Four Ducks on a Pond (13 page)

Then the coffin was carried shoulder-high to the waiting lorry, which had superseded the old farm cart as a hearse, and Puddy got into Florrie and followed the cortege for miles and miles over
an incredibly bumpy road until the burial ground was reached: a burial ground hidden right away among the mountains and so ancient that the bones of the very earliest Scottish Christians must be
buried there.

The grave was already dug. The coffin was lowered into it, and, after a brief prayer, the earth was piled back over it. Finally a trim green carpet of turf, which had been carefully dug away,
was neatly rolled over the brown soil like a cosy, green blanket. And it was patted into place by the gravedigger, whose work-worn hands now had the gentleness of a woman’s. Then the wreaths
were arranged over the grave, and the funeral was over. Only the long, difficult drive home remained.

‘It wasn’t like an end. It was like a beginning,’ Puddy said, adding rather unnecessarily, ‘like planting a bulb.’

And that is why I have chosen the funeral as the last episode in my book, because life goes on and on, no matter what end, seemingly, we come to.

A blackbird is singing his heart out from a chimney stack. Grandpop is humming a hum as he makes sure that the paddock boundaries will hold against the onslaught of an
inquisitive foal. Puddy is in the cottage clearing a place for the brooder, where she will rear the day-old chicks. Kitten is preparing Margie’s and Fionna’s bedrooms in readiness for
the Easter holidays. And Carla has promised she will not allow Lottie to romp with the goats, since their kids will soon be born. And on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room is an airmail letter
from John, saying that he has been posted back to Britain, so he’ll be home on leave, and please to lay out lots of
FOOD
.

As for me, I am kept busy visiting my families, hunting and writing my memoirs, for I realise that, with so much yet to happen, there’s no telling when my memories will end. So maybe there
will come a day when this will appear on your bookshelves, printed on India paper, vellum bound and bearing the words ‘Volume One’ in gilded capitals on the spine. Who knows?

Nicholas recorded his observations during the early 1950s while Puddy, in addition to milking goats and tending hens, started to write a romantic novel and consigned the works
of Nicholas to a drawer, where they remained for nearly sixty years.

Many changes occurred on Mull during that time. Mains electricity followed by water on tap transformed the Ross of Mull. The road was upgraded, although still single track, and the long awaited
pier was built at Craignure. The picturesque motor boats which plied between Mull and Iona were replaced by an ungainly but practical ferry conveying many more foot passengers, while benefiting the
island farmers.

Despite these improvements, the population continued to dwindle and the primary school closed in the 1970s. The granite building, which always served as venue for community events, thus became
the village hall. Then a gradual change brought increased tourism and a level of prosperity. Incomers seeking the simple life restored tumbled-down cottages and developed holiday homes. New houses
were built, and even the old church, once used as a byre, became a dwelling house. Meanwhile, descendants of that easy-going generation which willingly supported the family through thick and thin
formed the bedrock of the community.

On the domestic front, the goats produced four kids between them, while Corrieshellach gave birth to a filly and won first prize in her class at the Royal Highland Show. Over the years Puddy
– Annabel Carothers – wrote two more romantic novels which, combined as a trilogy, became
Kilcaraig
, published in 1982. If Nicholas recorded Volume II of his memoirs, there is no
trace of it. He died peacefully at Achaban House and was buried in the garden.

Fionna Eden-Bushell

February 2010