A Donkey in the Meadow

by Derek Tangye

  Up and down the meadow we walked and all the while we had to be on guard against accidents. We had a nightmarish fear that a child might fall off and so while one of us led the donkeys, the other walked alongside holding the rider. We spent hours that summer in this fashion.

  There was no doubt, therefore, that the presence of the donkeys was a huge success. People who had come to see Jeannie and me went away happy because they had met Penny and Fred.

  ‘The donkeys have made our day,’ said two strangers who had driven specially from a distance to call on us.

  And there were other occasions when I sauntered out of the cottage on seeing strangers draw up in a car, a bright smile on my face.

  ‘May we,’ an eager voice would ask from the car window, ‘see the donkeys?’

  Jeannie, Penny and Fred set out across the stable

  11

  An eloquent feature of the donkeys was their stare; and we never succeeded in growing accustomed to it. It was a weapon they used in morose moments of displeasure. There they would stand side by side in a meadow steadfastly watching us, exuding disapproval, condemning us for going about our business and not theirs.

  The stare increased in its frequency after the summer and the visitors had disappeared; for Fred, by this time, expected attention like a precocious child film star who believes that adulation goes on for ever. He missed the applause, lumps of sugar, and posing for his picture. He was a prince without courtiers. He was at a loss as to how to fill his day. So he would stare, and hope that we would fill the gap.

  ‘Why can’t we go to another meadow?’

  ‘I’d like a walk.’

  ‘Oh dear, what is there to do?’

  And when finally we relented, yielding to the influence of the stare, and dropped whatever we were doing, and decided to entertain him, Fred would look knowingly at Penny.

  ‘Here they come, Mum. We’ve done it.’

  Penny’s stare was prompted by a more practical reason. True she enjoyed diversions, but they were not an innocent necessity as they were for Fred. She was old enough in experience to be phlegmatic, her role as a donkey was understood; she had to be patient, enduring the contrariness of human beings, surprised by the affection she was now suddenly receiving, and yet prepared it might end with equal suddenness. She didn’t have to be amused. All she had to remember was to have enough milk for Fred, and that the grass was losing its bite. Her stare was to induce us to change to another meadow or to take her for a walk, not for the exercise, but for the grasses and weeds of the hedgerows. A walk to her was like a stroll through a cafeteria.

  It did not take much to amuse Fred. He liked, for instance, the simple game of being chased, although he and I developed together certain nuances that the ordinary beholder might not have noticed. There was the straightforward chase in which I ran round a meadow panting at his heels, Penny watching us with an air of condescension, and Fred cantering with the class of a potential racehorse; and there was a variation in which I chased them both, aiming to separate them by corralling one or other in a corner. This caused huge excitement when my mission had succeeded with Penny in a corner and Fred the odd man out. He would nuzzle his nose into my back, then try to break through my outstretched arms, snorting, putting his head down with his ears flat, and giving the clear impression he was laughing uproariously.

  He loved to be stalked. In a meadow where the grass was high I would go down on my hands and knees and move my way secretly towards him. Of course he knew I was coming. He would be standing a few yards off, ears pricked, his alert intelligent face watching the waving grass until, at the mutually agreed moment, I would make a mock dash at him; and he would make an equally mock galloping escape. This was repeated again and again until I, with my knees bruised and out of breath, called it a day.

  I think, though, that our most hilarious game was that of the running flag. I would get over the hedge to the meadow or field he was in, then run along the other side holding a stick with a cloth attached high enough for him to see it. It baffled him. It maddened him. He would race along parallel to unseen me whinnying in excitement; and when, to titillate his puzzlement, I would stop, bring the stick down, so suddenly he saw nothing, nine times out of ten he would rend the air with hee-haws. Of course he knew all the while that it was a pretence; and when I jumped back over the hedge to join him he greeted me with the cavorting of an obviously happy donkey.

  These were deliberate games. There were others which came by chance. Electricity had at last come to the cottage and on one occasion I saw a Board Inspector running across the field with a joyous Fred close behind him. The Inspector, I am sure, was glad when he reached the pole he had come to inspect, and could speedily climb out of reach.

  It was a fact that Fred enjoyed the chase as much as being chased. He was fascinated, for instance, by Lama and Boris. As soon as he saw the little black cat he would put his head down, move towards her, struggling to free himself from the halter with which I was holding him. Or if Lama had entered the meadow in which he was roaming, his boredom would immediately vanish. Why is she here? How fast can she run? Let me see if I can catch her.

  And yet I never saw any evidence that there was viciousness in his interest. Lama, because of her trust in all men and things, gave him plenty of opportunities to show the truth of his intent; and his intent seemed only to chase to play. It was the same with Boris. On one occasion Fred escaped from his halter, saw Boris a few yards from him and, head down close to white-feathered tail, proceeded to chase Boris round the large static greenhouse in front of the cottage. The waddle and the hiss of Boris was distressing to behold and to hear, but I found myself watching without fear that Fred might do any harm. It was clear that Fred was only nudging him. Here is my nose, there your tail. Go a little faster, old drake.

  The donkeys now spent much of their time in the field adjoining the cottage, and it was here that Fred had his first major fright. The field was so placed that the stare could be imposed upon us in a particularly effective fashion. It was a large field sloping downwards to the wood with a corner which was poised shoulder-high above the tiny garden. Hence when the donkeys came to this corner, which was often, they looked down at us. They could even see into the cottage.

  ‘The donkeys are wanting attention,’ Jeannie would say as she sat in a chair by the fire, ‘shall I deal with them or will you?’

  There were other occasions when they chose to stand in the corner purely, I am sure, to emphasise the toughness of their lot. When there was a storm with rain beating down on the roof and the wind rattling the windows they would stand in view of our comfort. Two miserable donkeys who could easily have found shelter under a hedge. Two waifs. Fred with his fluffy coat bedraggled and flattened against his body like a small boy’s hair after a bathe. Penny, years of storm suffering behind her, her now shiny black coat unaffected, passing on her experience to Fred.

  ‘Put your head down, son. The rain will run off your nose.’

  But the day that Fred had his fright was sunny and still, an October day of Indian summer and burnished colours, the scent of the sea touching the falling leaves, no sadness in the day. Fred, now a colt not a foal, was enjoying himself grazing beside Penny, nibbling the grass like a grown-up, when under the barbed wire that closed the gap at the top of the field rushed a boxer.

  Had Boris and Lama witnessed what followed no doubt they would have laughed to themselves . . . a taste of his own medicine . . . that is how we feel when he comes thundering after us. The difference, however, was that the boxer was savage. It chased Fred as if it were intent on the kill. It had the wild hysteria of a mad wolf. It ignored the galloping hooves. It tried to jump on Fred’s back, teeth bared, its ugly face ablaze with primitive fury. And all the while Fred raced round and round the field bellowing his terror like a baby elephant pursued by a tiger.

  I had arrived on the scene at the double to find Jeannie already there running after the dog with Penny trumpeting beside her; and a man walki
ng unconcernedly across the field towards the cottage. The contrast between calm and chaos was startling.

  ‘I have lost my way,’ said the man when he saw me, ‘can you direct me to Lamorna?’

  His nonchalance astounded me. My temper was alight.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ I shouted back.

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘he’s having a good time.’

  ‘GOOD TIME? What the hell are you saying? Look at that baby donkey, look at your dog!’ I was incoherent with rage. I raised my arm and wanted to hit him. ‘How dare you come through private property without a dog like that on a lead!’

  ‘He doesn’t like a lead.’

  It was fortunate that at this precise moment I saw that the boxer had broken away from the chase, that Jeannie, after a moment’s soothing of Fred, was hastening to my support. The sight restrained me.

  ‘Get that dog, then get off my land!’

  Even this was not the end of it. Indifferent to my anger, oblivious that Jeannie had now joined in the attack, he took the dog by the scruff of the neck and began to climb down into the garden from the point where the donkeys liked to stand.

  ‘Not that way!’

  I had visions of the dog breaking free, and indulging his stupidity by wringing the necks of Lama and Boris.

  ‘But I want to get to Lamorna,’ said the man plaintively, ‘and surely I can go up that lane?’

  ‘You can’t, and that’s that. You can go back to wherever you came from, and go quick!’

  It always surprises me why so many dog owners are dull-minded. They thrust the bad manners of their dogs upon the rest of us. They ignore the possibility of damage that dogs can inflict. They are deaf. I have known a dog which would bark for two hours on end, its owner close by insensitive to the people miles around who were cursing. I like dogs. I only blame their owners. I might even have liked the boxer.

  The attachment between Penny and Fred was intense. If a gate was shut and Penny was one side of it, Fred the other, both would show signs of great distress. There was never any question of taking them out each on their own. In the meadows they were always within a few yards of each other; and when Fred lay down for a sleep, Penny would stand guard beside him.

  Fred was always particularly perturbed by Penny’s six-weekly pedicure. Along would come the blacksmith armed with a massive pair of cutters and a large file, and Penny would be ushered into the stables while Fred remained outside. He was certain something awful was happening to his mother, and this was not helped by the tantrums Penny sometimes displayed. On one side of the stable door the blacksmith was holding the leg of a plunging Penny; on the other, Fred was behaving as if he were never going to see her again.

  These should have been signs enough to put Jeannie and me on our guard. The uncontrollable affection was a potential explosion. We only had to provide the opportunity by testing it to breaking point, for a situation to arise in which someone was hurt. And this is exactly what happened.

  We decided one evening to take the donkeys for a walk up the lane, and into a field which led through the top end of our wood. Jeannie, because she has always maintained a wondrous, innocent, totally trusting attitude towards the behaviour of all animals, was not only riding Penny but carrying Lama as well. She had done it a number of times before. She held the rope of the halter as a single-sided rein while a comfortable Lama sat snugly with her two front paws around Penny’s mane. Lama enjoyed it, Penny displayed no objection while I, though appreciating the pleasant sight of cat, donkey and my pretty wife, also viewed the whole affair with a tolerant suspicion. It seemed to be asking for trouble. My weakness, however, was that I did not feel strongly enough about this to complain.

  We were in the field and were on the way back, a pastoral scene. Jeannie in pink pants astride Penny, Lama beatific and merging into Penny’s glossy coat. Fred and I a few yards ahead. Nothing untoward seemed about to happen. We were all enjoying ourselves. Jeannie was telling me that Lama was purring, Penny was pausing at intervals to snatch a mouthful of grass, Fred wearing his bright, white halter, was taking a great interest in all around. Why this? What’s that? In every glance one sensed the gay inquisitiveness of the very young.

  Fred and I reached the open gateway of the field, then turned right down the sloping lane leading for the cottage. It was, on my part, a thoughtless mistake. I was so amused by the way Fred was enjoying himself, leading me by his halter instead of me leading him, that I never thought of waiting for Jeannie. The setting was too normal and peaceful for me to imagine that Penny might panic when Fred disappeared out of her sight.

  Suddenly I heard Jeannie shout. Then I saw Penny come out of the field at the gallop, jump a ditch, and in an instant she was dashing towards me. Her head was down, she looked wild, and had she been by herself I would have jumped aside and let her race on. But to my horror Jeannie was still astride her, vainly trying to grip with her legs . . . for in her hands she held Lama.

  She said afterwards that her only concern was to save Lama. Lama, she visioned, would be trampled on. Lama was the only one in danger, not herself. But for me who was standing there in her path, a flash of my life which seemed an eternity, her fall at speed to the granite-based, jagged stone surface of the lane was inevitable. Lama, as far as I was concerned, could look after herself.

  Jeannie was slipping to the side on my right. She was silent, no calling out for help.

  ‘I’m going to the right,’ I shouted.

  My instinct was to try to catch her, cowboy fashion, taking her as she fell, leaving Penny to gallop on. I let Fred go and held out my arms.

  I do not now think I had a chance to succeed. Penny was moving too fast, too heavy for me to check her, and indeed the very fact that I was standing there made her swerve as she reached me; and that was the moment when Jeannie fell.

  My right hand seemed to clasp her for a brief instant, and then I was buffeted as Penny raced past me. The sound of the hooves disappeared. Incongruously I was aware of a lark singing. A rattle of a tractor came from a distance. All was normal again, quiet and peaceful and pastoral, as it had been five minutes before.

  I knelt down beside Jeannie, quite still and eyes shut, and cupped her head in my hands.

  12

  Jeannie was unconscious for three or four minutes, and I was at a loss to know whether to stay with her or leave her and hurry for help. I took off my jersey and made it a pillow under her head. And I had just decided to rush up to the farm, when she opened her eyes.

  ‘Where’s Lama?’ she murmured.

  Hell, I said to myself, here I am frantic with worry and all she thinks of is Lama.

  ‘Lama’s all right,’ I said soothingly, ‘what about you?’

  As it happened I hadn’t a notion what had happened to Lama. I remembered that as Jeannie fell she flung Lama forward so that Lama flew past me like a small black football. Then she disappeared into the pandemonium of Penny’s gallop.

  The fact, however, that Jeannie had spoken sent bells ringing through me. The question of Lama could wait, so also the whereabouts of the donkeys.

  ‘I had better get you to hospital.’

  ‘No fear.’

  ‘Come on, no argument, please.’

  I was delighted, of course, that she did choose to argue. Here was the good sign. The bossy, if faint, contradiction. Her injury could not be serious.

  I helped her to her feet and I walked with her leaning on me, slowly back to the cottage.

  ‘Please don’t take me to hospital.’

  Her chin was cut and bleeding.

  ‘All right,’ I said, thankful for the alertness she was showing, ‘we’ll compromise. We’ll see if we can find an off-duty doctor.’

  We had reached Monty’s Leap. A few yards further on there was a grass verge, just big enough for us to park the Land Rover sometimes during the daffodil season. It was opposite that section of the stables we used as a packing shed.

  ‘Now look . . .’ And I couldn’t help smiling.
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br />   ‘Donkeys!’ said Jeannie. And she too smiled.

  Two shamefaced donkeys. Halters still harnessing their heads, the ropes dragging the ground. They stood there waiting patiently for us to come to them, Fred so close to Penny that they were touching.

  ‘Wasn’t really our fault, was it, Mum?’

  ‘Quiet, son.’

  We saw no sign of Lama, and as it was growing late I decided I had to wait until we got back before I searched for her, and search I did when an hour and a half later we returned from the doctor. It was dark. Jeannie, with a bandaged chin and mild concussion, had gone to bed. And for the life of me I could not find Lama.

  ‘Lama! Lama!’

  Lama was usually an obedient cat, if it is possible to call any cat obedient. She obeyed because I would choose a moment to call her when I guessed she was in the mood to respond. If my guess was wrong, if my echoing voice reached her while she was on sentry duty beside a tuft of grass or a hole in the hedge, she, of course, ignored me. Thus her reputation of being obedient depended on me; and a reliable occasion when our minds coincided was at night. She always came home to the comfort of the cottage, to a saucer of milk, to a Jeannie-prepared plate of some delicacy, to a deep slumber on our bed. What, then, had happened to her?

  I searched the customary hunting grounds, went into the wood flashing my torch, walked round the greenhouses, came back by a bank where for two or three days she had been picking off a family of mice one by one. Then down the track towards the sea, back again to the cottage and up the path to the well. No sign whatsoever, and I began to worry whether Penny in her mad gallop had kicked her; and Lama was lying injured and unable to move. If that were the case she would probably have dragged herself into the undergrowth near where the accident occurred.