A Conspiracy of Aunts

by Sally Spencer

  I said nothing. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘This arrangement will never work out, you know,’ my aunt said. She reached into her handbag, took out a packet of marshmallows, and popped one into her gargantuan mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have let your Aunt Catherine bully me,’ she continued. ‘I should have called her bluff. I might still call her bluff.’

  ‘I’ll be no trouble,’ I promised, as I tasted the panic welling up in my throat. ‘And I could make myself quite useful around the place.’

  “The place” was a smallholding at the end of a dirt track, some twenty miles from Manchester. It was quite a modest establishment, as I would soon discover, consisting of the house, a little land, and some outbuildings. The farmhouse itself was Victorian red brick. It was an ugly, square building and had a crooked chimney – appropriately enough! – that blew back smoke when the wind was coming from the wrong direction. Next to the house was the kitchen garden. It may once have produced cabbages and sprouts, lettuces and tomatoes, but now it was home to a flourishing crop of weeds which put even Aunt Jacqueline’s urban jungle to shame. At the other side of the house lay Aunt Peggy’s only field, which had lain fallow since she took over the farm, and beyond that were the outbuildings – a tumble-down barn, a disused double-seater privy, and an ancient sty which even a pig would have turned up its snout at.

  Not that there were any pigs there to express such fastidiousness. Neither was there bleating sheep nibbling the grass down to its roots, nor cows gazing vacantly as they amused themselves by passing their disgusting cud from one stomach to another.

  No, my aunt raised none of the conventional farm animals. Instead she kept cats: black cats and white cats; cats that were a mixture of the two; ginger toms and tortoiseshells; cats with a hint of Siamese in them, others whose appearance offered little clue as to their origins; sleepy cats and aggressive cats; cats who were wary, and cats who were complacent; cats who never left the house, and cats who were the scourge of all the mice in the barn.

  Cats, cats, cats – an uncounted and uncountable number who came and went, bred and died. The home of these feline anarchists was called – and even now I gag at the name – “Cuddles Farm Cat Sanctuary.”

  Yet as ramshackle as the place was, as much as its very name cloyed, it was still my best bet at the time, and I waited anxiously while my aunt considered my offer of work in exchange for bed and board.

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally, as I stood there, still holding my suitcase in my hand. ‘Yes, I suppose there are a few little jobs you could do – if you are up to them.’

  ‘I’m a quick learner,’ I promised.

  ‘All right, since there’s nobody else to look after you – and as a favour to your Aunt Catherine – we’ll give it a month’s trial.’

  ‘Thank you, Auntie.’

  ‘You can take the spare room at the top of the stairs,’ Aunt Peggy said briskly. ‘Don’t bother to unpack, just leave your case there. Don’t worry about bedding, either – you can put that on later.’

  ‘All right, Auntie.’

  ‘It’s time to feed the cats. I’ll show you where I keep the food, then that’ll be your job from now on. And when you’ve finished the feeding, you can take a tin of creosote and give all the woodwork on the barn a coating. Not frightened of heights, are you?’

  ‘I sometimes suffer from vertigo,’ I admitted.

  ‘You’ll soon get over that. There’s a couple of slates come loose close to the chimney stack. When you can find the time, go up and have a look at them.’

  I was in! I considered myself very lucky indeed. Perhaps I would have felt a little less self-congratulatory if I’d known that, at the same time I was metaphorically patting myself on the back, an old adversary of mine was – literally – packing his size ten boots into a suitcase in preparation for his journey to Norton, a town only four miles from Cuddles Farm.

  3

  I’d been living with Aunt Peggy for about three months when I ran into him. He was standing outside Norton Market. He had a packet of crisps in his hand, and was pulling them out individually and holding them up to the light – as if searching for a flaw – before popping them into his mouth.

  My first instinct, I admit, was to turn and run, but common sense told me that it would only draw attention to me.

  I’d do better, I argued, to keep on walking, in the hope that I’d get past him before he’d finished interrogating his snack.

  I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, and counted the gaps between the paving stones.

  Ten … eleven … twelve … Just about enough to draw me level with him, I thought. Yes, from the corner of my eye I could see his shiny black boots and the start of a blue serge trouser leg.

  Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen … I was well past him now – out of danger.

  ‘Look who it is,’ a familiar voice boomed behind me. ‘The laddie who doesn’t check his bike lights often enough.’

  I stopped in my tracks, and turned around.

  ‘I … I didn’t see you there, Constable Fliques,’ I stuttered.

  ‘That’s Sergeant Fliques,’ he said, pointing to the stripes on the sleeve of his uniform. ‘Didn’t see me, hey? Funny, I could have sworn you’d noticed me half-way down the street.’

  ‘I thought it might have been you – only I wasn’t sure,’ I lied.

  ‘And you decided the best thing to do was to try and slip past me unnoticed, did you?’

  I hung my head, and said nothing.

  ‘Not a bad plan,’ Fliques conceded. ‘Not bad at all. But you should have known it would never work with me.’

  Why was he there? I wondered. What possible reason could he have for being in a provincial backwater like Norton?

  ‘You’re starting to think that I’m here because you’re here, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘You strongly suspect that I’ve followed you. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Err … no. No, of course not, Sergeant Fliques,’ I said, although that was exactly the conclusion my panic-stricken brain had just reached.

  ‘You’re getting paranoid,’ Fliques said, ignoring my denial. ‘Nasty thing, paranoia – can’t get rid of that with a Vicks vapour rub and a couple of aspirins.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ I said inadequately.

  ‘I moved to Norton for promotion,’ Fliques told me. ‘It’s as simple as that. But,’ he added ominously, ‘I don’t deny it’s a bonus finding you here.’

  He subjected another crisp to his scrutiny, whilst I stood there embarrassed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. As he fed the crisp into his mouth, I wondered if I dared leave – then rapidly realised that I didn’t.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Fliques said, crunching his latest victim. ‘Just fancy meeting you purely by chance. The laddie without the properly functioning bicycle lights – the laddie whose auntie got herself killed.’

  He waited for me to speak.

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant,’ I said, with some reluctance.

  ‘What’s right?’ he countered cunningly. ‘That your auntie got killed? Or that you haven’t got any lights on your bike?’

  ‘That my auntie got killed.’

  ‘They that live by the club shall die by the club,’ Fliques said.

  ‘Pardon, Sergeant?’

  ‘Famous for it, your auntie. She played bridge at every club in the Brighton area. And look how she met her end – her bridge partner finds out she’s planning to leave town without even saying goodbye, and is so furious he rushes straight over to her house—’

  ‘Will Tom go to prison?’ I asked anxiously.

  Fliques glared at me. ‘You’re interrupting my story, and it’s never a wise move to interrupt me in my flow.’

  ‘Please, Sergeant,’ I begged.

  I really did want to know, because Tom’s fate was the one aspect of the whole affair I felt guilty about.

  Fliques gave me a look only slightly less hostile th
an the one he’d bestowed on his crisps, then seemed to relent.

  ‘Tom’s already in prison,’ he said. ‘But he won’t be there for long. His brief made quite a thing about the dance your auntie led him, and the judge was very sympathetic. Three years, he drew. With good behaviour, he should be out in eighteen months. Can I go on with my story now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Tom was so furious over what he’d found out that he rushed right over to Auntie Jacqueline’s house—’

  ‘That’s right. He was in such a hurry he didn’t even take anything with him. But help was on hand. Right there in the trophy case was the Brighton and Hove Challenge Cup 1975-76.’ Fliques chuckled. ‘Lucky for him they came first instead of second, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Why’s that, Sergeant?’ I felt compelled to ask.

  ‘I’ve seen the Runners’ Up Cup. It’s a tiny little thing. Clubbing her to death with that would have been like trying to knock down a brick wall with a toffee hammer. But the Winners’ Cup,’ he licked his lips with relish, ‘there was a blunt instrument worthy of the name. With the Winners’ Cup in his hands, he could crush her skull as easy as this …’

  Fliques placed what remained of his packet of crisps in one hand, and brought the palm of the other down on it with some force. The crisps crunched – sickeningly loudly. He held up the result for me to see. Bits of crushed potato chip dribbled out of the bottom of the packet.

  ‘Mustn’t go littering the pavement,’ Fliques said, quickly balling the bag up in his hands. ‘But you do see what I mean about it being very lucky for him they came first?’

  ‘They nearly always came first,’ I said, and then, before I could stop myself, I added, ‘They cheated.’

  ‘Cheated, did they?’ Fliques said thoughtfully. ‘That tells me a lot. But what it doesn’t tell me is how he knew she was planning to leave town.’

  ‘I thought he got an anonymous call,’ I said.

  Fliques eyes hardened. ‘Do you, indeed? Now where would you get that idea from?’

  I shrugged. ‘That’s how these things usually happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re right – that’s how it happened in this case,’ Fliques agreed. ‘But who was the anonymous caller?’

  ‘If you knew that, he wouldn’t be anonymous,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Exactly. That’s just what I was thinking. And then I asked myself, who exactly knew she was leaving town?’

  ‘The people she sold the house to, the building society, her boss—’

  ‘Precisely. But how many of them also knew about her private life? How many of them knew just how jealous her bridge partner was?’

  ‘You’ve got me there,’ I admitted.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Fliques said. ‘Not yet.’ He walked over to the nearest rubbish bin, and deposited what was left of the crisp packet into it. ‘I’ll be watching you, laddie,’ he said threateningly. ‘If I was you – which I wouldn’t be at any price – I’d make sure I had my bike working perfectly.’

  And without another word, he turned on his heel and marched off down the street.

  4

  It took me very little time to realise that inside Aunt Peggy’s round, little body there lurked two entirely different persons. The first – the one she presented to the world at large – was of the Cat Lady, a harmless eccentric who ran a sanctuary for any stray moggie she happened upon. Whenever I showed a visitor into our living room – doorman being one of the numerous jobs my aunt had thrust on me, so that now she hardly had to leave her chair – that visitor would inevitably discover Aunt Peggy sitting with a cat ensconced on her lap.

  ‘Such sweet little things, pussies, aren’t they?’ my aunt would say. ‘They’re almost human, the way they understand you.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ the visitor would feel obliged to ask.

  It didn’t matter what cat she was holding at the time – whether it was Dimples or Big George or Blanche Dubois, she always gave the same answer.

  ‘He’s called Mickey.’

  They were all Mickey to her.

  And as soon as the visitor had left, Aunt Peggy would revert to her second persona. The cat, which would have settled down comfortably on her chubby knees by then, would find itself cast aside like the stage prop that it actually was, and my aunt would pay absolutely no attention to any of the animals until the next time someone came calling.

  ****

  Though the cats had no individuality as far as Aunt Peggy was concerned, they soon became distinct characters to me. There was one, a sleek grey tom, who would sit for hours gazing at the barn wall, as if he were contemplating the mysteries of the universe. I christened him Plato, and it was not long before he was answering to his name. Then there was Shere Khan, a tiny tabby who refused to accept the limitations of his size and padded around the yard with all the ferocity and confidence of a man-eater. And we must not forget the Critic, a half-breed Siamese who expressed his disdain for most aspects of life by puking up fur balls at regular intervals.

  I do not mean to over-romanticise the cats. Like all animals – with the possible exception of mutants like Lassie, Champion the Wonder Horse and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo – they thought of themselves first, and my place in their world view was primarily as a source of food. Still, they did occasionally rub up against my leg or purr to show their appreciation – which was more thanks than I ever got from Aunt Peggy for all the cooking, ironing and cleaning I did.

  Yes, I liked the cats. They were, I suppose, the only real family I’d had since Mother died.

  5

  Why then, if my aunt cared so little for cats, did she go to the expense of feeding so many of them? It was a complete mystery to me.

  In fact, the whole set up was a mystery. A cat sanctuary, as it is commonly understood, is a place which takes in unwanted cats and tries to find homes for them. Cuddles Farm didn’t work like that – not at all.

  Picture the scene. A car pulls up in front of the farm, and two people get out. One is a man, big, red-faced and jovial. The other is a woman, small, serious and intense. The woman is carrying a cat basket, in which – surprise, surprise – temporarily resides a black kitten.

  My aunt, who has somehow found the energy to get off her chair, meets them at the front door.

  ‘Yes?’ she says – as if she has no idea why these people might be calling on her.

  The woman looks down at the cat box, and then up at Aunt Peggy. ‘This is a cat sanctuary, isn’t it?’ she asks, plainly puzzled.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Peggy replies.

  ‘Well, we’ve brought you a cat to sanctuaryise,’ the man says.

  Peggy switches on her Cat Lady face, and looks down at the kitten, which is pressing its own face against the grille.

  ‘He’s a beautiful little pussy,’ she says, in a voice which is pure syrup. ‘Are you sure you want to give him up? I mean, I wouldn’t, if I was you.’

  ‘It’s the dog, you see,’ the woman says helplessly.

  ‘Doesn’t your naughty little doggie like sweet fluffy little kittens?’ Aunt Peggy coos.

  ‘On the contrary, he loves them,’ the man says. ‘He’s eaten two of them since Christmas.’

  ‘Cyril!’ the woman hisses. ‘This is serious!’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ says the man, duly chastened.

  The woman turns to Peggy. ‘We’d love to keep Sooty, but we can’t, and that’s why I’ve brought him here.’

  ‘And I’d love to take him, but I just can’t,’ Peggy says. ‘The place is full to bursting, and I can hardly afford to feed the pussies I’ve already got.’

  The woman puts the cat box on the ground, and opens her hand bag. ‘I would be willing to make a contribution to the sanctuary,’ she says.

  Peggy’s piggy eyes flash with greed.

  ‘How much?’ she asks.

  ‘Fifty pounds,’ the woman says.<
br />
  ‘Fifty pounds!’ Cyril explodes. ‘Have you gone completely off your chump, woman?’

  ‘Would you rather get rid of the dog?’ the woman asks sharply.

  ‘Fair enough – fifty quid it is, then,’ Cyril says, defeated.

  ‘Would that be acceptable?’ the woman asks Aunt Peggy.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ Peggy replies – but I can see her hands are itching to grab at the bank notes that the woman is holding out.

  ‘I’d like to visit Sooty now and again, just to see how he’s getting on,’ the woman says. ‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it?’

  My aunt’s eyes fill with regret. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘we can’t allow that. It’s against company policy.’

  Thus – as a result of a policy laid down by a company I’ve never heard of until that moment – we lose both the kitten and the fifty pounds.

  Here’s another scene from sanctuary life: a woman appears at the farm with two small – very excited – children.

  ‘They’ve been on at me for months to get them a cat, and I’ve finally given in,’ she explains to Aunt Peggy.

  But even as she’s speaking, she’s looking around her with a concerned expression on her face.

  When she’d imagined the sanctuary, her expression says, what she’d been seeing in her mind’s eye was large pens in which the cats were contained. It had never even occurred to her that all the cats would be allowed to roam freely.

  ‘Are all these cats feral?’ she asks.

  ‘Some of them are Feral, but we’ve also Persians and Siamese,’ my ignorant aunt says. ‘I’d go for a Persian if I was you – they’re the easiest to catch.’

  ‘All the cats have been properly vaccinated haven’t they?’ asks the woman – who is sounding increasingly dubious about the whole project.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, they have,’ Peggy tells her.

  ‘Do you mean they haven’t?’