The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce

by Allan Ahlberg

  ‘I am the best of swimmers.’

  Yes, I expect you worked it out, it was the Sheep back there in the orchard. Her creamy fleece half luminous in the dark. Her mild face with its surprising glint of spectacles. Her woolly (?) scarf.

  We did not talk much at that time, the Sheep and I. It was late, I was weary. Percy, I may say, was yet full of beans, nattering on there in his hammock with no more audience than a couple of moths and a hedgehog.

  The following day began with a colossal downpour. For a whole hour I stood up at my bedroom window watching grey curtains of rain sweep in above the trees. The rain bouncing up from the patio slabs, the table and chairs, the mower. Another hedgehog's progress along the shrubbery. My beloved roses swaying and glowing even then in the gloom.*

  It was late afternoon before I was able to return, by mud-splattered bicycle, to the McFirkins' place. I sought the Sheep out where she sheltered, snug and dry, in a corner of the barn. With some reluctance – there were secrets here as well as lies, she implied – she nevertheless embarked upon her version of events.

  So here we are again on the day in question, early on a bright and fragrant morning (no disagreement there). Sunlight slanted across the house, the barn, the paddock. In the paddock – dew on the grass, cornflowers and buttercups – one VERY IMPORTANT SHEEP was safely grazing. A journey was necessary. The Sheep must be transported, with the utmost care and no delay, to Professor Bodley's. The McFirkin boy received his instructions. The Sheep was brought into the cart, made comfortable on a pile of blankets. The journey began.

  The Forest. The Sheep had little to say about the forest. She was no devotee of trees, preferred an open field – hedgerows – sky. In response to my enquiries, she confirmed that it was ‘Professor' not ‘Mr' Bodley (actually, it turned out ‘Doctor' was a possibility – Ha!), and that, as it happened, though no concern of hers, there was a wolf and a lettuce in the cart too. Naturally, I pressed her on this matter.

  ‘What can you tell me about the Wolf?’

  ‘He was a wolf.’

  ‘A tame one?’

  ‘Hardly. He was common.’

  ‘And the Lettuce?’

  ‘I scarcely noticed it.’

  Truth is, she was eating what might well have been a lettuce when I first arrived in the barn. Tucked it out of sight as I came in.

  The forest part of the story, so said the Sheep, was boring, bumpy and slow. The boy – Percival? – had an irritating inclination to whistle. The Wolf kept giving her looks.

  ‘What sort of looks?’

  ‘Wolf looks.’

  ‘Were you, er… worried?’

  ‘No. Yes. Sometimes.’

  The Sheep fell silent and stared studiously (it was the spectacles) about her. More rain was rattling on the roof of the barn. High up, suspended from a beam, a family of sleepy bats was twittering and squeaking. A lone cat sat in the open doorway looking out.

  I endeavoured to keep things moving.

  ‘Did you see any bandits at that time? Any tigers?’

  ‘No, not a one.’

  ‘A polecat maybe. A man with a wriggling sack?’

  ‘No.’ The Sheep shook her head. ‘Saw a squirrel – a multitude of mushrooms. Saw a milkman. Hm.’

  On went the story, eventually, and the cart with it. Out of the forest, along the wider road, dipping and swinging, with tantalizing smells of clover and cut grass (no broccoli?), down towards the river.

  And YES there was a bridge, and YES it was closed off, who knows why. And YES AND YES there was a pier – no ferryman though, or ‘missus’. No ferry boat.

  So now we come to it again: the river crossing. Actually, consulting my notes, I note (!) that this was the part the Sheep chose to tell first. Eager to contradict Percy's account, I suppose. As you can see, I have rearranged things chronologically. This tale is tangled enough as it is.

  On the subject of these notes, I should point out that even they are not always one hundred per cent reliable. There's a page here, for instance, all smudged with rain; a couple of others almost shredded (claw marks – I will explain later). And, of course, they are, after all, just notes, brief records or summaries set down to assist the memory.

  Except – and this is the point I want to make – Oh, Godfrey, it's taking an ETERNITY though for me to make it. Words do have a mind of their own, don't they? We struggle and sweat with all our might (some of us) for clarity – simplicity – concision. Yet somehow, time and time again, it all just gets away from us, and we are left…bamboozled. Yes, that's the word.

  Where was I?

  The Sheep. The point is, in her case the notes really are reliable. She talked in notes, little telegrams, all the time. Getting her to put ten words together was a triumph. Percy, you could say, made it up and said too much. The Sheep kept it to herself and said too little. The end result, in my opinion, was the same: DECEPTION. But never fear, rely on me. They cannot keep us in the dark forever. We will unravel this tangle yet.

  So CLARITY, SIMPLICITY, CONCISION:

  1 With no bridge and no ferry boat, Percy makes use of a canoe he's found.

  2 The canoe will accommodate only Percy himself and one other at a time. No problem, in the Sheep's opinion. Simply take her over, utmost care, no delay, and leave the others behind.

  3 Percy thinks differently. He takes the Sheep over first and goes back for the Lettuce.

  4 Realizes he can't leave the Lettuce with the Sheep, returns with the Lettuce and goes back with the Wolf.

  5 Realizes he can't leave the Wolf with the Sheep, returns with the Wolf and goes back for the Sheep.

  6 Sits on the bank with the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce.

  7 Scratches his head… and reads a comic.

  8 Whistles.

  Naturally at this point I asked again about the raft. Here, more or less word for word, is the exchange that followed:

  ‘Could you say a word or two about the raft?’

  ‘Yes: no… raft.’

  ‘Percy tells me he took (I consult my notes), he took his little axe and –’

  ‘No little axe.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Little fibber – little shrimp.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Could not chop his way out of a paper bag.’ (Ten words.)

  ‘I see, of course. So, er… no rescue then?’

  ‘Told you that already.’

  ‘No crowds – hm? No cheers?’

  Silence from the Sheep.

  By this time the rain had stopped for good. Dazzling rainbowed light, refracted from the puddles, bounced back and up into the barn through the open doorway. Soft waves of straw dust, hay dust, bat dust for all I know, swirled in the brighter air. Outside, children's voices, yelling and laughing, and the thud of a ball.

  The Sheep was becoming grumpy. She had a secretive nature, I realized, and disliked being questioned. Even so, I pressed on. (How else to sort things out?) If there was no raft, if Percy merely sat on the bank and read his comic, as the Sheep suggested, how in blazes did they get across? Because they did. That much is known; half a dozen witnesses at least confirmed it; confirmed their arrival, that is, if not the crossing itself.

  The Sheep frowned. Well, it was no thanks to Percy, according to her. It turned out not only did he read his comic, drink his fizzy drink, kick his football, he fell asleep as well. ‘Without help,’ (pay close attention to this), ‘Without help,’ the Sheep declared, ‘we'd still be there.’

  Whereupon, in one of those coincidences good stories are supposed to avoid, the football itself came flying through the doorway, scared the cat, bounced off a barrel and caught the Sheep a glancing blow on the side of her head. Which was rotten luck for all concerned, except the ball. The Sheep acquired a muddy patch on her otherwise spotless fleece, her glasses were undamaged though, and I lost any chance of continuing my investigations. What help?… Who from?… And when?… And where?… And… Oh, botheration, how exasperating.

  The Sheep rose t
o her feet and huffily, peevishly, silently departed. Meanwhile, Percy and his little sister came charging into the barn, all smiles and greetings, recovered the ball and charged out again. I packed my bag and trudged off. Mrs McFirkin was across the yard, pegging washing out. Sensing my dejection, perhaps, though she was a kindly soul in any case, she invited me onto the veranda for a cup of tea. Presently, up rushed Percy, eager to show off his latest acquisition, a bowlful of little frogs, and tell me his latest adventure. Came down in the rain, they had. Sucked up by a waterspout, he wouldn't wonder. Caught 'em in his hat. And Rosalind, perched up on her mother's knee with a biscuit, mouthed a single silent comment of her own in my direction.

  ‘Fibber!’

  [5] Space, Time and Grandma Pumfrey

  Anyone who isn't confused doesn't really understand the situation.*

  Ed Murrow

  Clarity, Simplicity, Concision – yes. On the other hand, Confusion, Mystery, Doubt. I mean, what are we to make of things so far? According to Percy, he drives the cart to the river, constructs a raft and delivers the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce to their destinations.

  i.e. The Wolf to Grandma Pumfrey's

  The Sheep to Mr/Prof/Dr Bodley

  The Lettuce to Auntie Joyce

  According to the Sheep, it's mainly – utmost care, no delay – the Sheep who's delivered. There's no raft but there is a canoe. Which is no use because Percy can't work out how to get them over one at a time. Percy dozes off on the bank and without some mysterious HELP, which the Sheep declined to CLARIFY, they'd all still be there.

  The Sheep appears more trustworthy than the boy. On the other hand (how many hands is that?), she's also more secretive, and (have you noticed?) inclined to enlarge her own role in the story, i.e. a bit of a bighead. Later on, for instance, when she heard this book might eventually be published, she proposed in all seriousness her own alternative title: The Very Important Sheep.

  Hm. Where was I? Ah, yes, on the veranda.

  I remained at the McFirkin place for a couple of hours. My cup of tea was accompanied by delicious home-made biscuits. Later on there was pork pie, tomatoes and a Scotch egg. When Mr McFirkin showed up, on his mud-splattered bicycle (plus bucket and ladder), there was delicious home-made beer and introductions.

  ‘Here's Mr Smout, the writer, dear – come to see us!’

  And, ‘This is my husband… Hermann.’

  Mrs McFirkin, it turned out, was a great reader with a high regard for authors, yours truly included, or even in particular. The children, of course, had never heard of me.

  Anyway, such HOSPITALITY. I live alone, you see, or did in those days. Simply to have a PLATE brought to me with FOOD upon it and a mug of FOAMING beer, was a huge relaxing pleasure. It did, however, I must confess, undermine my determination to question Mrs McFirkin in particular about the activities of her son, the movement back and forth of the Sheep, the odd (to put it mildly) business with the Wolf and the whereabouts of the Lettuce. Though I did try.

  Mrs McFirkin was tall, wide and strong, a wonderful woodcutter, if somewhat vague and dreamy at times. She loved, of course, her little boy to bits, and his little sister likewise. The possibility that there could be any flaw in his nature was for her an impossibility. Thus she confirmed that Percy had left the house (on that bright and fragrant morning) with his unlikely load: Lettuce to the left of him, Wolf to the right, Sheep to the rear. And so on, and so on. Completed his assignments. Slept the night at Auntie Joyce's. Come home safe and sound.

  The Lettuce, Mrs McFirkin explained, was her own prize candidate in the horticultural show: salad section. The Sheep belonged to (let's call him ‘Professor’, shall we, for sanity's sake), to Professor Bodley. He paid the McFirkins to lodge and supervise the Sheep from time to time in their clover-rich paddock and feed her extra vitamins.

  The Wolf – Ah, here we come to it – the Wolf was, er… Mrs McFirkin hesitated (embarrassed, guilty perhaps?), a hesitation soon reinforced and extended by the arrival of her hot and thirsty husband, the bedtimes of her children, washing up of crockery, blowing of nose. Etc.

  Well, it was a tough question to put to so soft-hearted a mother whose hospitality you're still enjoying: ‘How could you send your little boy off all alone through the forest WITH A WOLF?’

  Yes, a tough question. I never asked it.

  Thus, eventually, the shadows lengthened across the yard, the bats came skimming out of the barn, the forest itself gave every appearance of creeping up on the well-lit, cosy house… and I departed.

  * * *

  The Sheep. Before completing my journey home through the darkening forest, I ought, I think, to say a little more, a page or two, about the Sheep. It occurs to me I have not been entirely fair to this extraordinary creature, ‘A scientific marvel!’ in some people's opinion. I mean ‘bighead’, that's just rude, isn't it? Out of order. I should not have written it. The thing is, I do HAVE MY MOODS, that's the truth of it. Sometimes – Oh, dear! – am up and down like a yo-yo, round and round like a revolving door, in and out like a… well, never mind.

  Anyway (or as my old mother would say, ‘Any road up’), the Sheep. Yes, she was conceited. Yes, she was a snob. But, and this is the point, she was not boring. No, sir, she knew a thing or two, that Sheep, scientific stuff mostly, gathered, I understand, from her long association with Prof Bodley. That bit I wrote earlier, for instance, ‘rainbowed light refracted from the puddles’, that was her. I would not have thought of it. She told me also, on a separate occasion, some absolutely fascinating things about spiders' webs. I have an interest in spiders. My garden's full of 'em. Anyway, spiders' webs, it turns out, are in proportion stronger than steel hawsers. They can stop a bee doing 20 mph dead in his tracks. Prof Bodley, it seems, among his many other researches, has produced a prototype artificial spiders' silk, thick as a washing line, that, it's rumoured, can stop an F16 fighter aircraft dead in its tracks. My word.

  Yes, a clever character, that Sheep, maybe the cleverest, brainiest character in the entire book. Except Prof Bodley, himself, who hardly appears. Oh, yes, and except ONE OTHER, who shall be revealed. And I don't mean me. I mean, I'm not in the book, not really, am I? Or am I? I suppose, from your point of view, looking down now on the page, scratching your ear perhaps, feeling a bit peckish, I probably am. Hm… how peculiar, I never thought of that: an author in his own book.

  Where was I? Well, not where I ought to be, that's the truth. I should be getting on with the Wolf's version by now, not lured away like some well-deceived bloodhound. This chapter is entitled, ‘Space, Time and Grandma Pumfrey’. For some reason I'd got it into my head to tell you what the Sheep told me about time. ‘Time,’ she said, in that deep voice of hers. ‘Time is what keeps everything from happening all at once.’ She said things about space too. All very interesting. All TOTALLY IRRELEVANT. And Grandma Pumfrey really belongs in the next chapter, not this. I don't know, sometimes this head of mine feels like a beehive.

  Time to go home.

  The Forest (again). Moonlight lay across its winding paths, illuminating its clearings, glittering on its sudden puddles and ponds. The little lamp of my bicycle added its shine to the general illumination. Dark shifting shadows crowded at the edges of my sight. Eyes blinked in the blackness. Warm, humid, mushroomy smells rose up around me. I had a rendezvous tomorrow WITH A WOLF. Something furry and alive brushed fleetingly against my cheek. I felt a sudden, irresistible desire… to whistle.

  [6] The Wolf's Version

  Do I contradict myself?

  Very well then I contradict myself.

  I am large, I contain multitudes.

  Walt Whitman

  Good morning! Pinkish sunlight in at my window. I sit here, still in my pyjamas, and review the day ahead. My spirits are once more rising. The disappointments and failures of yesterday are behind me. The mysteries and apprehensions of the forest likewise. Today, Oh yes, today I will bounce back. You, dear reader, on the other hand, I can sense it, you think we've m
ore or less had it, don't you? That this maze, this rigmarole, this TARADIDDLE will go on, not to say multiply and expand, forever. Don't you? Yes, you do. Don't argue.

  Well, be that as it may, I for my part am a terrier. Tenacity is my middle name. (Actually, it really is.) I will get at the truth of this business, you can be sure. If it is hidden, I will uncover it; buried, I'll dig it up; baked in a pie, I'll eat it (no – not that).

  Anyway, on to Grandma Pumfrey's.

  The Wolf. The Wolf, when I first saw him, was lolling back on an old green velvet sofa with a takeaway pizza box beside him. There was a rug on the floor, a pile of newspapers. A mirror was nailed to the back wall and a ‘three little pigs' mobile suspended from the roof. The pen (or cage), which is what the Wolf was in, was situated, along with a number of others, in the garden of Grandma Pumfrey's house. A high wall enclosed the garden and security lights had been installed. The pen itself, however, did not look all that secure to me. The bars were thin, I thought, the lock and chain on the door, flimsy.

  I approached and sat down on a garden chair, which Grandma Pumfrey had helpfully provided. (She, by the way, must have been the youngest grandma the world has ever seen. Her name was not Pumfrey either. More of this later.) The Wolf appeared to be dozing. I took up my notebook and pencil, cleared my throat and was about to speak, when –

  ‘HEY!’ yelled the Wolf.

  Whereupon I, of course, leapt out of my skin.

  The Wolf sat up and smiled lazily.

  ‘Hi, there.’

  He had not been dozing at all. It amused him, I rapidly discovered, to make people, er, what's the word…

  JUMP!

  See what I mean?

  So, the scene is set: the walled garden; the painted wooden pen (or cage); the high blue sky with its scudding clouds; the aroma of honeysuckle (and pizza?); the racket of ducks on a nearby pond; traffic in the road.

  The Wolf it turned out was in custody, under lock and key temporarily at Grandma Pumfrey's, but soon to be transferred to the local jail. Investigations were in progress. The charges, or allegations I should say, included the actual or attempted eating of Grandma Pumfrey herself, plus a number of small children, little pigs, chickens, ducks and so on. I learned much of this from the Wolf himself. He possessed, it must be said, an unusual mind, capable at one moment of confessing to or boasting of the most dreadful deeds, and at the next protesting his eternal innocence and denying everything.