Flash the Sheep Dog

by Kathleen Fidler

  Contents

  Title Page

  1. Tom Goes to Birkhope

  2. The Friday Market and What Came of It

  3. Flash’s Training Begins

  4. Three Visits and a Tweed Cap

  5. Adventure in the Fog

  6. Winter Storm

  7. Tom and Flash Both Have Hunches

  8. The Miracle and the Marauder

  9. The Sheep Dog Trials

  Copyright

  1. Tom Goes to Birkhope

  “You’ll write to me, Tom?”

  The small sandy-haired boy with freckles nodded.

  “You’ve got the American address in your notebook all right?” his sister asked.

  Tom Stokes nodded again. He wished the guard would wave his flag and let the train get on its way. Though he was miserable at parting with Kate, he hated this prolonged leave-taking.

  “You know, Tom, I’d take you with me to America but there isn’t time to make arrangements now – and – and I haven’t got the money for your fare out there.”

  “I’ll be all right, Kate. Don’t worry!” For Kate’s sake Tom managed to smile.

  “Give my love to Uncle John and Aunt Jane. They’ll be glad to see you,” Kate sought to reassure him with assumed brightness.

  Tom said nothing and the colour mounted in Kate’s face. “You know I don’t really want to leave you behind, Tom. It’s just that Hymer – Hymer—”

  “Hymer won’t be expecting you to bring a kid brother along with you when you arrive in America to get married.” Tom said with flat honesty.

  Tears sprang to Kate’s eyes. “I shall send for you, Tom, just as soon as Hymer says the word and I’ve saved up the fare.”

  “I’ll be all right, Kate.” He pressed his lips close together but a close observer might have seen that the corners of his mouth were trembling, despite the bravado of his twelve years.

  “If only Aunt Susan hadn’t died when she did, it would have given me time—” Kate began again.

  “Please don’t fuss, Kate.” Tom felt if she said any more, he might begin to weep too. If he let Kate know how unhappy he was at parting with her, she might postpone her arrangements for going to America, and Tom knew what that meant to her.

  “You’ll like it up there at the farm,” she said persuadingly.

  “If I don’t, I can always run away,” Tom said with a laugh.

  “Oh, Tom, you mustn’t do that!” Kate sounded troubled.

  “Cheer up, Kate! Maybe I was just kidding you.”

  The bustle of King’s Cross station grew more intense; folk crowding round the tea trollies on the platform snatched up their tea and cartons of orange juice and fled hurriedly to their compartments. Kate gave Tom a quick peck of a kiss and rushed out to the platform. Tom called to her through the window, “Don’t worry about me, Kate. I’ll get by. I hope you like America.”

  The guard was waving his green flag.

  “Remember to write to me!” came the last imploring cry from Kate. She ran alongside the train as it began to move, waving to him. Tom waved back; the train gathered momentum and Kate stopped running and stood, a disconsolate dwindling figure on the platform.

  Though to Kate Tom had tried to seem tough, he suddenly felt very alone and he stared hard through the window so that no one in the compartment should see how near he was to weeping. Soon the train left behind the soot-begrimed walls and the maze of streets. They passed a suburb of newly built houses with gardens and a belt of green lawns. Tom watched the stations roar upon the train and sink back behind it. He thought of all that had happened in the last few weeks. It had all begun with the sudden death of Aunt Susan with whom Tom and Kate lived. Aunt Susan had brought them up after the death of their parents in a road accident.

  All Kate’s arrangements to sail to New York and marry Hymer Scanlon had been made before Aunt Susan died. If she put off her sailing now, it might be some time before she could get another passage; and she could not take Tom with her. They could not stay long in their present home either for the flat had been rented in Aunt Susan’s name and the landlord gave them notice because he wanted to sell it. Kate was at her wits’ end to know what to do with Tom. Then, all at once, she found a solution to her problem.

  She came upon a bundle of old letters while turning out cupboards and drawers. They were from Aunt Susan’s brother, a sheep farmer in the south of Scotland. There were not many letters and it was several years since the last one was written. On an impulse, Kate sat down and wrote to John Meggetson and told him of his sister’s death and her own predicament. To her surprise an answer came quite soon.

  John Meggetson had turned the letter over to his wife, Jane. After she had read it she said, “The poor lassie does seem to be in a fix. I’m thinking we must do something to help her, John. Maybe we could have the laddie here till she’s got settled in America? She says she’ll send for him as soon as she’s able.”

  “Aye,” John agreed. He was a man of few words and usually left the talking to his wife.

  “There’s plenty of room for him here and I’d like to have a bairn about the house. I miss our own lassies now they’re married.”

  “Will he not find it strange here after London?” John asked.

  “Och, he’ll soon get used to it! There’s plenty on a farm to interest a lad. Write and tell Kate we’ll not see her stuck and that we’ll take the boy for a while. After all, he’s your own sister’s son and we ought to do something for him.”

  “Aye, that’s so,” John Meggetson agreed.

  “Then just you put pen to paper and tell Kate to speak with us on the phone to make arrangements. She could put Tom on the train and you could fetch him from Edinburgh.”

  As the train sped north, Tom began to wonder what the new home in Scotland would be like. Birkhope was the name of his uncle’s farm. Birkhope? Tom’s imagination began to turn Birkhope into a mansion surrounded by parklands. Kate had said that Uncle Meggetson was “not badly off”. Tom’s fancy magnified this into great wealth. Perhaps his uncle went hunting on a great horse with hounds baying at his heels? Perhaps a fine river ran through the parklands of Birkhope? Maybe rich Uncle John would have a boat on the river too? Perhaps he would have a cabin cruiser like Tom had seen on the Thames at Richmond? Tom’s mind went racing on from dream to dream of wealth and exciting living.

  His uncle had told Kate he would meet Tom at Waverley Station with a car. What kind of a car? Tom finally decided on a Jaguar, a sleek Jaguar that would purr along the road to Birkhope. Here Tom’s dreams became a little confused and the purr of the Jaguar mingled with the rumpetty-tum of the train and soon he was fast asleep in his corner.

  After Newcastle the railway began to follow the coast and Tom got tantalizing glimpses of the sea. The train crossed the Tweed at Berwick and minutes later they were in Scotland. Tom looked through the window, feeling more strange and bewildered with every mile the train sped north. The country was so different from London, so empty, so lonely. Tom had no idea there were places like this, without houses and people. He felt a strange misgiving. What would Birkhope be like? When they reached the Firth of Forth he felt more reassured. At least here was a big estuary, wider even than the Thames, with ships coming and going on it. Where there were ships there must be docks and harbours too. There would still be a river to watch and streets to roam, and perhaps other boys to go wandering with him?

  At last the train passed between streets of high crowding tenements, and roaring through a canyon of high stone walls, drew into Waverley Station.

  Tom lifted his battered suitcase from the rack and followed the rest of the passengers out of the train. He stood on the platform, a bewildered small boy, with the people surging past on either si
de of him like the eddies in a mountain stream. Tom looked about him desperately. However would he find his uncle among all these people? He followed the crowd to the platform exit and was almost the last to step through the barrier. Suddenly someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hullo, laddie! Are you Tom Stokes?”

  Tom sprang round to face a stocky, sturdy man in a shabby tweed suit. His face was brown and weather-beaten, his eyes blue and keen as if used to looking into far distances.

  Tom swallowed a little. “Y–yes, I’m Tom Stokes,” he stammered.

  “I thought you were. I recognized you from your photograph. I’m your Uncle John.”

  Tom shook hands rather limply with John Meggetson.

  His heart sank a little, for this was not a bit like the rich uncle of his dreams.

  “This way, Tom. I’ll take your case. I’ve got the farm wagon on the ramp going out of the station. It’s a job to get parked anywhere near the station these days.”

  The “wagon” was a rather battered Land Rover which had seen good service on the farm.

  “Hop in next to the driver’s seat: here, beside me,” Uncle John said.

  There was a distinct smell of sheep inside the Land Rover. The seat at the back had been taken out and instead there was a square space from which a large ram glared balefully at Tom. Tom wrinkled his nose at the smell of sheep droppings.

  “I heard there was a good ram for sale at the cattle market at Gorgie today, so I took the opportunity to buy it while I was in Edinburgh,” John Meggetson explained. “Do you know anything about sheep?”

  Tom shook his head. After that the conversation dropped, for John Meggetson was busy extricating his wagon from the maze of traffic that rattled over the Waverley Bridge. He took a turn to the left up a steep street, then out into a road lined with big shops. Tom stared through the car window. Edinburgh looked a sizable place. It might be fun to explore it.

  “Do you come to Edinburgh often, Uncle John?” he asked.

  “No. Only now and again to the cattle market at Gorgie.”

  Tom was silent for a while, then he asked, “Is there a river at Birkhope?”

  “Not exactly a river. There’s a burn runs down to the Tweed.”

  “A burn?” Tom sounded puzzled.

  “Maybe in England you call it a stream. Why, are you interested in fishing?” Mr Meggetson’s voice brightened.

  “Do you fish from a boat?” Tom asked eagerly.

  “No, no, laddie! I just put on my waders and step out a bit from the river bank. If you’d like to learn, maybe some evening I could show you how to cast a fly. Trout fishing, ye ken?”

  Tom shook his head. He could hardly understand what Uncle John was saying, for his accent was so different from the way people talked in London. Conversation languished. On the road shops gave way to houses, then houses to fields and before long they were in the country. Soon wide moors lined each side of the road. To Tom the landscape seemed more and more lonely and desolate with each mile they covered. Green rounded hills, looking rain-washed, faded into the blue of the horizon. Uncle John nodded towards them.

  “Great country, this, for sheep. Thousands of them bred on those hills!”

  “Is there anything besides sheep?” Tom asked, his heart sinking slightly.

  “Most farmers keep a few milk cows and maybe the odd pig,” Uncle John replied practically, thinking in terms of farming.

  “But what do people do here?” Tom wanted to know.

  “Do? I reckon most folk do farming. Sheep pay weel these days both for wool and mutton.”

  Tom lapsed into silence. There seemed nothing but sheep and hills, hills and sheep. As John Meggetson was a man of few words, he fell silent too. The road ran alongside a swift small river. The wagon turned off the high road and along a narrower road that climbed between the rounded green hills. They reached a gate across a muddy lane. “Just open the gate for me, lad,” Meggetson said.

  Tom got down and swung open the gate and the Land Rover drove through. Tom was about to climb in again when his uncle said in surprise, “You’ve not shut the gate, Tom! We’ve got to shut gates here or we’d have valuable animals straying to the high road. That’s the first thing you’ll have to learn – always to shut the farm gates.”

  His uncle sounded so stern that Tom quailed a little.

  “Another few hundred yards and you’ll be there. Your aunt will have a good meal for you,” John Meggetson told him in a gentler voice. After all, he could not expect too much from a laddie who’d been brought up in London.

  The Land Rover rounded a green hillock and they came on Birkhope, its small-paned windows glinting in the late afternoon sun. It was a square Scottish house with windows on each side of a central porch and dormer windows in the roof. To Tom they looked like watching eyes. He was surprised to find the house made of stone. He had expected to see a brick house such as those in London. Behind the house stretched the farm outbuildings; the byre with its cows; the hay barn; the grain shed; the hen houses and a row of pens for sheep. All was neat, tidy and orderly. A few hundred yards away on a slight rise behind the house was a small wood of fir trees which sheltered the steading from the keen blasts of winter.

  “Weel, laddie, this is to be your hame for a while,” Uncle John said as he brought the wagon to a standstill before the door.

  “‘Hame’?” Tom was puzzled by the new word.

  “Home, you call it, maybe, south of the Border,” Uncle John told him drily.

  The door flew open and Aunt Jane appeared with welcoming outstretched hand. “Ah, there you are, Tom! Come in, laddie! Come ben!” she said warmly.

  Tom, shaking her hand, looked round, wondering who “Ben” might be. For a moment he thought it might be the ram that his uncle was hauling out of the back of the Land Rover, but surely his aunt would never invite a sheep into the house? Aunt Jane, however, led Tom into a large kitchen were a bright fire burned in an open grate. A black and white collie dog rose from the hearth rug and came to sniff at Tom’s legs.

  “Now, Jeff, under the table with you!” Aunt Jane pointed to the table and Jeff obediently disappeared underneath it. The table was set with a tempting array of homemade scones and sponge cake.

  “I’ll show you your room first, Tom,” Aunt Jane said briskly. “Bring up your suitcase.”

  Tom followed her upstairs to a square landing with several doors leading off it. Aunt Jane opened one of them. “This is your room, Tom. If you want a wash, the bathroom’s across the landing. Don’t be too long before you come down to the kitchen. Your uncle will be ready for his meat. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” She disappeared down the stairs again.

  Tom looked round his room. There was a single bed with a spotless white counterpane and a white painted chair. Beneath the window were a couple of shelves for books and a small painted chest of drawers. A curtained recess served for a wardrobe. Tom looked round him with pleasure. It was bigger and brighter than the small cramped boxroom he had had in London. He crossed to the window and opened it. It looked towards a hill upon which sheep were pastured. Beyond it, stretching to the sky, were other green hills with more sheep. Not a house was in sight! Tom thought of the noisy London street with its roar of traffic and felt suddenly homesick for it.

  “Nothing but sheep!” he said with a sigh.

  He stood staring at the cloud shadows chasing each other across the hill till he suddenly remembered his aunt’s warning not to be too long. He rushed to the bathroom, had a quick wash, dashed a comb through his hair, then hurried downstairs.

  Uncle John was already seated in his chair at the head of the table. With a hint of impatience in his voice he said, “Take your seat, lad!” and pointed to a chair at his right hand.

  Aunt Jane lifted a big tureen of soup from the hob at the side of the fire and set it down at her place. She ladled plentiful helpings of broth from it and set the soup plates before each of them, then took her own seat.

  “Are we ready
now?” Uncle John asked.

  Tom took this as a signal to begin and lifted his soup spoon, only to find Uncle John’s eye upon him in a reproving stare of surprise.

  “We’ll ask a blessing first,” his uncle said.

  Tom put down his soup spoon as if it were red hot and it fell with a clatter to the floor. His uncle waited silently while Tom picked it up again. Tom, covered with confusion, blushed to the roots of his hair. In a slightly louder voice than usual Uncle John spoke rather a long grace. Once it was said, he gave himself to the serious business of eating.

  “Come along, Tom! Take your broth. You’ll be hungry after your long journey,” Aunt Jane said kindly.

  Tom tasted the broth. It was thick and full of vegetables, onions, carrot, turnips, shredded kale. It was quite unlike any soup he had had before. Kate’s usual way of making soup was to slit open a packet. There was something rich and good about this soup his aunt had made, but Tom wished she had not given him quite such a big helping of it. His uncle had finished long before Tom had reached the bottom of his plate. Tom was worried about keeping them waiting but he did not like to leave any broth for fear of a reproof.

  “Another helping, Tom?” his aunt asked.

  “No, thank you,” Tom replied quickly, but he hastened to add, “It’s very good soup though. I’ve never had that kind of soup before.”

  “Aye, you uncle likes his sheep’s heid broth,” Aunt Jane remarked.

  “Sheep’s heid?” Tom repeated, wondering what on earth it was.

  “Made from the head of a sheep,” Aunt Jane explained.

  Immediately Tom felt a bit sick! How could anyone use such a horrible thing as a sheep’s head to make soup? He wished he had not eaten all of it. Aunt Jane never noticed Tom’s discomfiture, however, but removed the plates and set the second course before them. This time the plates were heaped with potatoes, mashed turnips and a strange kind of dark meat, something like a sausage without its skin.

  “Ah! Haggis and bashed neeps!” Uncle John said with satisfaction. “D’ye like haggis, Tom?”