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…