As his interpretation of Sheba's method had been to sit bang in front of a hole, breathe down it, peer down it, and, when all else failed, put his paw down it in an effort to liven things up, we appreciated this new development. Solomon, we said, was actually thinking.
It was a pity he had to choose the path to put his deductions into practice, though. In order not to disturb him, we now couldn't walk up it. Mustn't come between a cat and his mouse-hole, must we? Charles called encouragingly' across to him as we took our new route to the garage – up the path as usual to begin with; a wide, semi-circular detour across the lawn at the point of operation; and then rejoining the path further on.
It was all very well in daylight, but when Charles did it one night in the dusk he fell over the snowberry bush. Even in daylight it had its drawbacks, too. Our garden is low-walled and open to the public gaze. The path being sunken, people looking in as they passed – as, in the country, they invariably do – couldn't see Solomon sitting in it mouse-watching. All they could see was us, apparently bonkers at last, proceeding in mysterious semi-circles over the lawn.
It was peaceful, nevertheless. Sheba by the woodshed; Solomon in the path; Robertson, with a defiantly turned back indicating no connection with anybody, hunting all by himself in the paddock hedge.
All was peaceful with Annabel, too. It had been Janet's idea to take her waist measurement when she came back from being mated. Owing to their being barrel-shaped it is very difficult to tell when donkeys are in foal – but this way, said Janet inspiredly, we couldn't go wrong. Measure her now... measure her in six months' time... the difference would be bound to show.
We measured her. Fifty-four inches. We looked at her incredulously. Fifty-four inches now, when to our eyes she looked quite thin? What must she have been before? we wondered. And what, if one could encompass such expansion, would she measure when her time was up?
Fifty-four feet, judging by the way she was eating. 'Eating for two, remember!' said Miss Wellington coyly, whose chief occupation these days seemed to be making Yorkshire Puddings, having a spoonful herself, and bringing the remainder down to Annabel to keep up her strength. It wasn't just the amount that was suspicious, either. Annabel was eating nettles. Fresh ones from the hedgerows, dusty ones from the edges of the lane, dried-up old dead ones from the bonfire heap where they'd been put for burning and were pulled out and eaten by Annabel as she passed as if she would die on the spot without them. Seeing that she'd previously declared nettles were poison and she'd die on the spot if she ate them, we were certain that something was up. So we were when Annabel fell down. Sure-footed, nimble as a goat, with legs like little stool-props on which she couldn't fall down, she was going up the lane when she did. A step or two up the bank to reach a dandelion and there she was, a typical expectant mother, rolling helplessly on her back in the dust.
We helped her up, felt her anxiously and decided that all was well. It was a sign though, we said. From then on we were more careful. Walked either side of her when we took her uphill. Tethered her on the lawn when the ground was frozen so she couldn't trip over things. Which was one of the reasons why, that year, we had a somewhat eventful Christmas.
It began with the Hazells going to London. Over Christmas itself this time, to visit their parents. If we could feed Rufus, said Janet hesitantly, and keep the Aga going till Boxing Night...? Of course we would, we said warmly. No trouble at all. So Jim fixed the Aga to burn more slowly – that way, he said, we need stoke it only once a day; he knew we'd be busy with visitors – and off, waving happily, they went.
I'd said not to touch that Aga. We were going up twice a day in any case to feed Rufus. We weren't experts at Agas ourselves. I'd have felt much safer doing it twice a day, as we'd always done in the past.
It was all right the first night. The Aga was doing well. Next morning – Christmas Eve – it was noticeably cooler. I filled it, riddled it furiously and hoped for the best. That night it was out. Charles, the super-optimist, insisted that it wasn't. Riddle it, he said, suiting his action to the words; open the bottom; in ten minutes it would be going like a bomb. Ten minutes later Rufus said it wasn't any warmer, was it? and Charles said he'd think of something. Meanwhile we took Rufus up a hot-water bottle.
I got little sleep that night. Charles's Aunt Ethel, who was staying with us for Christmas, never sleeps properly away from home as she is always telling us. What with listening to her bed springs creaking restlessly through the wall, her getting out of bed, her getting back again – after which, with the same sort of relief one gets from hearing the fall of the second boot, I ought to have been able to doze off only I was stark-eyed worrying about the Aga – I heard every hour strike till dawn.
To add to everything we'd had a heavy frost. The Aga out, the house getting colder, the Hazells coming home to a heatless Boxing Night – visions whirred through my mind like Cinemascope. When I got to the weather turning to snow, the Hazells being delayed, the pipes bursting and the carpets being ruined, I woke Charles in a panic. Nonsense, said Charles reassuringly. We'd get it going easily now we knew it was out. All we needed was some charcoal. What he'd overlooked, of course, was that it was now Christmas Day and we couldn't get any.
I will draw a veil over the events of the day that followed, save to say that at our party that night the chief topic was how to start Agas. Coal, suggested someone. If we stood by and watched it? In the intervals of cooking the turkey we'd tried that all the morning. Firelighters, suggested another. If we used enough of them? In between cutting sandwiches we'd tried those all the afternoon. Charcoal, insisted an expert; you couldn't use anything else. We gave him a nasty look.
It was colder than ever that night. The glass was dropping. The ground rang like iron when we saw our guests off and Rufus shivered visibly when we took up another hot-water bottle. Even Charles was wakeful when we went to bed, and at four in the morning he informed me that he had solved it.
We have one of those air-controlled open fires. A big one, with plenty of draught. Get our fire going like a smithy, said Charles; bring down some of the Aga fuel and lay it in rows on top; then he'd go up and empty the Aga, when he'd done he'd phone me at the cottage, I would then shovel the red-hot fuel into a bucket and run up the lane with it (I do an awful lot of running when you come to think of it), pour it into the empty stove, and Bob would be our uncle.
Surprisingly enough he was, though it was a good thing nobody actually saw me on my mission, heading hot-foot up the lane with the makings of a rattling good forest fire.
It was an old bucket with leaky seams. Running increased the draught and it was glowing like a brazier as I panted through the Hazell's door. Into the kitchen, down through the funnel, more fuel piled on top as fast as we could shovel it...
It worked. The world was a different place an hour later as we strolled back down the Valley. Behind us was a rapidly warming house, a tidied kitchen, a purring ginger cat sitting happily on the cover of the hot plate. Before us lay the rest of Boxing Day in which to relax. To chat to Aunt Ethel, pay some attention to the animals, go over to Charles's brother in the evening...