Dick King-Smith's Book of Pets Page 7

Lucky ducks, he thought. He moved forward a step or two into the shallows at the edge of the pond. How cool the water felt!

  Just then a brood of little yellow ducklings came swimming past.

  ‘Excuse me!’ the chick called. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  The fleet of ducklings turned as one, and paddled towards him. ‘Ask away, chick,’ they cried.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘how did you all learn to swim?’

  ‘Learn?’ they cried, and they gave a chorus of shrill squeaks that sounded like laughter.

  ‘We didn’t learn,’ one said.

  ‘We didn’t have to.’

  ‘We just did it.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Like ducklings do.’

  ‘Well,’ said the chick, ‘the thing is – I want to learn to swim.’

  ‘Tough luck, chick,’ they said.

  ‘Chickens can’t swim,’ one added.

  ‘Your feathers aren’t waterproof.’

  ‘And your feet aren’t webbed.’

  ‘So, forget it, chick.’

  ‘But I can’t forget it,’ said the chick and, in his eagerness to do as the ducklings did, he took another couple of steps forward till the water was up to his knee joints. ‘Don’t go!’ he called to his new friends. ‘Just tell me, what do I do next?’

  And with one voice, they called back one word. ‘Drown!’ And they paddled away making their laughing noises.

  The chick took another couple of steps until he felt the water against his breast, and very cold it felt too. At that moment he heard the noise of pounding footsteps, and turned to see Jemima – the farmer’s daughter – running towards him. Then hands grasped him and scooped him up.

  ‘You silly boy!’ said a voice in his ear. ‘Whatever d’you think you’re doing? Anyone would suppose you were trying to swim. Chickens can’t, you know. Waterproof feathers and webbed feet – that’s what you need for swimming.’

  Jemima carried the chick into the kitchen of the farmhouse and was drying his wet bits when her mother came in.

  ‘What have you got there, Jemima?’ she asked.

  ‘One of those eight chicks that are out in the orchard, Mum. He was wading into the duckpond, silly boy. Perhaps he thinks he’s a duck. I told him, chickens aren’t cut out for swimming.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He made a funny noise, almost as though he was angry at being picked up.’ She held the chick out before her face. ‘Didn’t you, Frank?’

  ‘Frank? Is that what you are going to call him?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Well, that was what the funny noise sounded like. “Frank! Frank!” he squawked. I can’t put him back in the orchard, Mum, he’ll drown himself, I’m sure he will – won’t you, funny Frank?’

  ‘Where are you going to keep him then?’

  ‘I’ll put him in that big empty rabbit hutch till I decide what to do. I’ll ask Uncle Ted – he might know.’

  Uncle Ted was Jemima’s father’s brother. He was a vet, which was very useful whenever Jemima’s father had a sick animal.

  Jemima rang her uncle at his surgery.

  ‘Uncle Ted,’ she said. ‘It’s Jemima. I want to ask you about something. Are you coming anywhere near us today?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ted Tabb, ‘as a matter of fact I am. My last call is only a couple of miles from you. I’ll look in if you like. About teatime. Just in case your mum has got any of those fruit scones about.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’

  ‘What’s the trouble, Jemima?’

  ‘I’ve got a chicken that wants to be a duck!’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Tea’s ready,’ called Jemima’s mother. ‘Either of you fancy one of my fruit scones?’ she asked, just as her husband and his brother came into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, please, Carrie,’ said Ted, and, ‘Me too,’ said his brother, Tom, and then, ‘What’s up then, Ted? I never called you.’

  ‘No, but Jemima did,’ said the vet. ‘Seems she’s got a problem with one of her chicks.’

  ‘I expect you’ll sort it out,’ said the farmer. ‘Mind he doesn’t charge you too much, Jemima.’

  When a lot of tea had been drunk and the plate of fruit scones was empty, Jemima’s father went off to start the afternoon milking.

  ‘Right,’ said her uncle. ‘Let’s have a look at this creature of yours.’

  Jemima went outside and took Frank out of the rabbit hutch. ‘He’s healthy enough, I think, Uncle Ted, isn’t he?’ she said.

  The vet examined the young chicken. ‘Looks OK to me,’ he said, ‘and you’re right – by the look of his comb and the set of his tail, he’s a cockerel chick.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Jemima. ‘I’ve called him Frank.’

  ‘Well then, Frank,’ said Ted, ‘let’s go down to the duckpond and see what happens.’ He went to his car and put on a pair of wellies.

  As soon as Frank was put down at the edge of the pond and saw the brood of ducklings come swimming past, squeaking at him, and saw the big ducks dabbling and splashing and preening, and heard them quacking happily to each other, he made up his mind. He would learn to swim. Now! It was now or never. I’ll give it a go, he said to himself, and he ran straight into the water.

  Once out of his depth, he began to flap his little wings wildly, trying to fly (which he couldn’t) and kicked madly with his legs, trying to swim (which he couldn’t). Already his feathers were soaked, and now he began to sink until only his head was sticking out. From his gaping beak came one last despairing cry. ‘Frank!’ he squawked.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Ted, he’s going to drown!’ cried Jemima just as the little fleet of ducklings sailed by, crying, ‘We told you so!’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said her uncle, and he waded out into the pond and picked up the waterlogged bird. ‘Looks like you were right, Jemima,’ he said. ‘Frank does want to be a duck, but he’s not exactly equipped for it.’

  ‘No, I know. He needs waterproof feathers and webbed feet.’

  ‘Let’s get him dried out,’ said the vet, ‘and stick him back in the rabbit hutch and I’ll have a good think about you, funny Frank. In the meantime, don’t let him near that duckpond!’

  The very next day Jemima’s Uncle Ted turned up at the farm again. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. ‘About Frank.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘Well, there can only be one reason for him going into the duckpond, and that is that he wants to swim. Now then, suppose we could help him to do that, make it safe for him to go in the water. He’d be as happy as a pig in muck, Frank would, paddling around with the ducks, wouldn’t he now.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Jemima. ‘But how? I mean, his feathers … his feet …’

  ‘Tell me this, Jemima,’ said Ted Tabb. ‘When people go surfing at the seaside, no matter how cold the sea is, what do they wear?’

  ‘Wetsuits, you mean?’ said Jemima.

  ‘Yes,’ said her uncle. ‘Go and ask your mum if she’s got an old hot-water bottle she could spare …’

  Chapter Four

  Frank’s mother, Gertie, was extremely worried. She was a very conventional hen who, in her time, had hatched a great many broods of chicks, all of whom had – she liked to think – been properly brought up. That is to say, they were well-mannered and did as they were told and behaved in every way as chicks should.

  Now she had somehow managed to produce this funny son, Frank, who was acting in such a very odd fashion. She had seen him with her own eyes walk into the duckpond right up to his knees before the girl had come running to save him.

  ‘Let’s hope that will teach him a lesson,’ she had said to her friend Mildred. ‘I don’t think he’ll do that again in a hurry.’

  But she had been wrong. He had done it again, the same day, and Mildred had seen him do it.

  Mildred was by nature a pokenose who liked to stick her beak into everyone else’s business. She was also a gossip and she had made sure that the rest of t
he flock had heard the news before she ran to the bottom of the orchard to tell Gertie about Frank’s latest exploit.

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened to Frank!’ she panted. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, it’s the end! Poor Gertie, I thought. There was just his little head sticking out of the water, and him calling for help, oh dear, oh dear!’

  ‘He’s drowned!’ screeched Gertie. ‘My little Frank, he’s drowned!’

  ‘I don’t think so, dear,’ said Mildred. ‘The girl was there with a man who waded into the pond, rescued your little lad and took him away. But oh my, what a worry it must be for you, having a son like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Gertie.

  ‘Well,’ said Mildred, ‘sort of, you know, not quite …’

  ‘Not quite what?’ said Gertie rather sharply.

  ‘Well, not quite, er, right in the head,’ replied Mildred with an embarrassed cackle.

  ‘Mildred,’ said Gertie slowly and deliberately, ‘we have been friends for many years, you and I. After your last remark, we are friends no longer.’ And she stalked off.

  The next morning Gertie was sitting in one of the nest boxes in the henhouse when Mildred appeared.

  ‘Good morning, Gertie dear,’ she said.

  ‘It is not a good morning,’ replied Gertie, ‘and I am about to lay an egg. Kindly go away.’

  ‘But I have something important to tell you, dear,’ said Mildred.

  ‘And I have something important to do, Mildred. Something private and personal. A well-bred hen expects some privacy when she is sitting in her nest box, for a purpose. I don’t wish to do it with someone looking on.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, dear,’ said Mildred. ‘I’ll tell you later on.’ And she went away.

  As soon as she was gone, Gertie raised herself a little and, with a slightly strained expression on her face, laid an egg. She stood up and turned to inspect it. It was, she saw with satisfaction, of a good size and a good colour – a handsome shade of brown. Gertie, something of a snob, rather despised hens that laid white eggs.

  Now she stepped from the nest box, gave that shout of triumph that all hens make after laying and made her way out of the henhouse. Mildred was waiting by the pop-hole.

  ‘Well?’ said Gertie.

  ‘What is this important thing you wish to tell me?’

  ‘It’s about Frank, Gertie,’ said Mildred. ‘I was having a little look around the place and happened to see him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a rabbit hutch.’

  Oh no! thought Gertie. First he wants to be a duck. Now he wants to be a rabbit. ‘A rabbit hutch!’ she said. ‘Poor boy! No room to move about.’

  ‘No,’ said Mildred, ‘but at least you can’t drown in a rabbit hutch!’

  Chapter Five

  Jemima’s mother did have an old hot-water bottle that no one ever used.

  ‘But why d’you want it?’ she asked Jemima.

  ‘Uncle Ted wants it.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  Just then the vet came in.

  ‘Whatever do you want a hot-water bottle for, Ted?’ asked his sister-in-law. ‘Is it to keep a lamb warm?’

  ‘No, Carrie,’ said Ted Tabb. ‘It’s to keep a chicken dry. Can I borrow your tape measure? We must make it fit properly.’

  ‘Make what fit?’

  ‘A wetsuit, Mum,’ said Jemima. ‘For Frank. So that he can swim.’

  ‘Actually we’d be glad of your help, Carrie,’ said the vet. ‘I know you’re a good dressmaker.’

  ‘You’re crazy, the pair of you,’ Jemima’s mother said. But to herself she said, If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

  First they took Frank out of the rabbit hutch and made careful notes of his measurements – the length of his back, the breadth of his breast – then they held the hot-water bottle up against him to try for size.

  With her dressmaking shears, Jemima’s mother cut off the mouth of the bottle and cut right round the edges of it to make two rubber panels. ‘One for his front, one for his back,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll stick them together.’

  ‘Remembering,’ said Ted, ‘to leave a hole at the end for his head and neck to stick out. Oh yes, and two holes for his legs and another for his tail.’

  ‘What about his wings?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘Oh yes, and two holes for his wings. He can use those to pull himself along through the water, like an oarsman. It won’t matter if they get wet.’

  ‘Well, I can’t guarantee,’ said Jemima’s mother, ‘that the finished article will be completely waterproof of course, but it should keep most of him pretty dry.’

  Between the three of them they managed to hold a protesting Frank and place the two rubber panels against him – front and back – testing for size.

  ‘It’ll be miles too big,’ Jemima said.

  ‘It will now,’ said her mother, ‘but don’t forget Frank’s going to grow. And I’m not making him a whole lot of different-sized wetsuits. This one will have to do.’

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ said the vet. ‘I must be off.’

  Carrie Tabb had never before set out to make a wetsuit for a chicken, but before long Frank was having his first fitting so that she could see exactly where to make the holes for neck, wings, legs and tail. This done, the two panels of the old hot-water bottle were put on Frank, front and back, and then the two halves were stuck together with superglue.

  At first Frank protested loudly at the treatment he was receiving, but once the finished wetsuit was finally fitted on him, he seemed to be quite pleased with himself and walked about and flapped his wings and shouted, ‘Frank!’ in a loud voice.

  That evening, when Tom Tabb had finished milking his cows, he rang up his brother, the vet.

  ‘What time will you finish your surgery, Ted?’ he asked.

  ‘About seven, I hope.’

  ‘Well, come on over then. Carrie has made this suit for Jemima’s chicken and they’re going to try it out.’

  ‘On the duckpond?’

  ‘Yes. Seeing as it was your crazy idea, you’d better come to the ceremony. You’re invited to the launch of Frank.’

  So, later, the four Tabbs stood at the edge of the duckpond, wetsuited Frank in Jemima’s arms. Around the pond Frank’s brothers and sisters were standing, and Gertie and Mildred, and all the other hens of the flock, and the big cockerel. They knew what was going to happen because gossipy Mildred had told them. On the water the ducks and their ducklings cruised.

  Now Jemima, in her wellies, waded out into deeper water and carefully lowered Frank on to the surface and let go of him.

  He floated.

  Loudly the ducks on the pond quacked in amusement. A chicken that floated – weird!

  Around the rim the hens squawked in amazement, and the big cockerel gave a loud crow of surprise while Frank’s brothers and sisters scampered up and down in excitement.

  ‘He’s swimming!’ gasped Gertie to Mildred as she gazed upon her wetsuited son.

  ‘Well, not exactly, dear,’ replied Mildred. ‘He’s floating, certainly, but he’s not going anywhere much. He’d have to have webbed feet for that.’

  Frank was indeed trying to swim. He bashed on the water with his wings and he kicked about with his legs, but neither method propelled him very far. It was plain that Mildred was right, and the watching Tabbs came to the same conclusion.

  ‘You said he’d pull himself along with his wings like an oarsman,’ said Jemima to her uncle, ‘but he can hardly move.’

  ‘He’s too heavy with all that gear on,’ said her father, and then farmer and vet said with one voice, ‘He needs webbed feet.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jemima’s mother. ‘Then it’s back to the drawing board!’

  Chapter Six

  ‘We can’t just leave him there, floating about,’ said Jemima.

  ‘Go and get some corn and feed the rest of the flock,’ said her father.

  ‘Yes,’ said her uncle. ‘Frank will com
e out of the pond quick enough then.’

  And indeed, once Jemima had scattered some handfuls of corn in the orchard grass and the rest were all pecking away at it, Frank managed slowly to scull his way to the pond’s edge until at last his feet touched bottom and he could, very clumsily, run to join the others.

  All this time, Jemima had been watching, and now she saw that all the corn had been eaten, leaving none for Frank. So she fetched another handful just for him and kept the rest away while he ate, scratching at the little heap of corn with his long toes. Great for scratching, thought Jemima, great for running on the grass, but useless for swimming. How could they help him?

  She watched as Frank pecked up the last grain of corn and then looked up at her enquiringly, head on one side.

  ‘You’re a bright boy, Frank, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You look at me as though you can understand what I’m saying. I just wish you weren’t such a worry to us, wanting to swim like a duck. I suppose you’re going to go straight back on the pond now?’

  For answer, Frank did. He walked right in till he was out of his depth, and then he floated out towards the ducks.

  The ducklings were the first to greet him.

  ‘Hi there, chick!’ they cried. ‘That’s a cool suit you’re wearing!’

  ‘Actually,’ said Frank, ‘it’s rather hot in the sunshine, when I’m on land, I mean.’