Flash the Sheep Dog Page 2

  “I’ve never had it before,” Tom said.

  “Ah, then it’ll be a new experience for ye,” Uncle John said with a twinkle in his eye. “Did your Aunt Susan never make haggis?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “Maybe she couldna’ get the right ingredients in London,” Aunt Jane remarked.

  “What are bashed neeps?” Tom asked cautiously.

  His aunt laughed. “Och, laddie, it’s just our name for mashed turnips.”

  Tom felt that at least he would be safe with the “bashed neeps” and potatoes. He ventured on a mouthful of the haggis.

  “Like it?” Uncle John asked.

  “I think so,” Tom replied doubtfully, “but I’m not used to Scotch food.”

  “Now, now, Tom! You never use the word ‘Scotch’ except for whisky and oatmeal and seed potatoes,” his uncle reproved him. “We use the words ‘Scots’ and ‘Scottish’. We don’t like to be called Scotch.”

  Tom was silent. It seemed that not only had he to get used to new food, but he had to learn a new language too. His uncle began to talk with his aunt about the prices sheep had fetched at the cattle market at Gorgie that day.

  “Cheviot hoggs were doing better the day. They reached a price of eight pounds, seventeen shillings.”

  “No’ bad!” Aunt Jane remarked with interest. “You should do well with the young flock when you come to market them.”

  Tom toyed with his haggis. He was not really sure that he liked it. He felt something sniffing at his legs and peeped under the table. It was the collie dog, Jeff. Tom put down a hand and the dog licked it. Tom felt grateful for this friendly sign. Watching his chance, he quickly put down a portion of haggis to the dog. It was gobbled up quickly. There was another lick at Tom’s hand and again he secretly gave the dog another mouthful. He was not so fortunate with the third. The dog wagged his tail and Uncle John felt the movement under the table. He caught Tom red-handed giving Jeff another portion from his plate.

  “Tom! What are you doing feeding the dog?” he demanded sternly.

  “I–I just gave him a bit,” Tom stammered.

  “Now, look here, lad! If there’s one rule I make, it is that my dog shall never be fed from my table. Scrap feeding like that could be the ruin of a good sheep dog. I’ll not have it, mind! My dogs get one good meal a day when they’ve finished their work and that’s that! I know you’re new to our ways, Tom, but it’s better to have this straight from the start. Ye’re not to feed my dogs without my permission, understand.”

  Tom pushed his plate back. He felt he had no more appetite for any food.

  “D’you not like the haggis, Tom?” his aunt asked. There was a kindly understanding in her voice.

  “I–I’m not sure,” Tom said.

  “A bit of sponge, then?” She pointed to the sponge cake. “There’s real cream in it,” she said temptingly.

  Tom gave in. “Yes, please.”

  The cream cake was good. At least he was all right with Aunt Jane’s baking, but once he had finished that, Tom could eat no more. He fidgeted in his chair as he waited for his uncle to finish eating. He seemed to make an enormous meal. Tom wondered if, like his dogs, he only took one meal a day! At last his uncle sat back satisfied and took out his pipe.

  “Go take a look round the farm if you’ve a mind, Tom,” he said.

  Tom went outside, followed by Jeff. He strolled round the hen houses and wandered into the empty byre. The cows were in the field by the stream. He inspected the barn and grain shed. The farm machinery in the big shed attracted his attention.

  “I wonder what this thing’s for?” he said aloud when he came on a mechanical seed planter. Living in a city all his life, the things that were commonplace objects to a country child were mysteries to him. He went out of the farmyard, then rushed back again.

  “Gosh! I almost forgot to shut that gate! I don’t want to get into Uncle John’s black books any more.”

  He wandered down to the “burn” – the small swiftly-flowing stream. In a pool a fish plopped, marking the evening rise, but to Tom that meant nothing. He stood by the stream dreaming of the wide London River, alive with ships and barges, tug boats and swift launches. A great wave of longing for London engulfed him. When he remembered the noisy streets of Poplar and the friends who played among them with him, the utter quiet of the hills seemed to stifle him. He thought of Kate, too, and how they used to wander round the London markets together and his heart felt like a heavy weight. There seemed nothing but emptiness in the wide greenness of the hills. Suddenly a cold nose was thrust into his hand. It belonged to Jeff. Tom knelt down beside the dog and patted him, and Jeff licked his hands and face.

  “If only Uncle John had let me feed you!” Tom whispered.

  Up at the farm his uncle was speaking about him to his aunt.

  “He’s a strange laddie. I wonder how he’ll settle here.”

  “Och, give him time,” Jane Meggetson said indulgently. “He’s a town-bred laddie and it’s all new to him. Once he’s got used to our country ways, he’ll come out of his shell. Remember he’s been torn up by the roots.”

  “Aye, maybe you’re right, lass.”

  “He’s taken a right liking to Jeff, though,” Jane said, peering through the window. “He’s down by the meadow now, fair making a fuss of the dog.”

  “I hope he doesna’ make a fool of the dog,” John Meggetson growled. “I don’t want the dog spoiled with over much petting.”

  “Aye, but you were a bit hard on the lad at supper time, John, when he gave Jeff a bit of his haggis. He’s got all to learn yet. I think you shouldna’ have spoken to him so sharply.”

  “Better to have things straight from the first!”

  “Aye, but go easily. He’s coming in now.”

  Tom came in, followed by Jeff. John Meggetson pointed his finger and the dog sat down obediently at his feet. There was perfect understanding between him and his master.

  “You seem to have made friends with Jeff,” Aunt Jane smiled at Tom.

  “He’s a nice dog,” Tom said guardedly.

  Tom took out the comic he had been reading on the train and sat down and read it all through again. After that there seemed to be nothing to do. He fidgeted a bit then said, “If – if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Why, it’s early yet,” Aunt Jane was beginning, then stopped and added, “I expect you’re tired after that long journey.”

  “I was going to suggest that you went up the hill with me to bring down a few sheep for tomorrow’s sale at Peebles,” his uncle said, “but if you’re tired, just away to your bed, lad.”

  Tom hesitated for a minute, then took this as an order and said “Good night, Aunt Jane. Good night, Uncle John,” in a very correct manner and went up the stairs.

  John Meggetson got up from his chair. “I’ll away up the hill and fetch the sheep,” he said in a slightly disappointed voice.

  Tom leaned his elbows on the sill of his bedroom window and watched his uncle and Jeff go up the hill. He wished now that he had asked to go with them. As they approached the small flock his uncle halted. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm away to the right and like lightning Jeff was running in a wide semi-circle to get behind the sheep. At a whistle from John Meggetson he stopped, crouched low on his stomach and began to crawl in nearer towards the sheep. The animals began to move down the hill. Without hurrying or harrying them, Jeff followed behind, heading off stragglers. Back and forth he ran behind the sheep till they reached John Meggetson. He shouted an instruction to Jeff, who herded the sheep neatly through the farmyard gate and turned them into a sheep pen. Not till the last straggler was safely gathered in did Jeff relax his efforts. Meggetson patted the dog. “Weel done, Jeff! Weel done, lad!” Jeff gave a quick lick at his hand. To him his master’s word of praise meant everything.

  Tom leaned out of his window and watched, his interest held at last. His eyes never left the dog till he disappeared round a corner of
the house.

  “If only I’d a dog like that…” Tom sighed. “It might not be so lonely here then.” He thought of Kate and pressed his lips firmly together for a moment. “Don’t worry, Kate!” he said in a whisper to himself. “I’ll do my best.”

  2. The Friday Market and What Came of It

  The next few days Tom mooned about the farm. He tramped to the top of the nearest hill but from it he could only see a succession of similar green hills, dotted everywhere with sheep. Tom felt he would soon grow to hate sheep! He went down to the stream and tried guddling for trout, but without success. He dreamed all the time of the wide river he had left behind and the great noisy city. He was homesick for the sights and sounds of the London streets and the friends he had left behind.

  “What is there to do here?” he asked himself miserably.

  His aunt watched him with concern. She gave him jobs to do, feeding the hens and collecting eggs; weeding the kaleyard and the tiny garden where she grew flowers. She thought if she kept him occupied she would keep him happy. Tom did her bidding willingly, but without interest.

  “The lad’s just plain bored here, John,” she told her husband.

  “Maybe he’ll brighten up when the school reopens after the holidays.”

  “Yes, perhaps he’ll make friends at school,” Mrs Meggetson agreed. “It’s a pity it’s the holidays and a long time till the school reopens again.”

  “He seems to brighten up when he takes Jeff for a walk,” Meggetson remarked.

  “Aye, he’s right fond of the dog. Are you going to the Friday market tomorrow, John?”

  “Yes, I’ve a parcel of lambs to take to the sales.”

  “Could you take Tom into Peebles with you? It would make a bit of a change for him. It might interest him.”

  “Och! You worry over much whether the lad is interested or not.”

  “I want him to settle down with us, John. There’s something likeable about the laddie.”

  “All right! I’ll take him,” John agreed.

  The weekly stock market was held in Peebles, a small Border town nestling beside the River Tweed. The market was not a big one but the farmers attended it from the surrounding districts.

  Tom and his uncle set off next morning with ten young sheep in the back of the farm wagon. Jeff lay beside Tom’s feet at the front of the wagon. For part of the way the road followed the stream, dropping downhill towards the valley of the Tweed. When they came to the outskirts of the town, Tom began to look about him with more interest. Before long they reached the wide main street of Peebles, lined with shops on either side. The pavements were busy with shoppers and tourists, for Peebles had always been a favourite holiday place for the people of Glasgow and Edinburgh. Uncle John did not pull up in the High Street. The wagon turned to cross a wide bridge. Under the bridge a river swirled and eddied between steep banks.

  “Nothing like the Thames, but it really is a river!” Tom said to himself.

  At the other side of the bridge they turned right and before long they reached a lane. At the end of it was the Stock Market.

  Tom’s face dropped with disappointment. He had imagined something like the Smithfield or Covent Garden markets. Here was a collection of haphazard buildings; a circular hall where the auction was held and a number of iron-fenced cattle pens. The pens were occupied by small droves of sheep and a few pigs and cattle.

  Mr Meggetson got down from the driving seat and Jeff followed at his heels as though well acquainted with the routine. He let down the back of the truck and bundled the sheep out. Jeff, bobbing behind, saw the sheep safely penned. John Meggetson had a word with the man in charge of the pens, then turned to Tom.

  “Come along, Tom. We’ll go to the ring and see what’s going on there. It’ll be quite a while before it’s the turn of our sheep to be sold.”

  He led the way to the auction ring. As he opened the door, a babble of chatter met them from the already assembled farmers. Two or three tiers of seats sloped upwards like those at a circus. No one seemed to be sitting in the seats, though. Most of the farmers were clustered along the rail that bounded the ring.

  “You climb up near the top tier and you can watch what’s going on,” Uncle John told Tom. “Mind, though, that you don’t nod your head when the auctioneer starts or you might find you’ve bought a couple of pigs!” He laughed heartily at his own joke, but Tom felt he dare not move.

  Above the ring was a kind of fenced pulpit. A tall man who had been talking with the farmers entered the “pulpit” and his clerk rang a brass handbell loudly. This was the signal that the auction was about to begin. Other farmers came hurrying into the seating enclosure. A stockman with a stout ashplant stick took up a position in the centre of the sawdust-covered ring and three squealing pigs were driven in. Immediately the auctioneer started what seemed an incomprehensible gabble to Tom.

  “Eight and six, eight and six, well, seven shillings I am bid. Seven and six, seven and six, eight shillings, eight and six—” His voice ran on at a monotonous level like an incantation.

  After the pigs some young bullocks were auctioned, then came the turn of the sheep. There were several small droves, for five-month lambs were usually sold in August. Tom watched for a while and then he began to fidget. It seemed to be a long time before his uncle’s animals came up for sale. His uncle would be there a while yet. Tom touched him on the arm. “Uncle John, I’d like to have a look at Peebles,” he told him.

  “Getting tired of the sale, lad? I’ll need to stay by for a while yet till my sheep come up. You can go and have a look at the town, though. Meet me at one o’clock by the statue of the lion outside the Tontine Hotel in the main street. You canna’ miss it. See you’re there on time!”

  Tom wriggled his way through the crowd at the door and hurried down the lane towards Peebles. At the bridge he paused to lean over and look down into the river. At one side it wound through a well-kept park; on the other, house gardens came almost to its banks. Tom trudged on into the town and wandered about, looking at the shop windows. He found he felt almost as lonely in the town as at Birkhope. If only he had had a friend to join in his exploring! He stood by the kerbside watching the passing cars and all at once he felt homesick for the rush and swirl of London’s traffic; for Poplar and the Thames that ran near the end of his street; for the lads who chased round the docks with him; for the great ships that sailed up Limehouse Reach to London Docks. The longing for London swept over Tom like a great wave. Suddenly, a bus swung to a standstill by the kerb. It was labelled “Edinburgh”.

  The conductor leaned out. “Getting on, laddie?” he shouted.

  Tom discovered he was standing right at a bus stop. Edinburgh? From Edinburgh he could get to London! He still had the ten shillings in his pocket that Kate had given him as a parting gift. There had been nothing on which to spend it at Birkhope. On a sudden impulse he swung himself on to the bus! Maybe in Edinburgh he could stow away on a train to London? Once he was in London, perhaps he could find a job there if he pretended to be older than he was? The bus rolled way with Tom aboard.

  A minute or two later John Meggetson’s truck rumbled to a halt near the bus stop. The farmer got out and looked up and down the street. There was no small boy standing anywhere near the Tontine Hotel. No sign of Tom at all!

  “Where can the lad be?” John Meggetson said to himself, searching the street with his eyes. “I told him to be here promptly. Surely he couldn’t get lost in a small town like Peebles?”

  Another farmer tapped him on the arm. “Looking for someone, John?”

  “Aye, my nephew! The young rascal should have been here to meet me.”

  “Is that the sandy-haired laddie who was with you at the market?”

  “Aye, that’s the one!”

  “I think I saw him get on the Edinburgh bus two or three minutes ago.”

  “The Edinburgh bus! Why, in the name of fortune, would the lad get on that? Are you certain, Bob?”

  “Aye, pretty
sure! He was the only lad at the market.”

  “Michty me! I’ll have to go after him. I’ll maybe overtake the bus. It’ll have to stop now and again to pick folk up.” John Meggetson was already up in the driver’s seat and starting up the truck.

  He had driven about three miles when he saw the bus ahead. It was stopping to take up passengers in the little village of Eddlestone. Meggetson drew up just ahead of the bus, jumped down from his truck and ran back to the stationary bus. He signalled to the driver to wait a minute, then mounted the bus.

  Tom was sitting near the middle of the bus. He had not seen his uncle’s truck pull ahead. Grim faced, John Meggetson marched up to him and took him by the shoulder.

  “Where d’you think you’re going, Tom?”

  Tom turned quite pale. “I–I–Edinburgh—” he stammered.

  John Meggetson looked grimmer than ever. “Up with ye!” he ordered. “Off the bus at once!” He took Tom by the elbow and jerked him to his feet. People stared at them. Tom had no choice but to leave the bus, as his uncle hustled him towards the door. The conductor rang the bell and the bus drew away.

  “Weel, this is a nice carry-on!” Uncle John said, pushing Tom towards the truck. “I trust you to look round Peebles and you get on a bus for Edinburgh. What was the big idea?”

  Tom felt suddenly ashamed. “I–I was wanting to go back to London,” he faltered.

  “Up on the truck with you! We’ll talk about this when we reach Birkhope,” his uncle said angrily.

  Jeff was lying on the floor of the driving cab. He looked up when Tom climbed in and sniffed at him and thumped his tail in welcome. Tom put down a hand and rubbed Jeff gently behind the ears. John Meggetson gave the boy and the dog a curious sideways glance. He put the truck in reverse, then turned and drove back the way he had come.

  They rattled through Peebles and took the road towards the hills. Uncle John did not speak and when Tom stole a glance at him, his face looked dark and forbidding. Tom turned his head away and stared at the road on his side of the truck. He felt thoroughly miserable.