by Derek Tangye
‘You go ahead,’ I said to Jeannie, ‘have a look at her and see what you think. I’ll have another drink.’
My purpose in not accompanying her was to appear nonchalant in front of Mr Teague. I intended to go through the form of bargaining, the pause between sentences, the changes of subject, the sudden return to a point that appeared to be forgotten, the mock laughter over a price which in reality I didn’t think too high, the pretence that I had, in fact, no intention of wanting the donkey at all; all those machinations which one feels one ought to pursue despite the fact that an immediate deal would produce a shout of joy.
‘I suppose you’re getting ready for the season,’ I said, after Jeannie had disappeared to the paddock behind the pub where the donkey was temporarily grazing, ‘all ready for the rush.’
‘That’s right. Winter in a hammock, then a sprint.’
‘I don’t know how you stand it night after night.’
‘It’s a job. Like any job you have to stick to it.’
‘Not for me. I wouldn’t stand it for any money.’
He took my glass, and swung round to the optics.
‘Mrs Tangye is dead keen on that donkey, isn’t she?’ He had his back to me, a finger on the lever of the optic of the whisky bottle. ‘Dead keen, I should say.’
He was forcing the pace.
‘She’s always liked donkeys, ever since she was a child,’ I said, as if I were talking about the weather, ‘of course she’s got a kind heart, and that story you told her upset her a bit.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Now, Roy,’ I felt that I could sound intimate, ‘I believe you are a fair man. What price have you in mind for the donkey?’
He looked at me shrewdly, bright eyes from a red, jovial face. He had no intention of exploiting me, that I was sure; but naturally he would like to make a maximum profit. He pushed my glass across the counter.
‘Have it for twenty-seven pounds.’
I fumbled for a packet of cigarettes, found it, pulled out one, lit it. I apparently succeeded by this delay in conveying to him that the figure had shocked me.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said, speaking quickly, ‘I’ll throw in a shay with the price. A donkey and a shay go together, everyone used them in the old days. It’s good fun. If the car breaks down I can see Penny taking you and Mrs Tangye into Penzance!’
I couldn’t, but I joined in his laughter.
‘It’s worth five pound,’ he said.
At this moment, before I could answer, the door at the corner of the lounge was flung open, and in rushed Jeannie. One glance at her and I knew the donkey was ours, whatever the price, whatever its condition. Roy looked at her happily.
‘She came to me as soon as I called her!’ she said excitedly, ‘came right across the field as if she knew me, as if . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ I said, ‘as if she knew you were the one person in the world who could give her a happy home.’
She ignored me.
‘. . . as if she were hungry.’
‘Not much grass in that paddock, true enough,’ said Roy, ‘but you’ll soon put her to rights. Eat anything, donkeys will.’
‘Now look,’ I said, trying to sound sensible, ‘there are one or two things we ought to clear up. How old is she, for instance?’
‘She’s four. Can’t be more than four.’
‘And what about the foal. When is the foal expected?’
‘A month perhaps. Five weeks. Difficult to say.’
Then he added quickly.
‘I’ll buy the foal back, mind. Give you ten quid, I promise.’
A promise I knew would never be put to the test.
‘And what,’ I went on, ‘does one do about the confinement?’
‘Leave her out,’ he said briskly, ‘leave her out and she’ll look after herself. No trouble at all.’
I envied his casual efficiency. All his life he had been accustomed to the arrival and the departure of animals; and he was naturally impatient with my doubts as to how to treat properly a donkey and its foal. They were a production unit as far as he was concerned. Something which could make a sale and a profit and, without being heartless, something he considered as inanimate as tins in a grocery shop. He would never carry on his business as a dealer had he thought otherwise. And yet I felt he was sentimental enough to be glad that Penny was about to leave for a good home.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘about the price. We don’t want the shay, you can keep that. I’ll give you a cheque for twentyfive pounds.’
‘That’ll do me.’
‘What about the delivery charge. Who’s going to pay that? I mean we’ll have to hire a horsebox.’
He grinned at me, giving the empty ashtray another twirl with his finger.
‘Don’t need a horsebox. Got a Land Rover outside haven’t you? Put her in that. My daughter fetched a donkey in one from Exeter the other day. No trouble at all.’
This was a situation I had not foreseen. Indeed had I had an inkling when I set out for the Plume of Feathers that I would leave it with a donkey in the back, I would have stayed at home.
‘But surely she might be dangerous,’ I remonstrated weakly, conscious I risked being labelled a coward, ‘she might get in a panic as I was driving along, lash out and all that. She might bite.’
I hoped that Jeannie would agree.
‘Come and see her,’ she said soothingly, as if I were making a fool of myself, ‘she’s as quiet as an old sheepdog. I certainly don’t mind myself if she comes with us.’
And she did.
Half an hour later we were racing along the Redruth bypass with me at the wheel, Jeannie beside me, and between the two of us, shoulder-level, the solemn, patient face of Penny the donkey.
5
‘You know, Jeannie,’ I said, as we turned off the bypass and drove up the hill into Camborne, ‘we’ve got ourselves in a fix. We can’t possibly leave a donkey which is going to have a foal.’
‘I realise that too.’
‘So that’s the end of our holiday before it’s begun.’
‘Are you very disappointed?’
‘It seems to me to be sheer lunacy to give up a long overdue holiday just because we take pity on a wretched donkey.’
We were passing the Holman engineering works on our left, and the road to Illogan, where my grandfather was born, on our right.
‘Turn round and take her back then.’
‘I’m thinking,’ I went on, ignoring Jeannie, ‘of all the trouble involved in putting everything off. What do I say? And how is your mother going to react when you tell her you can’t go to London because we’ve bought a donkey in the family way?’
‘She’ll laugh.’
A huge lorry ahead slowed us down to a crawl.
‘I had got myself attuned to the idea of seeing the bright lights again. I was looking forward to a frivolous time.’
‘You can go on your own.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘There’s such a change in you. First I have to knock you on the head to make you go, and now you’re moaning away because you can’t.’
‘My contrary self.’
I changed gear, accelerated, and passed the lorry, blowing the horn. I found comfort in doing so.
‘It means,’ I said, ‘we won’t have the chance of going away again for a year. You know that. We won’t have a chance what with the tomatoes, the freesias, the daffodils all following on each other. We’re committed to fight it out this year.’
‘You can write a book about the year in between.’
‘Between what?’
‘The year in which you decide whether to work with your mind or work with your hands. The year in which we decide whether to continue with the flower farm.’
‘It is a question of labour. There is so much manual work to be done. That’s all the trouble.’
‘Cheer up. You’re forgetting you’re going to have another interest.’
‘What?’
‘A year with two donkeys!’
At this moment Penny, who was standing in the well of the Land Rover and small enough to be clear of the canvas hood, pushed her head forward and, to my concern, rested it on my shoulder. Thus, as I stared at the road ahead of me lined at first by squat houses and shops, then by the open fields leading to Connor Downs and Hayle, I could see out of the corner of my eye a large white nose; and I felt a weight on my shoulder like the hand of someone wanting to reassure me.
‘She seems to like you.’
‘I think I’m dotty.’
‘But don’t you feel happier?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’re a misery!’
The time was seven o’clock and we had a little over an hour before dusk. Clouds were looming up over the distant Zennor hills, hiding the sun. Penny’s head remained resting on my shoulder, and I took one hand off the wheel and stroked her nose. Even so early in her life with us, she was placid. It was if she had had many journeys such as this one, shifted from one place to another, railway trucks, the boat from Ireland, cattle lorries, herded with other donkeys at auction sales; and these experiences had made her resigned. Here she was travelling to another paddock, another brief period of affection or work, then on to somewhere else as soon as the originality of her presence had worn thin, or her usefulness had expired.
We were nearing Connor Downs.
‘Let’s stop for a drink at the Turnpike,’ I said. I said it doubtfully. I was prepared for Jeannie to say that one didn’t leave a donkey in charge of a car while one went inside a pub.
‘All right, but I’ll stay with her. We have to get her out of the Land Rover before it is dark. We can’t be long.’
I had good reason to stop at the Turnpike. Jack Edwards, the landlord, had been a gamekeeper for most of his life, and whenever Jeannie and I wanted experienced advice on a section of country life he could be relied upon to supply it. A few weeks before, for instance, we had called in to see him about a dying fox we had found in the lane a few hundred yards from the cottage.
Foxes and badgers are numerous around Minack, and often in the early morning we can lie in bed watching a fox through the window nosing about the field opposite. We pretend to ourselves, and we may be right, that we can identify each one. This particular spring there had been two dog foxes we had watched, one whose territory seemed to be the field opposite, the other who spent his time in a neighbouring one. I would watch them through field-glasses stalking a mouse in the grass, alert and ears cocked, a pause before the pounce, then the attack and the spreadeagling of legs like a cat. We were amused when the attempt misfired. There was the same posture of disappointment, then the same nonchalant pretence that failure did not matter which we had seen so often displayed by Monty and Lama.
One of these two, the one in the neighbouring field, appeared to be younger than the other. He seemed to be bigger, a better sheen on his coat, and his brush was huge. He was also more adventurous and we would often watch him slink over the hedge before darkness fell, then up and over and along the track that led away from the cliff country into the hinterland. And then in the morning we would watch him return, tongue hanging out, a tired fox, and we would wonder how many miles he had travelled; and of the angry conversation someone at that very moment might be having about a fox that had raided the poultry during the night.
One evening soon after dusk we were still bunching daffodils in the packing shed when we heard a scream up the lane as wild as that of a hyena. Then another and another, such a cacophony that it was as if there had been a collision of screams. After ten minutes, during which time there were momentary silences and a gradual lessening of the noise as it moved away up the lane, I said to Jeannie that we had better go and find out what had happened. We did not really expect to find anything. We were just being curious.
We had gone halfway towards the farm at the top without seeing anything and were about to turn back when my torch shone on what looked like a dog curled up in the middle of the lane. As we walked closer it began to move, dragging its body towards the ditch; and we saw it was a fox. There was nothing we could do except to leave it without it being frightened by the sight of us. We saw that its front paws were terribly mangled and it could not possibly go far whatever its other injuries. We left it lying in the ditch and half an hour later when I returned it was dead.
The following morning through our bedroom window we saw the field opposite was empty, but the neighbouring one had its usual occupant, the splendid-looking young dog fox. As we watched, it jumped over the hedge into the field which hitherto had been forbidden to him, and began wandering around as if he owned it. The same thing happened morning after morning, and so we concluded that he had fought and killed his rival, and he was the new king of the territory.
In due course I had described the episode to Jack Edwards. I also told him that a trapper I knew had said that our conclusion was wrong. The trapper maintained that a young badger had been the killer. Who was right?
‘When the fighting was going on,’ asked Jack Edwards, ‘did you hear any grunting noises?’
‘None at all.’
‘Badgers grunt when they fight.’
‘There was only an endless screaming.’
‘That confirms your conclusion was correct and the trapper was wrong.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Foxes fight on their hind legs like horses. They box each other. I reckon the young fox was quick enough to seize the old one’s paws as they fought, and that’s why they were mangled. That’s what happened.’
I now turned the Land Rover off the main road and drew up in the Turnpike car park.
There was no one else in the bar.
‘Jack,’ I said, coming straight to the point that was still bothering me, ‘are donkeys difficult to keep?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Are they the asses they’re supposed to be?’
He lit a cigarette and smiled.
‘I’ve known some intelligent donkeys in the past. Like everyone else some are clever, some are not.’
‘Can they be a nuisance?’
‘They’re certainly very affectionate.’
‘Which means?’
‘They need a lot of attention . . . but what’s all this about?’
At this moment there was a wail outside like that of a banshee. A gargling noise on a high note.
‘Heavens,’ I said, ‘she’s calling me!’
‘Who?’
‘The donkey.’
‘God bless my soul!’
‘We’ve just bought one from Roy Teague.’
‘What about Mrs Tangye . . . where’s she?’
‘She’s out there too.’
‘Mrs Tangye guarding the donkey? . . . Look, I’m taking her a drink straight away.’
We went outside and up to the Land Rover; and as Jack walked forward, glass in hand, a face was thrust through the driver’s window. It had a large white nose.
‘I sign the pledge!’ cried Jack.
Penny pushed her head forward as if she were making to bite the glass. She looked quite fierce. I did not realise until later that she was only thirsty.
But at the same time an unpleasant thought crossed my mind. She was showing restlessness. She might, for all I knew, be vicious. Dusk would be falling when we reached Minack, and Penny in a strange place without an expert to handle her might not be so placid at her journey’s end as she had been at the beginning.
How were we to remove her from the Land Rover on our own?
6
Rain began to spatter the windscreen as we turned from the main road into the bumpy lane which led a mile away to Minack. Clouds, low and lugubrious, swirling in from the sea and the south, were hastening the dusk to fall before its time.
‘I feel very pleased with myself,’ said Jeannie suddenly.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘before we left and when you were ou
t of sight, I got hold of Jack Baker and asked him a favour.’
‘And what was this favour?’
‘It was his idea really.’
‘Come on, tell me what it was.’
I felt irked that I had not been previously informed.
‘You know that big iron bar which is used for levering rocks?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Jack Baker suggested it would make an ideal tethering post for a donkey.’
‘Reasonable enough.’
‘And so before we set off, just in case we did buy a donkey, I asked him to fix it.’
‘You seemed very certain in that case that we would buy a donkey.’
‘The only trouble is,’ she said, ignoring me, ‘that he couldn’t put it upright as the soil was too shallow. He therefore planned to anchor it into the ground horizontally, helped by a couple of big rocks at either end of the bar.’
A journey into detail was unlike her. She was hiding something.
‘The bar,’ she went on, ‘is all in the ground except where the rope is tied. The other end of the rope we join to the halter we’ve brought with us. It means that Penny can’t run away.’
We passed the jumble of farm buildings which stood at the top of the valley, then began to descend the last stretch to the cottage. And all the time Penny’s head rested firmly on my shoulder.
‘Whereabouts,’ I asked, ‘am I going to find this contraption?’
‘On the lawn.’
I calmed myself. I kept my hands on the wheel. I said nothing.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she went on, ‘I can guess. But . . . honestly, it isn’t much of a lawn. Now is it?’
