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…