A Christmas Cracker

by Trisha Ashley

  I tried to identify the strange feeling stirring in my heart, and eventually decided it was the pale wraith of optimism.

  Chapter 7: Life of Pye

  Q:What happened to the man who stole an Advent calendar?

  A:He got twenty-four days!

  By my release day I’d started to wonder if I might have become so institutionalised that I’d soon be looking back longingly at the safe familiarity of the open prison.

  The final formalities were completed and I learned that even though I had a long journey ahead of me, I still needed to be at Mote Farm by five, so that I could be tagged there the same day.

  When I got into the waiting taxi to be driven to the nearest station I had with me the small suitcase and handbag I’d gone to prison with (though with less money, since my phone calls had been deducted from what I’d had) but also a black bin bag, since Emma had sent me that big parcel of clothes and art materials and I’d had to put the overflow into something. It was not a good look.

  Still, at least I now had access to the small amount of cash in my bank account … enough to buy a train ticket and a bit over. When I changed trains in London I purchased a cheap nylon holdall from a shop on the concourse and shoved the whole bin bag into it. I felt less as if I had ‘newly released prisoner’ stamped on my forehead after that.

  My heart lifted with every mile that passed on my long journey home to Lancashire, though I was worried that when I got to Formby, either Jeremy wouldn’t be home, or he would refuse to tell me where Pye was. I didn’t have a lot of time to spare before I had to be at Mote Farm for the electronic tag to be fitted, so though I was desperate to discover how – not to mention where – Pye was, I knew if there were any problems I’d have to dash off and come back another day.

  Unless the timetable had been changed, Jeremy had no school music lessons after two on Mondays and was always home by three.

  And luckily, when yet another expensive taxi dropped me off there (depleting my fast-dwindling reserve of cash), I saw his car on the drive – but unfortunately, so too was Kate’s familiar white Polo.

  I wondered why she had come back with him – and also if I could restrain my natural urge to take her by her scrawny throat and shake her till she explained why she’d stood up in court and told all those lies about me. I knew she’d initially resented me when I’d got engaged to Jeremy and the three of them became four, but I’d thought she’d got over that when she saw that Jeremy still adored her. If anything, it should have been me who resented her!

  But following my natural urge to throttle her would lead me straight back to prison and, more importantly, delay my finding out what had happened to Pye, so I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  I thought no one was going to answer, but finally the key rattled in the lock and Kate opened it – pink, flustered and tucking her blouse into her skirt.

  ‘You!’ she gasped, looking like a frightened rabbit, as well she might, given the circumstances. ‘Have they let you out already?’

  ‘No, I avoided the searchlights and vicious guard dogs and climbed over the barbed wire, using a rope ladder that came in a cake,’ I snapped, wedging my nylon holdall in the door as she attempted to shut it.

  Her mouth dropped open, before sanity set in and she realised I was being sarcastic. ‘I suppose they must have let you out, but what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same,’ I replied.

  ‘I came back with Jeremy, so we could sort out the arrangements for the school trip to Paris, though Luke had to stay at school to take detention, so he’ll be joining us later,’ she said, recovering her composure slightly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Jeremy’s voice demanded as he came down the stairs, fastening the cord of a blue velour dressing gown that was as familiar to me as my own. The scenario I’d interrupted was plain as a picture.

  ‘Oh, right, I understand everything now, Kate!’ I said. ‘This is what all the lies were about – you wanted Jeremy to yourself.’

  ‘Tabby? What the hell are you doing here?’ Jeremy said angrily, pushing Kate out of the way like the gentleman he wasn’t. ‘I told you we were through.’

  ‘She wants to make trouble, that’s what,’ Kate said. ‘Go away, Tabby, or we’ll ring the police and have you arrested for harassment.’

  ‘I’m not harassing anyone,’ I said, with more calm than I actually felt, because I knew from the other girls that putting a single foot wrong once I was let out could well mean being sent back to prison to serve the whole sentence.

  ‘In fact, I don’t give a damn about either of you. All I want to know is, what have you done with Pye?’

  ‘All this is about a stupid cat?’ Kate said incredulously.

  ‘He’s not just any cat, he’s my cat,’ I said fiercely, ‘and I love him.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that he went to a good home,’ Jeremy snapped. ‘There was no point in you coming here.’

  ‘Then tell me the name of the people you rehomed him with. I need to see for myself that he’s all right and that he’s settled with them. What’s the name and address?’

  He avoided my eyes. ‘I can’t give it to you.’

  ‘Look, this is my cat we’re talking about and he’s microchipped as belonging to me, so it wasn’t even legal to give him away without my permission.’

  ‘I don’t think that will wash, because in effect, you abandoned him through your illegal actions,’ he said smugly.

  ‘Listen, you pompous prig, I’m not going until you tell me where Pye is,’ I insisted.

  ‘Shall I call the police?’ asked Kate helpfully.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I said, throwing caution to the winds. ‘Perhaps you’d rather explain to them what you’ve done with my cat?’

  Jeremy ran his fingers through his dark marmalade-coloured hair. There seemed suddenly to be a lot more forehead and a lot less hair than I remembered …

  ‘Oh, just tell her so she’ll go away,’ said Kate impatiently.

  ‘The Leafy Lane Pet Rescue Centre,’ he replied defiantly.

  ‘You mean, you put Pye in a cats’ home?’ I said, stunned.

  ‘It’s a good home, I told you.’

  ‘But … you let me think you’d rehomed him with nice people! If no one adopted him, he could have been put down by now!’ I exclaimed, panicking, for although Pye was very dear to me, I was aware he wouldn’t be the easiest cat to rehome.

  ‘They said they never put a healthy animal down, so he’ll be OK,’ Jeremy said. ‘You’re making a fuss about nothing.’

  ‘How could you? And how was it that I used to think you were so kind and wonderful, when really you’re callous and cruel?’

  ‘There’s no need for insults. You’ve got what you wanted, so why don’t you go away?’ Kate suggested.

  ‘I can see you got what you wanted, too, Kate,’ I said, then added to Jeremy, ‘You deserve each other, you poor, credulous mutt!’

  Then I hefted my bags and walked off down the drive, feeling glad I’d bought a belt at the station when I’d got the holdall, because losing my jeans halfway down the drive wouldn’t have done a lot for the dignity of my departure.

  I knew where the cats’ home was: a good couple of miles away. I managed to balance my bag on top of the wheeled suitcase and drag them both together, but I was still exhausted by the time I’d walked there.

  The girl behind the desk had a doughy face and scarlet-tipped black hair exploding out of a high knot, and I could see from her guarded expression that she’d recognised me the moment I walked in. I suppose the case had been a seven-day wonder locally.

  I pretended I hadn’t noticed and explained the situation anyway: that I’d been away and my cat, Pye, had been brought there without my permission, so now I needed to know what had happened to him.

  ‘Oh yes … Pye,’ she said uneasily. ‘We renamed him Pip because it sounded more friendly, though he isn’t, is he?’

&n
bsp; ‘Not to strangers, no.’

  ‘You must be Tabitha Coombs.’

  ‘Give the girl a coconut,’ I said shortly. It had been a long and stressful day already and the tension was slowly building inside me. ‘I’m the person his identity chip is registered to, if you checked it?’

  ‘Yes, but he was brought in by a man living at the same address as that on his chip, so—’

  ‘My ex-fiancé. We shared the same address, but not the same name. Pye is my cat.’

  ‘He told us he couldn’t keep him and you’d agreed that he should be brought to us for rehoming.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t – and he told me he’d found Pye a good home, he just didn’t tell me it was a cat rescue one. So … have you rehomed him? You didn’t … put him down?’

  ‘No, of course not! He was healthy enough to go straight onto the rehoming wing of the cattery, though actually, black cats are the most difficult to rehome, especially adult ones with odd eyes and …’ she paused, wondering how to put it tactfully, ‘… difficult temperaments,’ she finished.

  ‘He does have his little ways and he’s very vocal,’ I conceded, and then, like music to my ears, a far-away, familiar wailing noise began to slowly work towards what I knew would be an ear-splitting crescendo.

  ‘Pye? He’s – still here?’ I demanded.

  ‘I— yes, but I’m not sure where we stand about …’ she began, but I was already heading for the inner door.

  She moved quickly to block me. ‘I’m afraid that visiting time for future rehomers has finished for the day, but if you could come back tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to discuss the matter with the manager—’

  I faced her. ‘I’m going to see my cat now,’ I stated, and I expect I was giving off a powerful vibe that I was prepared to knock her down and trample over her to do so, if necessary, because she backed away a little.

  ‘Please,’ I added, attempting an ingratiating smile that was probably scarier than my previous expression. ‘I’ve missed him so much.’

  ‘Oh, well …’ she said, giving in suddenly and ushering me through the swinging door to the cattery. ‘Let’s see if he recognises you.’

  We walked down a short corridor and then along a row of cages, the unusual wailing noise now rising and falling like some kind of demonic lullaby.

  In the very last pen, thin, angry and bristling with displeasure, was a very large black cat. He stopped wailing and stared at me coldly from mismatched eyes, one blue, one green.

  ‘Pye?’ I whispered tremulously.

  He turned his back disdainfully and sat down.

  ‘He doesn’t exactly seem pleased to see you,’ the girl commented.

  ‘He’s just angry with me because he thinks I abandoned him,’ I explained. ‘Pye? I came back as soon as I could.’

  Pye, his back still turned, began to wash one paw, as if he wasn’t listening.

  ‘You are sure this is your cat?’

  ‘Yes, of course it’s my cat! Could you let me inside the pen?’

  ‘Sooner you than me,’ she said, unlocking it so I could step in. ‘And I wouldn’t touch him, because he’s all claws and teeth and …’

  Pye, when I picked him up, made a weird snarl and then went limp and heavy. I held him in my arms and a fat tear dropped onto his sharp, furry face. ‘Oh, Pye, I’m so sorry!’ I told him.

  He gave a galvanic jerk, painfully rabbit-kicking me, before scrambling up and attaching himself like a burr to my neck, where he butted my chin so that my teeth clicked together. There was more angry grumbling.

  I turned, holding him and laughing. ‘That’s my Pye!’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but he certainly seems glad to see you, in his way,’ she conceded.

  ‘Come on, Pye, let’s spring you,’ I said, carrying him out into the corridor. ‘This is the day we both get out of prison!’

  ‘But I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ the girl said. ‘Since he was signed over to us for rehoming, he’ll have to stay here while we go through that process – you know, inspect your house and suitability as an owner and—’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said shortly. ‘I lost my home and fiancé when I went to prison and I’ve only just got out.’

  She flinched. ‘But we have to make sure they go to suitable homes.’

  ‘Look, the cat is mine, he’s microchipped in my name and was given away illegally and without my permission. And anyway, if you think you can detach him from me, go ahead and try!’

  She accepted defeat.

  ‘I suppose in the circumstances … though we’ll have to go and do some paperwork and I’ll need an address.’

  ‘I have a job with living accommodation, so he’ll be fine,’ I assured her, though not in the least certain how Mercy Marwood felt about cats, especially cats like Pye.

  But I filled in the form with my new address and had to pay her some money before she would sign him over to me. My cash was fast running out, but I also purchased a cardboard pet carrier into which, with extreme difficulty, I inserted Pye.

  It was now four o’clock and I needed to be at Mote Farm by five, to be tagged, and while it was only about twenty miles away, I suspected it would be a long and convoluted journey by train and bus – and Pye was already working on shredding the box. I counted what was left of my money and then got the receptionist to call me a taxi.

  Due to the miracles of satnav I was dropped off at dusk, at the bottom of a narrow tarmac road which apparently led to Mote Farm, my destination.

  Paying the taxi took every last penny I had and then I trudged wearily off up the road, trundling my laden suitcase and weighed down by the cat carrier. The hills enclosing the narrow valley cast a dark shadow over it, but the lights were lit behind the curtains of the short terrace of workers’ cottages that Mercy told me about.

  The shape of the mill loomed up, closed and silent, and I turned to cross a stone bridge towards the drive that led up to the distant house, the cat seeming to get heavier with every step.

  I had to keep stopping to rest, and Pye was getting crosser and crosser. But at last I trudged over another stone bridge that spanned a narrow moat, mocked by the quacking of ducks beneath. The house stretched out on either side of the porch with the glimmer of light showing the edges of inner wooden shutters.

  I put Pye down again and pulled at a ring in the huge ancient door that pealed a distant bell. It swung open so quickly that Mercy Marwood must have been standing right behind it.

  ‘My dear, there you are!’ she cried, as if she’d been expecting my arrival at that exact moment. ‘Come in, come in. Welcome to Mote Farm.’

  I stepped into a long, paved entrance hall lined with flickering electric candles in old iron brackets and immediately put down the cat box and luggage again. I swear my arms had stretched at least six inches during the walk up the hill.

  The pet carrier began to move about, growling, like a strange, rectangular and very vocal giant jumping bean and Mercy looked down at it with surprise.

  ‘Now, what’s this?’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid I had to bring my cat,’ I began to explain nervously.

  ‘Of course you did!’ she agreed. ‘Come into the drawing room and we’ll let the poor creature out – he really doesn’t like being in there, does he?’

  ‘To be honest, he doesn’t like most things,’ I warned her.

  ‘He and my brother, Silas, are clearly destined to be soulmates, then,’ she said with a giggle, hoisting the cat carrier with amazing ease. ‘Come on, let’s introduce them!’

  Chapter 8: Clouded Mirrors

  Q:What do you call a cat that falls down a chimney?

  A:Santa Claws!

  I followed my new employer into a large, flagged inner hallway, from which a wide staircase ascended into darkness. We went through a door to the left into a huge and rather splendid room, wood-panelled to dado height and with an intricately moulded ceiling.

  For all Mercy’s assurances that
Mote Farm was not a grand house, it seemed pretty impressive to me. An immense, dimly hued carpet covered most of the floor, and old sofas, chairs and tables were randomly grouped around, like early guests at a party.

  There was a larger cluster around the flickering fire, which as I drew nearer proved to be a realistic gas log one. The room resembled a surreal filmset and I began to feel somewhat swimmy-headed with tiredness and the stress and emotions of the day.

  ‘Now, Silas,’ Mercy said loudly, advancing on a small elderly man who was peacefully dozing in a high-backed chair before the fire. ‘Here’s Tabitha come to join us.’

  He started awake and bestowed a look of acute loathing on both his sister and myself, before struggling painfully to his feet.

  ‘Please don’t get up!’ I begged him, but he ignored me, tottering forward to shake my hand, using only his sandpaper-dry fingertips.

  ‘One must do these things, however agonising it is. Rheumatism is a dreadful thing and bouts of sciatica even worse,’ he said, in a martyred way that seemed to cheer him up. Then, relieved from the burden of good manners, he subsided back into his chair.

  ‘Mercy says you’ve come to help with the cracker factory at the mill. It was too much for me. I’m a sad invalid, you know.’

  ‘You’re a sad, grumpy old malingerer,’ Mercy said. ‘You just couldn’t be bothered, I know.’

  He glowered at her. Then his eye fell on the jumping and increasingly shredded cardboard pet carrier. Pye had been quiet for some minutes, but now emitted a bloodcurdling scream.

  ‘Tabitha’s brought her sweet little pussycat with her,’ Mercy told him. ‘I was going to get a cat now I was home again, so that has saved me the trouble. I think he’d like to get out, Tabby.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s very far from being a sweet little pussycat,’ I began to warn her, but before I could leap forward and stop her, she’d popped open the carrier and out shot Pyewacket, all snarl and claws.

  His first view of the strange, vast room stopped him dead in his tracks, his odd-coloured eyes wide. If he’d been able to raise his eyebrows, he’d have done it.