate yellow petals drifted round him like snowflakes. He crawled back to his nest and licked a puncture wound in his side. As he fell asleep he thought how glad he was to be alive.
In his dream Raymond was being held down by something heavy and a hooked beak was about to dismember him. He struggled awake. It was late morning and Smudge was frolicking around excitedly.

‘I was having a nightmare,’ said Raymond. ‘What did I miss?’
‘I think it’s Easter,’ said Smudge. Something else Raymond did not know about.
‘Himself has just put a sign on the gate and Missus Daisy is out in her boots carrying a basket of eggs.’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said Raymond. They set up a lookout post in a gnarled elder shrub, concealed by luscious black berries.
‘This place smells,’ said Raymond.
‘God’s stinking tree,’ said Smudge and then he puffed out his chest and recited:

Bour tree, bour tree: crooked rung 

Never straight and never strong; 

Ever bush and never tree 

Since our Lord was nailed to thee. 

‘I don’t know what you’re saying,’ said Raymond, confused, ‘but it sounds depressing.’
‘It’s a poem,’ said Smudge, ‘about Easter and the elder. I think the story turns out all right in the end, though.’
‘I don’t understand how you know things,’ said Raymond, ‘and what have eggs got to do with it?’
‘Now that I don’t know,’ said Smudge, ‘but they’re fun to find.’

Missus Daisy was wandering round carefully hiding colourful eggs behind clumps of daffodils, under thick hedges and shoulder high in trees.
‘She makes it too easy,’ said Smudge. ‘Look, she’s putting out little signposts to show the way.’
‘But why is she doing this for us?
‘It’s not for us, silly. It’s for them.’

Two cars were pulling into the driveway spilling small children from doors right and left. At the same time, the visitors tumbled out of the house with shrill shouts of welcome.
‘Oh no, not him,’ said Raymond as he watched Georgie carefully lifting something out of the boot of the car and carrying it into the garage. It was some kind of complicated wooden contraption with a platform, a lever and a pulley.
‘I wonder what he’s up to?’ said Raymond.

The two little girls, Ruthie and Rose, were dressed alike in pink frocks and pretty bonnets. Rose was waving a stick with ribbons attached, twirling round and round. Someone was blowing bubbles and Ruthie was spinning too trying to catch them.

Joy and Bastian were conspiring together in a corner, trying to pull a long worm out of the grass while Nate and Teddy chased a beautiful butterfly.
‘What a cheerful scene!’ said Raymond.

Adults were calling the children indoors for lunch and through an open window Raymond and Smudge could hear the clatter of cutlery, the scraping of chairs and the laughter of family.
‘Now!’ said Smudge, scampering across the grass. Raymond followed him into the dense undergrowth in the far corner. They double checked they could not be seen from the house, then they located the first of the eggs. Smudge unwrapped it with his tiny paws, cracked it against his teeth and handed Raymond a piece of the shell. Raymond sniffed it.

‘Chocolate?’ he said. ‘You didn’t say the eggs were chocolate.’
Raymond loved chocolate but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit guilty about stealing the children’s treats.
‘We won’t eat them all,’ said Smudge, tucking into a second egg and licking his lips.
The partners in crime found and gobbled ten or more eggs and were starting to feel rather sick.
‘I think we’ve had enough,’ said Raymond.

‘Indeed you have,’ sounded a deep voice.
Lolloping across the lawn came the biggest rabbit Raymond had ever seen. It was whiter than white with fluffy pink ears, big teeth and a wide mouth.

 

As usual, Smudge leapt into a tree leaving Raymond to face the music.
Raymond was perched on the lower branches of a magnificent pink magnolia whose velvety flowers were budding into crescents reaching for the sky. He had gorged on milky chocolate and did not really want to run away…again.

He took off round the side of the house with the white rabbit in hot pursuit, literally. He seemed to be struggling to breathe and Raymond could smell the sweat. When he looked back, the rabbit was bent double groaning with the exertion. ‘It’s the Easter Bunny!’ squealed Joy. The children came running out of the house to embrace their furry friend.

Smudge was nowhere to be seen so when Raymond came out of hiding he made his way back to the oil tank alone. All in all it had been a good day: he had escaped death, made a safe landing, learned about Easter, stuffed his stomach with chocolate and outwitted Himself once again.
‘He’s not in great shape,’ said Himself, shaking his head. ‘One beer too many, I fear.’
‘No,’ gasped the white rabbit, ‘there was a…’
‘Never mind,' said Himself, ‘let’s get on with the Easter egg hunt.’

Missus Daisy was distributing little plastic buckets to the girls while the boys ran on ahead, searching for the sign that read START HERE.
He passed by the front of the open garage and something yummy caught his eye. Georgie had placed a square of peanut chocolate on the little platform of his wooden toy. A peace offering?

Maybe I have misjudged him, thought Raymond. He’s a kind boy, after all. I think I have room for just one more nibble before bedtime...                                                                           
THE END

Chapter Nine: Raymond Finds Food

Raymond’s nostrils were filling with water and he felt as if he had no strength left. A torrent was still pouring from the tap and he was getting hotter by the minute. His body was swirling in a little whirlpool, round and round, and all he wanted to do was to give up and sink to the bottom. Suddenly, something hit him on the head. What now? he thought.

He couldn’t see anyone in the room but objects were flying into the bath from above: a metal tank which disappeared below the surface; a yellow rubber duck; a toy soldier and…happy days... a green plastic yacht! Raymond could not believe his luck. He struggled across to the boat. It was also turning in the swell of water and it was difficult to make it stay still. It was this or the end so Raymond summoned his last bit of energy and managed to haul himself in over the side. He fell face down and coughed water from his lungs. He was not safe yet. Things were still raining down on him and he could now see a little child’s hand chucking toys for all he was worth.

The boat smacked against the side of the tub just below the taps. Raymond spied a hanging chain. He quickly reached out and grabbed it. He was not sure if it would take his weight but he had to try. With a struggle he pulled himself out of the boat and clambered up the few inches to the rim of the bath. On the other side all he could see was a gorgeous mop of blonde curls.

‘Teddy! Teddy! What on earth are you doing in there?’ shouted Missus Daisy.

There was no time to lose. Raymond leapt onto the ledge, knocked over a plant and escaped out of the open window under cover of steam as shouty people entered the room:

‘They’ve filled the tub!’
‘What a waste of water!’
‘Well, let’s just bath them now.’

Outside, Raymond shook his fur like a dog and droplets spun everywhere. Keeping to the flowerbeds, he made his way back to his den. He was never, ever going back inside that house again!

------------------------------------------------------- 

After his ordeal, Raymond slept for most of the day, snuggled up in Missus Daisy’s bloomers. It was hunger that drove him back over to the seeds at the foot of the bird table. Late afternoon was a good time to eat because the birds were settling for the night and there was a whole day of pickings to be had.

‘Aren’t you tired of seeds?’ asked Smudge.  He was sitting in the tree crunching a hazel nut.
‘I had some cheese earlier, but I didn’t care for it,’ said Raymond.
‘I know where we can get something more substantial,’ said Smudge.

Himself had left a gap at the bottom of the garage door again and the pals squashed themselves under.

‘I don’t see it,’ said Raymond looking round.
‘See what?’ said Smudge.
‘The bicycle built for two.’
‘It’s just a song,’ sneered Smudge.

Raymond was annoyed that Smudge was such a know-it-all. He felt stupid sometimes, but the squirrel was his best friend, his only friend, because Orange Cat who was watching them through the window didn’t count.

‘Look here,’ said Smudge. Against the stepladder leaned a large lumpy bag.
‘What’s in it?’ asked Raymond.
‘Potatoes,’ answered Smudge. ‘The farmer brought them yesterday. Fresh as anything.’

Raymond sniffed the bag. It was made from thick layered paper. This was going to be easy.

‘We’re a team, you and me,’ said Smudge, as Raymond began to nibble a small hole, which became a medium-size hole and then a huge hole in the bottom of the bag. A single potato, round and hard, dropped out onto the cement floor. Smudge picked it up and headed to the door.

‘You chomp; I’ll carry,’ he said.

They worked quickly and before long they had built a small pile of stolen spuds beside the oil tank. 

‘That’ll last us all summer,’ said Smudge. 

Raymond did not like to admit to his friend that he did not know what a potato was, much less how it tasted. He licked soil from the surface of one and spat it out. 

‘No,’ said Smudge, ‘you have to bite into it. We’ll eat one for supper later.’ 

But just at that moment Missus Daisy was also thinking about supper for her visitors.

‘We’ve got some lovely Comber earlies,’ she announced, trundling out to the garage. You could hear the screech for miles.

‘My potatoes! Look at what that filthy rat's gone and done!’

Himself was at her side in seconds, two tan skinned boys in tow.

‘Right lads,’ he said reaching for the gardening implements, ‘we’ll flush the rascal out.’

The boys were excited.

‘They talk funny; are they foreign?’ whispered Raymond, watching them beating the life out of the budding camellias with a trowel and a gardening fork.

‘Australian, probably,’ said Smudge. ‘Now that’s an accent!’

Himself was armed with a long handled hoe. He was advancing with it thrust out in front of him like a spear and he was getting much too close for comfort.  Smudge had long since taken to the trees. So much for friendship, thought Raymond. The whole stealing potatoes thing was his idea in the first place!

‘It’s like a hunt,’ said the younger boy.

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you elephants and lions like you’re used to,’ Himself said, ‘but this fellow is just as dangerous.’

Raymond beamed with pride. Dangerous, was he? He’d show them dangerous! The older boy must have had a sixth sense because he was creeping through the bushes towards Raymond’s nest. Instead of making his escape into the shuck, Raymond lurked among last year’s fallen leaves and waited for the boy to reach out his trowel and poke the cardboard box.

‘I’ve found something,’ shouted Bastian, ‘and here’s some potatoes.’

With that, Raymond sprang forward and sank his sharp teeth into the back of the child’s hand. Now it was the boy’s turn to wail.

‘He bit me! Something bit me!’

Raymond scurried off into the field while a mummy’s voice reassured her sobbing son and Missus Daisy ran for the antiseptic lotion.

‘Ha!’ chuckled Raymond. ‘Round two to me.’

He gave a leap of delight and was instantly sorry. Riding the thermals above him was a big brown bird, its talons spread like knives and it was looking straight at him…

Chapter Eight: Raymond has a Bath

When Himself appeared outside the greenhouse, his face was red and swollen with rage. Smudge and Raymond only had a few precious seconds to decide how they were going to avoid being torn limb from limb by the salivating dog.

‘We have the advantage,’ said Raymond.
‘How?’ said Smudge.
‘There are two of us and only one of him.’
‘But he’s much bigger,’ whimpered Smudge.
‘Brains are better than brawn,’ said Raymond.

As the door slid open, Himself released the dog who hurtled into the greenhouse, like a bullet from a gun. Smudge was crouched at the far end of the small space, trying to be invisible. Raymond had climbed up onto a low shelf crammed with plastic pots containing tiny green shoots.

‘Dodge!’ he yelled, when the dog’s jaws were inches from Smudge’s face.

This was a new word to Raymond and Smudge. They had heard it when the children were playing games at the party. The daddy threw a ball and shouted, ‘Dodge!’ and they had to jump out of the way.

‘Dodge!’ he screamed again, and Smudge threw himself sideways, coming within a whisker of getting mauled. The dog was running too fast to stop and he slammed into the glass wall with a loud crunch. That bought the pals some time. Smudge sprang for the door where Himself was waiting with a heavy spade. The squirrel hurled his body against the man’s chest, knocking him to the ground as Raymond scurried out under his legs. It was all over so quickly and the dog simply lay down licking his bruised snout. The friends did not wait to see what Himself intended to do with the spade. Smudge scampered high into a tree and Raymond ran straight towards the house.

Raymond knew that the dog would soon recover and sniff him out so he clambered up onto a sill and slipped in through an open window. It was quiet inside. Raymond’s heart was pounding as he crept across a bedroom carpet and out through another door.

As he slid along a slippery floor he got a shock. Coming towards him down the hallway was another rat! The rat had clearly spotted him and was watching him intently. Raymond stopped in his tracks; the other rat stopped too. Raymond tilted his head to one side; the other rat did the same.
He’s copying me, thought Raymond. Who does this guy think he is?
He was not pleased. This was his patch.
The rats slowly crawled towards each other, neither one averting his gaze.
If he doesn’t back off, I’ll have to fight him, thought Raymond, but I’m exhausted.
Still they kept coming, closer and closer, until their twitching noses were almost touching. It was a stand-off. Raymond’s whiskers felt the air in front of him. They touched something cold: cold and hard, like glass.

Suddenly a door banged somewhere behind him and Raymond dashed into the nearest room. When he looked back out along the hall, the other rat had mysteriously disappeared.  Raymond’s problems were not over yet. Against the wall on the far side of the room stood several creatures he could not name: one was grey with a very long, snake-like nose; another was spotted yellow with an equally long neck and in a tree were three cheeky looking brown animals with long dangly arms.

A tree? thought Raymond. Indoors? He took a closer look and laughed. The creatures were not moving; they were not real. The room was filled with toys, cushions and little coloured pieces of hard plastic. It hurt Raymond’s feet to walk on them. So he looked for somewhere to hide and rest. Inside a little red tent he found exactly what he needed: a pile of soft toys. He chose a brown teddy bear with a furry tummy and curled up for a snooze.

It was early morning when he woke.  Someone was shouting: ‘Teddy! Teddy!’
They must know I’m in here on the teddy bear, thought Raymond, filled with fear. They’re coming to get me!
He could hear loud voices in the hallway. Raymond crept to the doorway and saw someone plonking down a big heavy suitcase. House guests, home for the holidays. Missus Daisy was crying and hugging and dabbing her eyes with a hanky.

‘Come and see the play room,’ she said, leading two small blonde boys by the hand.

Raymond did not wait around to meet the visitors. He made a dash for yet another room. How many rooms were there? He was walking on cool tiles. Raymond explored a wet space. A big lump of cheese was sitting on a dish in the corner. If there was anything Raymond loved to eat, it was cheese. He didn’t recognise the brand. It was paler than cheddar with a red label: Imperial Leather.

‘Posh!’ said Raymond, taking a huge bite. He swallowed it without chewing. It left a funny taste on his tongue so he slurped water from a shallow puddle and was surprised when a big bubble burst out of his mouth, floated up into the air and popped.  Cool! he thought.

Raymond clambered up the side of a wicker basket filled with dirty clothes and hopped onto a smooth glossy surface. ‘I wonder what this is for?’ he said, looking down into a large tub.
The door behind him opened and, caught off guard, Raymond felt himself slip sliding down a slope. It felt like fun, except for one thing: he was deep inside a huge cavern and he could not possibly climb out. The white walls rose on all sides like a glacier.

‘Bastian, please go and use the bathroom,’ called a mummy’s voice, ‘and don’t forget to wash your hands!’

A boy with hazel eyes peered over the edge of the bath. He saw Raymond but did not utter a single sound. Raymond waited. The boy reached down, pushed a small metal plug into a hole and turned on a silver tap. A huge jet of hot water spurted out and before he knew it, Raymond was wading up to his knees. This isn’t funny, he thought. He hoped the boy would rescue him but instead he turned on his heels and left the room.  The water was getting deeper and deeper and Raymond started to struggle.

‘Help, somebody!’ he squeaked. ‘Please!’ His little feet were paddling frantically and his mouth was full of suds.

He hated getting his fur wet, but that was not the worst thing.

'Help!' he spluttered. ‘I can’t swim…’

Raymond Again

Chapter Seven: Raymond has a Rest

The world was upside down. It looked very different to Raymond and it seemed to be swinging from side to side. The boy was carrying him towards his own lair between a cypress tree and the beech hedge which bordered the road. Someone was waiting for them there: a younger boy.

‘Look what I’ve got, Nate,’ said Georgie.
He dangled Raymond in front of his brother’s face.
‘Oooh!’ said Nate, reaching out to touch Raymond.
‘No,’ said Georgie, snatching him away, ‘he’s mine.’
‘Are we going to kill him?’
‘No, I’m going to keep him.’

With that, Georgie plunged Raymond deep into his camouflage trouser pocket and zipped him in.
It was dark in there. The zip had strong metal teeth so Raymond focused on the pocket’s satin lining. He began to nibble.  Outside, he could hear parents calling for their children. It was time to go home.
‘Let’s get you strapped in,’ said a daddy voice. Doors banged with a loud clunk and Raymond realised they were getting into a car. He nibbled faster. In the kerfuffle he managed to make a small hole and drop down the leg of Georgie’s trousers. Of course, the boy felt him wriggling and he started to yell.
‘My rat, my rat!’
‘Stop that noise and DO NOT get out of your car seat,’ commanded the daddy, starting the engine.

Raymond had managed to squeeze between the seats and was now in the boot of the car surrounded by wellington boots, heavy outdoor clothing and a child’s bicycle.
The car was reversing slowly down the driveway. Raymond looked out of the window, feeling desolate because he was leaving his home, possibly for good. Smudge was watching from the tree and he gave a little wave. A tear trickled down Raymond’s nose.

Suddenly, someone was screaming, ‘Wait!’
Granny Daisy emerged from the house with an armful of tiny paper packets.
‘Party bags!’ said, Joy, excitedly. ‘Granny forgot the party bags.’
Missus Daisy yanked open the boot, set down the bags and slammed it shut, but not before Raymond had seized his opportunity, launching himself out of the car and dashing into the laurel shrub panting and sweating.
He could hear Georgie wailing all the way up the road. 

Raymond wondered about the goodies in those bags, but he and Smudge feasted on sandwich crumbs, sticky bits of icing and discarded sausage rolls long after it got dark. 

‘People who live in glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones,’ said Smudge wisely.
The next day, he and Raymond were hiding in a magnolia tree watching Himself inside a glass cage.
It was chilly out and they were looking for somewhere warm to have their afternoon nap. Orange Cat was splayed at her master’s feet, fast asleep as usual.
‘Who’s throwing stones?’ asked Raymond.
‘No one,’ said Smudge. ‘It’s just a saying.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘How should I know?’ answered Smudge
They gazed into the greenhouse.
‘It looks so cosy in there and we need to get inside,’ said Smudge.
Raymond looked at Orange Cat.
‘We’ll have to get her out first,’ he said.
The cat was a lazy lump who wasn’t going anywhere.
‘If we can lure Himself out, then she might follow,’ said Smudge.
They tried everything: rustling the tree, pushing over the garden bench and even trying to imitate the purring of a cat.
Himself kept busy with little plants in pots and Orange Cat did not bat an eyelid.

‘You’ve given me an idea,’ said Raymond. He scurried back down into the garden and round the corner to where the edge of the lawn met the house.
‘Look!’ he said.
Smudge was baffled.
‘Stones,’ said Raymond.
There was a narrow bed of small pebbles running the length of the wall. Raymond began to lift them up one by one and gave them to Smudge who gathered as many as he could against his chest.
‘Now what?’ said Smudge.
‘Now we do battle,’ said Raymond.
The pair crept along the low wall towards the summer house. They had to make several runs before they had carried enough stones onto the roof. From there, they had a good view of the greenhouse.
‘Oh, I see now,’ said Smudge.
‘We’ll be like gunners arming the canons,’ said Raymond. ‘I’ll pass the stones to you and you can fire them, I mean throw them.’
‘Ok,’ said Smudge, warming to the task.
The first stone simply tinkled on the glass and the second missed completely.
‘Throw harder,’ said Raymond.
Smudge drew back his arm and launched a sharp stone with all of his might. He overbalanced in the process, lost his footing on the felt roof and tumbled towards the flowerbed. Just as he hit the ground, he heard a loud shattering sound. He joined Raymond behind the summer house, their nosey noses jutting out.

Himself was shouting and leaping about to avoid the broken glass which had smashed at his feet. Orange Cat was covered in little splinters and was trying to lick her fur. She mewed in pain as she ambled away to get help. Himself carefully lifted the bigger pieces of glass and then humphed off towards the house. He returned with a broom and a dustpan and soon the floor of the glasshouse was swept. Smudge and Raymond waited patiently until the coast was clear before slipping in through a little gap near the door and settling down for a well-earned rest in the humid heat.

When he woke, Raymond sensed immediately that something was wrong. There was no sign of Himself or Orange Cat, but he could hear a snarling sound nearby. Just outside the door of the greenhouse was a gigantic black dog. Raymond woke Smudge and they sat quite still watching the beast who was watching them. Raymond was relieved to see that the dog was tied to a tree, but he was straining at the leash, slabber dripping from his cruel mouth.

Smudge looked for an escape route and was horrified to see that, while they were sleeping, someone had covered the broken pane with thick black plastic. Raymond edged towards the hole where they had come in, but it too was blocked by a wedge of wood.
They could hear Himself stomping angrily up the path.
Oh no! thought Raymond. We’re trapped…

Raymond Returns

Hi all, As lockdown eases, I thought I would post the rest of the Raymond Rattus Runs Amok chapters this week. Enjoy!

Chapter Six: Raymond Gets to Fly

When Raymond woke the following day, the sun was shining like an orange ball in the sky.
‘A good day for it,’ said Smudge, lurking nearby.
‘For what?’ Raymond yawned.
‘The party. Do try to keep up.’
‘I’m not exactly sure what a party is,’ said Raymond, excited.
‘Put it like this,’ said Smudge, ‘when it’s finished, we will dine like kings.’
There was a lot of activity in the garden. Himself and Missus Daisy were rushing around setting out tables and chairs and there was a delicious baking smell coming from the kitchen. Smudge and Raymond stayed out of the way until the guests started to arrive with banging doors and the squeals of little people.

‘It’s someone’s birthday,’ said Smudge. ‘Probably one of the grandchildren.’
He could read the banner pinned to the front door which read HAPPY BIRTHDAY in large letters. Raymond was not sure he liked children. They were very noisy and ran here and there so quickly, in and out of the bushes, so that it was not easy to know where to hide. Loud music was blaring from a portable machine and there was laughter and the clinking of glasses. Raymond decided to scramble up the climbing frame in the garden to get a better view of the goings on. He scurried up the back and along the plank from which was suspended a swinging seat. He made it across to a little hut and peered through the bars at the gathering below. Little girls in party frocks and boys looking uncomfortable in new shirts and trousers were scattered on the grass. The adults were mostly standing chatting and trays of goodies were floating through the crowd.

Suddenly there was a puff of exasperation and a shuffling of shoes. Someone was coming up the little wooden ladder. Raymond crouched in the corner as a tousled head appeared at eye level. The boy saw Raymond immediately but did not scream or even speak. He just stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He wore a birthday boy badge and he was looking at Raymond as if he was a birthday present. The boy was on his tummy now; they were lying nose to nose. Raymond sized up the boy, wondering whether he was friend or foe.

A high-pitched voice in the garden shouted: ‘Georgie! Georgie! Where are you?’
He and the child were invisible to the people below. Anything could happen in this enclosed space. Raymond decided not to wait around to find out what the boy intended to do with him. Just as Georgie reached out with a sticky fist, Raymond leapt onto a red ridge just above him but the surface was slippery and he could not get a grip with his claws. In full view of the parents and grandparents, Raymond slithered his way down a slide, gathering speed as he went, and shot across the grass, tumbling head over heels into a prickly rose bush.

‘Ouch!’ cried Raymond, trying to pull away from a huge thorn which had snagged his fur.
No one was listening to him, however, because just at that exact moment, Granny Daisy had emerged from the house carrying a platter on which perched a cake in the shape of a space rocket. It was probably top-heavy to begin with, but when Missus Daisy spied Raymond she let out a piercing shriek, threw her arms up in the air and the cake did a slow dive towards the ground. A gentleman managed to catch the spaceship’s nose but the rest plummeted to earth like…well, like a rocket falling from the sky. One of the ladies jumped onto a chair with her flowery dress gathered up round her knees.

In the commotion that followed, Raymond managed to sneak away, bruised but not broken.
He made it back to his den from where he could hear singing:

Happy Birthday, dear Georgie. 

Happy Birthday to you. 

Raymond thought he was the only one who heard Granny Daisy sobbing in the shed close by. He did feel a bit sad for her. It was a lovely cake.

There were races and games to follow, but Raymond thought it all looked very silly, so he lay low.
The children had all gone round to the front of the house where they had disappeared inside a massive inflatable dome that had mysteriously popped up on the lawn. It was bright blue and yellow with fat steps leading up to its entrance which gaped like the mouth of a whale. Raymond sneaked round the outside, taking care not to be seen. Granny Daisy seemed to have recovered from her shock and disappointment and was slouched in a chair, knocking back red liquid in a round glass.
‘I want to see what’s in there,’ said Raymond.
‘No good will come of it,’ warned Smudge. ‘You’re on your own.’

The inflatable was secured to the grass by a series of ropes. Raymond was able to scale one of these and drop onto the shiny surface where the children were playing. He backed into a corner and watched them. Two girls dressed in identical frocks were clearly called Ruthie and Rose. Their excited mother stood outside telling them to jump.
Jump? thought Raymond. The girls were joined by another girl. This one was older. She was wearing red leggings and a green T-shirt with a huge hawk on it. Raymond shivered and resolved to stay away from her.
Without warning, the older girl started to jump up and down on the slippery surface.
‘Well done, Joy dear,’ called another mummy.

Ruthie and Rose joined in and before Raymond knew it the air was filled with bouncing bodies. His underbelly was pushing up into his spine and he could feel himself rising up from the floor. He wanted to get out but he could do absolutely nothing to stop the upward movement of his body. He was bouncing like a kangaroo.

It was not an entirely unpleasant experience. Raymond felt as if he was flying! He was weightless as he spun into the air but when he landed again he could not keep his balance. Nor could he keep watch. Once he managed to get the right way up, he realised to his horror that Georgie had climbed into the big mouth and was now jumping with his sister and cousins. When he saw Raymond, the look on the boy’s face was delighted glee. As Raymond soared up high, Georgie reached out and grabbed him by the tail.

‘Gotcha!’ he said.

VE Day 75

On this special day, I am remembering my father, Robert Moore Chestnutt, who flew with the R.A.F. in the second world war. In 1944 he bailed out of a burning plane – thankfully not over enemy territory. In recognition of his bravery, he was given a tiny gold caterpillar with a ruby red eye. It is no longer than a fingernail and is now among my most precious possessions. I am wearing it today to say thank you to those who fought and lived, as well as those who fought and died.

The Irvin Air Chute Co. started the Caterpillar Club in 1922 and the practice of awarding the tiny gold Caterpillar Pin to anyone who saved his life by parachuting from a disabled or flaming aircraft. Each recipient of the Caterpillar Pin was living testimony to the life-saving ability of the Irvin Type Air Chute. The Caterpillar is symbolic of the silk worm, which lets itself descend gently to earth from heights by spinning a silky thread to hang from. Parachutes in the early days were made from pure silk.

In 1919 Leslie Irvin, a 24-year-old stunt man from California, demonstrated the first "free drop" parachute. He had made the chute himself on a borrowed sewing machine. Flying safety experts were so impressed that the American Air Force and British R.A.F. promptly adopted the parachute as standard equipment.

During the height of World War II, production of parachutes at the Irvin Air Chute Co. factory in Letchworth, England reached a peak of nearly 1,500 parachutes per week. By late 1945 there were 34,000 members of the Caterpillar Club. It is estimated that at least 100,000 people’s lives have been saved by Irvin parachutes.

A few years before his death my father wrote down all of his war memories in One Man’s War. He was a wireless operator flying in Lancaster bombers and his account includes details of no fewer than thirty-two bombing missions over enemy territory.

Stuttgart, Kiel, Paullae, Stetten, Russelheim, Frankfurt, Leeuwarden, Essen…he records a long list of European towns where he and his crew dropped bombs. Although their targets were mainly in industrial heartlands, however I think of it I cannot escape the fact that my father was responsible for the deaths of many people. War is a nasty business.

Sitting on the edge of that hole he promised an invisible God that if he got out alive he would become a believer and serve him for the rest of his life. He survived and became a preacher and a fisher of men. We didn’t have a TV for most of my growing up and when we finally did get one we were definitely not allowed to watch the silver screen on the Sabbath. Yet I can recall coming home late one Sunday evening when I was in my teens to discover my father glued to the box. He was watching the film The Dambusters and reliving his days of terror seated high in the Astra Dome with 100 Squadron.

What strikes me now is that my father was only 18 when he joined up. He spent the next four years flying both during the war and afterwards in India, Burma and Ceylon (Sri Lanka) with Transport Command. Most wars are fought by teenagers – they give their best years when others are going to university or starting careers. When he was demobbed he left with his civvies, a meagre gratuity and memories of comrades lost.

Dad - you died too young aged 60, but you are still my hero. In the words of poet, Wendell Berry, I am 'the inheritor of what I mourned.' As my dad, you shaped so much of who I am and you are still here in every moment when I struggle to overcome and to grow into who I am meant to be. I wish I had half of your courage and determination, but you are always before me as an example of what it means to fight the good fight and finish well. Thank you. 

A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
(From An Irish Airman Foresees his Death) W. B. Yeats

Where She Was From

My daughter, Bethany, set a challenge on her Instagram to write a poem about where and what we're from. On what would have been my mother's 94th birthday, I decided to pen one for her in loving memory.  

Constance Mary Helen 1926-2010

She was from carthorse and cauliflower
And taking baggin to the men
From lay preaching
And pulpit teaching
From polishing again and again

She was from learning not to ask for salt
In college days on the Mound
From book reading
And Africa needing
From Wesleyan hymn singing sound

She was from meetings and mission hall
And wishing she’d given Him more
From five day clubs
And vapour rub
From coughing until she was sore

She was from needle work and knitting
And serving with all of her love
From make do and mend
And hallelujah to the end
From kneeling before God above

She was from teaching to speak and to sing
And visiting the shut-ins and infirm
From compassionate care
And selling Tupperware
From piano and the Robin’s Return

She was from watercolour and delicate art
From kindness and earnest endeavour
From cake baking
And dress making
Leaving a fragrance lasting forever

Raymond in the Dark

Hi all,
Half way there. The creature in today's story really does exist in the part of the roof space we call Narnia. Let me know if you want me to continue with the final chapters. Love Granny Ruth

Chapter Five: An Encounter in the Dark
Raymond clambered out of the box of sticks and lay on the cold garage floor. He had never felt so sick in all of his short life.  He gazed up at the little blue sweets arranged carefully on the window sill. Who keeps sweets in the garage? he wondered. And then it hit him. Poison! Someone was trying to kill him, probably Himself.

The desire for revenge - to pay someone back when they hurt you - is very strong.  Raymond gathered all his remaining energy and shimmied up the waxy side of a tall, green Wellington boot.  He managed to reach the top and wriggle the upper half of his body over the edge. Clinging on with his tiny claws he began to retch.  He coughed and vomited the entire contents of his stomach into the boot before sliding back down, exhausted. That’ll teach him, he thought.

He now had a raging thirst, so he decided to get back outside where the heavy rain had left sweet deep puddles. After a long drink, Raymond lay in his cardboard box for the rest of the morning.
The rain had washed the day clean and spring was bursting out in yellow everywhere.  Smudge offered words of wisdom: you can eat the broom, but don’t touch the forsythia or the dandelions.  'After the morning I’ve had, I’m not touching anything,' said Raymond.

Later he dandered round to the front of the house where there was a flowerbed with lush foliage.  On his tour of the property he had spied broken pieces of roof tiles lying in the valley between the house and the return.  He reckoned if he could just get up there he might be able to find a way inside.  Himself and Missus Daisy were in the back garden so the coast was clear.

Raymond found a strong shrub with toothed leaves which was well established and securely attached to the wall.  It took his weight without shifting as he began to clamber up its spiny stem. It was easier than he’d thought and very soon he emerged into the light and dropped into the gutter. It was soggy in there but he quickly stepped onto the roof tiles and scurried up the valley. As expected the cement was dislodged and some of the edge tiles were broken. There was a hole. He squeezed under the roofing felt and he was in!

But where was he? He walked along a beam and peered down into the room below. It was a windowless space, gloomy and dark. There was no furniture, only boxes and boxes. As his eyes adjusted to the half-light he could see a wooden rocking horse abandoned in the corner.  Nothing to see here, he thought. Or to eat.

He sniffed around the floor when all of a sudden he had a creepy feeling, like he was being watched. He glanced at the horse, but he was staring into the distance. Was there someone else in here?  The ceiling of the room slanted down on two sides and in the far corner was a pitch-black space. Raymond crept closer until he could just make out a shape, a sinister shape with a ghostly white face. He jumped back in fear. He knew that shape. It was a shape like that that had made off with his father one day, picking him up in the field and carrying him high into the sky. Raymond and his brothers never saw him again.
The shape did not move. It sat totally still with round eyes staring ahead. It was a barn owl – the kind that sits on fences lying in wait for unsuspecting rodents like him.  Its plumage was buff-coloured speckled with tiny dots and its claws were gripping a piece of wood.

Raymond was not a stupid rat. He knew that it was strange for an owl to be lurking indoors. Who on earth does he think he’s going to catch in here? he wondered.
The owl did not seem to have noticed him. Perhaps he’s ill, thought Raymond.  He grew braver by the minute and pressing his body close to the floor he inched forward to get a better look. The owl was worse than ill: some of his feathers had been torn loose and one of its wings was obviously broken.  He was in a bad way and Raymond felt sorry for him.
‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.
Silence.
‘How on earth did you get in here?’
Silence again.
‘Be like that, then,’ said Raymond. ‘See if I care!’
The owl stayed absolutely still and Raymond started to feel like a predator. He ran at the owl and knocked him over. Now who was the bully?  He could not believe that he had attacked a bird of prey and got the better of him.

The owl offered no resistance but still Raymond felt powerful. He bit into the owl’s side expecting to find juicy intestines. Instead he spluttered and spat. His mouth was filled with feathers and musty grains. What?
Raymond was greedy so he ate a few mouthfuls until he felt completely stuffed.
Stuffed! Of course. That was it. The truth dawned slowly. The owl was stuffed!
Raymond glanced round to see if the horse was watching. Still wooden. He was embarrassed. Did he really think an owl would let him get close enough to make mincemeat of him?
It was time to leave. Raymond took one last look at the poor owl and leapt up towards the roof.  Feeling very foolish, he descended the pyracantha bush and slunk home.

‘Having fun, are we?’ smirked Smudge, the squirrel, when he appeared on a nearby branch.
Raymond ignored him. Smudge could be really annoying. He did, however, know things.  From his vantage point high in the tree he could see everything that was going on.  He had been watching Himself and Missus Daisy draping colourful bunting on the big wooden structure in the back garden.
‘I think there’s going to be a party,’ he said smugly.
‘Are we invited?’ said Raymond.
‘Of course not,’ said Smudge, ‘but that won’t stop the likes of us…’

Partners in Crime

Enjoy Finlay George's drawing of Raymond in this chapter. Other illustrations by Maria. GR

Chapter Four: Raymond Makes a Steal

Raymond braced himself for the powerful jet of water which must surely come. Nothing! The man in

 the cap did not even notice him. He stomped around the tank and then removed a black cap and inserted the nozzle.  There was a droning sound as the tank filled and then it was all over and the lorry was gone. On the ground were a few drops of black sticky oil and size eleven boot prints.
Raymond surveyed the scene. All that was left of his den were some squished leaves and a broken nutshell which he had been using for a pillow.
Dear oh dear, he thought.
‘Dear oh dear,’ echoed a voice above him.
Smudge the squirrel was watching from a nearby branch. 
‘I feel right sorry for you,’ he said, looking down his nose.
Raymond noticed that Smudge had a funny accent as well as attitude. 
‘It’s as if you don’t really belong here,’ he went on. ‘My ancestors have been here since 1873, wreaking havoc in orchards and market gardens; destroying bulbs; damaging roofs and electricity cables. We have really carved out a place for ourselves.’
‘Where did you come from?’ asked Raymond.
‘North America,’ drawled Smudge.
‘That explains the accent,’ said Raymond.
‘I don’t have an accent,’ said Smudge, indignant. ‘It’s you Irish who have the accent!’
‘Northern Irish,’ corrected Raymond.
Suddenly Smudge jumped up onto one of the bins which sat along the garage wall. He managed to open the lid of the blue bin and pulled out a box which he plonked down beside Raymond.  It was long and narrow with a picture of a lady’s summer sandal on the side.
‘Will this do?’ asked the squirrel.
‘For what?’
‘Your new home, dumb-ass.’
‘Language, please!’ said Raymond sniffing the box.
‘We’ll have to furnish it,’ he said.
‘Less of the “we,”’ said Smudge, but as Raymond headed off across the lawn, the squirrel was not far behind.
In the centre of the garden stood a large wooden structure with a sturdy platform. Raymond had absolutely no idea what it was for, but underneath it was a square pit of dry sand. Well, dryish. It was compacted but with a bit of digging it would make a perfect lining for the box. How to get it over to the oil tank, though? That was the problem.
Sticking out of the sand were several abandoned vehicles: children’s toys bleached by the sun and winter days’ neglect.  Smudge was pulling at a lorry – a dump truck.
‘Perfect!’ they said in unison.
What a comical sight! Smudge did all of the digging and heavy lifting. He also pushed the truck across the resistant grass. Raymond, however, was director of operations; he sat at the tiny steering wheel shouting instructions. It was a mammoth effort, but they got there.
‘No thanks to you,’ said Raymond to Orange Cat who was watching them with her eyes almost shut as she draped herself along a low hanging branch.

‘There now,’ said Raymond pleased with his efforts. The box was lined with fresh sand and good to go – except for one thing. I need a bit of home comfort, he thought, maybe a blanket. He looked round for inspiration.
Above the lawn the washing was snapping and waving. At one end of the fashion parade was a foundation garment belonging to Missus Daisy.  A pair of white bloomers trimmed with pink lace flapped in the breeze for all the world to see. Size large.

Has she no shame?’ muttered Smudge.
‘I have an idea,’ said Raymond.
The friends stood looking up at the forked pole which vaulted the washing line high into the air. 
‘I’m not going up there,’ said Smudge.
‘Me neither,’ said Raymond.
Raymond had not got as far as praying and yet his prayers were suddenly answered when a sudden downpour sent Missus Daisy running from the back door, bareheaded and in her carpet slippers. She pulled the pole down, grabbed at her washing, snapping coloured pegs all over the place, and dumped her damp smalls into the wicker basket.  She did not notice Raymond and Smudge crouching under the crimson azalea. Orange Cat had dawdled off in search of cover.
A distraction was needed and Raymond was happy to oblige. He didn’t even have to do anything; he simply sauntered along the low patio wall, making sure he was seen.
Getting wet was worth it. As hoped, Missus Daisy screamed, dropped the basket (running, no doubt, to fetch Himself, or the rolling pin) while Smudge casually swiped her knickers. The pals retreated quickly, draped the stolen underwear on the oil tank to dry and high fived each other. Job done!
The rain persisted all afternoon and Smudge crept high into the tree for shelter. Raymond was on his own and struggling to keep dry. Time to investigate the garage.
The garage door was a heavy brute on a roller which always closed with a loud clang.  Himself had been out washing the car when the rain came. 
‘No need to rinse,’ he chuckled as he carried the bucket and sponge indoors.
He was in a hurry because the rain slid too easily off his bald head and dribbled into his eyes, so he did not pull the door down quite far enough. There was about an inch of a gap at the bottom which was more than enough space for an inquisitive rat with a flexible skeleton.  Raymond tested it out with his whiskers and squeezed underneath, flat like a lollipop, before you could say wet Wednesday.
There was a large window in the garage, but it was still quite dark and gloomy inside. Untidy too. There were tools arranged on the walls but tins of paint and bags of turf were scattered on the rough cement floor.  The lawn mower was sleeping in the corner so without disturbing it, Raymond climbed its handle to reach the windowsill.  Something brightly coloured had caught his attention: a small jar lid had been placed on the ledge and it was filled with little blue sweets.
‘For me?’ he said. ‘Did they know I was coming?’
Raymond sniffed the sweets warily. It had been a while since breakfast so he thought he would allow himself a tiny treat.  If I want to get back in here, he thought, I need to watch my figure.  He snaffled one of the sweets and then dropped down to search for somewhere dry to have a nap. At the back of the garage was a wooden box containing chopped sticks. This will do, he thought, with a sleepy yawn.
A short time later he woke. His tummy ached and he needed a drink. He felt so poorly.
‘I’m too young to die,’ he whimpered.

The Girls and Orange Cat

Hi all,

Today's chapter is a tribute to my friend Elaine's real life Orange Cat. Enjoy the photograph taken by my son, Joshua, in his beautiful garden and the drawings by the lovely Maria. More in a few days. Granny Ruth x

Chapter Three:  Raymond Meets the Girls

Squeezed flat in a narrow space underneath a large oil tank, Raymond tried not to breathe. Whatever it was lurking in the undergrowth, it surely could not reach him here. Oh to be able to fly! Or climb trees.
Light played with shadowy shapes as the creature slunk towards him. A tiger in the rain forest could not instil a greater sense of terror.  Was this the end? His mother had warned him about cats’ eyes: 
Stay off the road, Raymond, or you’ll be squashed like cats’ eyes. This was something different.
When he presented himself, however, Orange Cat was less feline foe and more fat friend rubbing his furry bottom along the side of the tank. He sneezed twice, wiping a paw across his snotty nose. He’s got a cold, oh happy days! thought Raymond. He can neither smell nor see me and anyway he’s too out of shape to give chase. All the same, he stayed where he was until the cat lost interest and wandered off. Raymond fell asleep, snuggled in his own smallest of spaces, hedged in by bits of crispy leaves and garden debris.
He woke hours later to a terrible cacophony of sound. Above and around him was trilling, piping and singing. The indigo sky was melting into pink and blue pastels as the sun pushed its way above the horizon. Raymond felt like he’d been through a mangle as he stretched out his flattened muscles and shook his fur free of fungus. What was that noise?
Keeping to the edge of the flower bed, Raymond crawled stealthily towards the dawn chorus.  They were everywhere, preening, gossiping and feeding. It was breakfast time at the bird table.  

There were fancy feathers everywhere: tawny chaffinches, hooded great tits and, loveliest of all, multi-coloured goldfinches pecking at a separate black seed feeder. Their red faces made them look like guests at a masked ball.

Pretty girls! Of course, the rolling pin woman’s pretty girls!
The last thing Raymond expected was to be shown to a table by a waiter. A huge bird had landed in the garden, lord of all he surveyed. The little birds scattered at his approach.  He strutted along the lawn wearing a black jacket over his white waistcoat, his long midnight blue tail feathers brushing the dew. He was huge and self-important, intimidating anyone who blocked his path. Not that anyone dared. The finches and tits had taken cover in the nearby bushes and the wood pigeon was fumbling about on the grass.
Having surveyed the scene, the huge magpie rose into the air and then hurtled back towards the garden like a dive bomber. What on earth was he doing? Soon it was clear to Raymond that there was method in his madness: he was hitting the suspended bird feeder with his strong wings trying to dislodge it from the nail. But why?
The first few attempts failed, then, with a clatter, the full feeder hit the deck, spilling its lid and contents into the flowerbed below.
Geronimo!
The well-dressed bully was first to the feast, and when he had had his fill, the wood pigeon plodded over to help herself.  Raymond was salivating with desire. He edged closer, unsure of his welcome. There was none. The great brute of a magpie screeched in his face but then he lifted up and flew to the fence, watching him with beady eyes.
He crunched and nibbled and filled his belly without lifting his head. When he did look up he realised that it had started to rain – huge globules of spit. Raymond hated the rain because he was vain and did not think the wet look suited him.  He retreated to his new home under the oil tank to think.
Aside from Smudge, no one had spoken to him, except the crazy woman who wanted to kill him.  What had he ever done to her?

Nevertheless, Raymond decided to hang around for a while: big garden, plentiful supply of seed, ingenious birds – what was there not to like? Even Orange Cat seemed to be too lazy to pursue him, preferring to lounge around on the grass.
Raymond was in paradise: in among the shards of bark which covered the flowerbed he found wheat, maize, millet and his favourite: sunflower seeds.

Raymond felt hungrier than ever. He hadn’t eaten a thing apart from a lick of sugar in twenty-four hours. 

Now that he had decided to stay for a while, Raymond wanted to
get the lie of the land. Once the rain had stopped, he moseyed along under grey skies and made a tour of the garden.
Round the far side of the house, he saw smoke seeping out of a half-open window. Fire! He thought, but no one was raising the alarm. In fact, Himself was singing. Singing in a fire?
Raymond crept closer and realised that it was not smoke, but steam. He hid in a bed of lesser celandine, lying among glossy

heart-shaped leaves, the delicate yellow flowers closed waiting for the sun to reappear. The song rang out in a warbling tenor voice:

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
I’m half-crazy all for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage,
For I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’ll look sweet up on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.

Now that I have to see, thought Raymond. Note to self, get into the garage.  He continued on his journey through the rose bushes with their tightly closed buds, past tulips standing to attention like soldiers and back to his den.
And not a moment too soon. All of a sudden the rumble of an engine shook the earth. A huge lorry had driven into the driveway. Raymond stayed where he was, watching. There was a wrenching noise and down the side of the house came striding a tall man wearing a cap and overalls. Behind him snaked a long pipe. He was getting closer and closer. A huge nozzle was prodded through the bush directly in front of him.
Oh no! thought Raymond. He’s going to flush me out…

Thinking Green

Thank you for the feedback on yesterday's chapter.  Here is today's offering.  I love the beautiful drawing of the falcon by Edith Joy, aged 6.  When I asked Maria for her illustration, she wasn't thinking seasonally -  the seasons are different in SA anyway - but isn't Raymond cute? Enjoy!

Chapter Two: Raymond Thinks Green
Raymond cowered in the grass and slowly turned his eyes upwards. He tried to roll them back in their sockets without moving his head. Instinctively, he knew that moving his head or any other part of his body would be a mistake. Big mistake. Above him loomed a huge bird, blocking out the sun. It’s probably a peregrine falcon, he thought. He did not, in fact, know what a bird of prey looked like, but he had heard about them, how they lived in the old quarry on Scrabo Hill and made silent forays into the countryside.

Why would a big bird like that be interested in a seed feeder? How could it possibly get its beak into the tiny little holes? Ridiculous! Raymond had begun to believe that the kindly lady had put the seed out for the regular residents, like him. Well, he was hardly a regular, not yet, anyway. But he was certainly not a blow-in from the stone quarry. Let them get their own seed!
The air became cooler as the bird started to fall out of the sky. Raymond started to wish he was a chameleon as he pressed himself deeper into the spongy lawn. Think green! Think green!

‘That’ll never fill you,’ his mother used to say when he picked at his food.

‘That’ll never fill you,’ he murmured into himself as the bird craned its neck to see what was on the tall table – a few crumbs from a dried up bread roll and an apple core on the turn.
Seconds later, Raymond did not know whether to feel foolish or afraid. The bird was not looking at the feeder; it was looking at him.  Of course it was after him. Who wants a seed starter when there is raw rat on the menu? The whole ‘think green’ thing was not working. Inches away, however, was a freshly aerated bed of brown soil. If he could only ease himself over there he would have a fighting chance. Well, not really. If it came to fighting, he had absolutely no chance against a creature with sharp fingernails who could take to the skies with him suspended like a hang glider.
The bird rose again into the blue. Raymond shivered and shifted sideways ever so slightly until his little feet felt less resistance, sinking into the sandy loam. The bed was filled with soft green rounded leaves scattered at intervals. He snuck under the nearest one, closed his eyes and lay quite still.

Suddenly there was a flapping and fluttering and a gentle movement of air.  Raymond knew that something had landed.  He braced himself. Nothing happened. He peeked out from under the leaf.  Where was the scary shadow bird? Gone. Circling high and away.
Nearby, on the grass was a much stupider creature altogether. It had tiny claws instead of talons and was purring like a cat. Not a falcon, then.  Wood pigeon? Its coat was iridescent – shifting shades of grey blue and purple, with feathers that ruffled softly as it waddled towards the foot of the bird table.  Maybe she is a vegetarian, he thought hopefully. The bird was gazing at the feeder. It was too small; she was too big.
Bolder now, Raymond sized up the competition.  It seemed as if neither of them was going to get at the seed any time soon.  I’ll make a dash, he thought, to scare her away and then I’ll devise a plan of action.  Dash he did, but he did not get very far. Somehow, as he wriggled in the soft soil, his foot had become entangled in a piece of string. Not string, something thicker and stronger. A red coil was wound round his right leg, pulling tighter as he struggled.
What on earth? he wondered.
Just then a shrill shriek pierced the air.
‘Get out of my strawberries, you pesky vermin or I’ll skin you alive!’

The housewife stumbled out of the back door wielding a rolling pin with sugar falling from it like snowflakes.  It’s surprising how quickly the brain works when you’re under threat. While he was desperately trying to extricate himself from the strawberry runners, Raymond was also making a mental note of where the sugar grains were landing so that he could come back for them later. That is if there was a later.
The woman was screaming, the pigeon had taken off and was watching from the crossbar of the garden swing and with a final yank Raymond managed to pull himself free and make for cover.  He narrowly missed being pulverised as the hysterical woman flailed about in the bushes. If he hadn’t been so scared, he would have laughed. The angry woman retreated with a shrug of her shoulders and a slam of the door.
‘Vermin, is it?' said a silky voice nearby. ‘There aren’t many of us left who can claim that particular sobriquet or nickname.’
‘What?’ said Raymond gazing up into the branches of a tall tree. The creature looking down on him had a superior air.
 ‘If it’s seed you’re after, watch this.’
A small nose descended from a bough above, followed by a long, hairy tail. The creature lunged himself at the wall, scurried upwards, clinging to the rough rendered finish, and snaffled a snack from a clear plastic box stuck to the window of the house. Another feeder.
‘Simple,’ he said as he scampered away, disappearing in a grey smudge.
What just happened there? thought Raymond.
Suddenly he gasped. Through the dense bushes he could see two large yellow slanty eyes glowering at him. Raymond was sure he could hear someone licking their lips…

Writing Raymond

It's a while since I wrote a blog, but I have been writing - my own stories and those of my friends.  In this lockdown hiatus I was persuaded to pen a bedtime tale for the Seven: Finlay, Edith, Jasper, Sebastian, Teddy, Eleanor and Beatrice. These are my precious grandchildren and it has been a pleasure to amuse them in these times of enforced distancing. 

The story of Raymond Rattus is a personal one. The real Raymond taunts us in the garden everyday.  Watching him nibbling bird seeds was my inspiration - that and Finn's obsession with trapping rodents on the farm in Annahilt.  The illustrations and photos were provided by family members. Thanks especially to Maria holed up in Port Elizabeth, who is not allowed out to walk and even if she were there is no alcohol on sale. African sun down without sundowners. 

For those who have requested it, here's the first chapter, with drawings by Stephen Bradley and Maria Oosthuysen. 

Raymond Rattus Runs Amok

by Granny Ruth

Chapter One: Raymond Roots Around

Raymond was long, brown and very ugly.

Even his own mother rejected him. It was something to do with his nose – too flat and pointy, not aquiline, like the others. 
‘See if I care,’ he said aloud on the sunny spring day when he left.
He took nothing with him as he wriggled out of the nest and set off along the line of the shuck.  He had absolutely no sense of direction so he threw caution to the wind and followed his nasty nose.  

That was his first mistake. On the other side of the ditch which bordered the farmer’s field was an interesting heap of something smelly.  He paddled through the shallow stream and skipped up the bank.  Concealed behind a tall spruce was a dump – not plastics and tins, but refuse. Biodegradable, he sniffed – peelings, grass cuttings, bits of branches and even some ash from the grate. He nosed around the rotting vegetables and felt his stomach churn. He was hungry but he also felt sick.  He was not averse to a slice of watermelon or a chunk of carrot, but he wanted something fresh. Not this putrid mess.

There was someone in the garden. Himself was out and about, seduced, no, doubt, by the seasonal sunshine.  He was bent over, fiddling with the lawn mower which had been rusting in the garage and was reluctant to be roused from its winter hibernation.  Raymond was not prepared for the deafening roar of the engine and he dashed like one demented under the purple heather as the mower began to gnash the long green blades with its teeth and spit them out.

‘It shouldn’t be permitted,’ he whimpered, as he lay flat on his grumbling stomach, ‘disturbing the peace like that.’

‘Stay in the fields,’ his father had warned. ‘Too many perils in a garden, not to mention the traps.’
Raymond had never actually seen a trap and so he did not know what to look out for. He reckoned he would most likely know one if he came across it.  

From his hiding place, Raymond could see the back door of the house.  A portly woman stepped out with a large basket balanced on her hip, a woolly hat pulled low over her ears. Round her neck was a pouch on a string. It contained small coloured clips with which she proceeded to attach clothing to a high wire suspended between two poles.  Soon sheets, shirts and socks were smacking in the morning breeze.  She gave a sigh of satisfaction, wiped her hands on her pinny and then she spoke.

‘Oh dear, nothing to eat, my girls.’

Who was she talking to? Raymond could see no girls, or boys for that matter. She was looking up into the sky.  Raymond shuffled forward on his cushion of last year’s leaves and looked up too.  Uninterrupted blue with the sun blinding him and blinking him.  He could still hear the distant rumble of the lawn mower.

The woman disappeared inside with the empty basket and re-emerged carrying a bag.  She strode over to a high wooden table embedded in the soil and detached a long cylinder with a domed lid from a nail. Raymond was curious; he had never seen such a thing before. She set the cylinder on the table, dislodged the lid and proceeded to pour something from the bag.  The contents rustled and whispered as they slid out, packing together in a kaleidoscope of brown, black, creamy white and yellow.  

‘Come and get it, girls,’ called the woman as she padded back to the house.

The feeder swayed gently.

A feast, thought Raymond. Dry, clean delicious seeds. Oh my!
But who and where were the girls?

Raymond waited for ages. A minute, at least. Then he eased himself out from under the spiky heather, like a commando.  The sky above was clear.

He eyed up the distance to the table, the height of the wooden post and the swinging container.  How exactly was he going to do this?
You’ll get nowhere if you don’t at least try, he thought, as he edged forward in the damp mossy grass.  He scaled the post and curled his wiry body round the cage, but he could not get at its contents.

Suddenly, the sun went out. ‘Night already?’ he squeaked, dropping back down to the ground. The sky above him grew ominously dark.

He felt the fur on the back of his neck bristle. Something was wrong…