Big Cats and Kitten Heels

by Claire Peate

  “How long have you been up?” I asked him sheepishly, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table and wincing with the agony of using another muscle group I’d strained last night.

  “A couple of hours. You were fast asleep though so I left you to it. I’ve already been over to see Tomos and we’ve agreed that I’ll take the cat up to the Carrog Valley in the next hour or so. You do still want to come with me?”

  “Absolutely!” I bit into the buttered toast in an effort to not sound too desperate. There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever that I should be going to mid Wales with Gwyn. After all, the alternative to spending a day with a handsome Welsh farmer was going back to the Hen House and hosing someone else’s sick off the gravel. No contest.

  Gwyn made a cup of tea and brought it over.

  “Sorry, there’s no milk…”

  “No milk? But you’re a farmer!”

  “So?” he laughed.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I thought farmers had loads of milk.”

  “Dairy farmers maybe. I have sheep.”

  “Sheep’s milk, then.”

  “You want me to milk a sheep for your tea?”

  I chewed my toast contemplatively, trying to keep a straight face. “Another time maybe.”

  “Fine. Fine.” He walked back to the loaf and started cutting again, still laughing.

  What on earth did the man survive on? He must spend his days being half famished.

  I helped myself to another slice of toast. “Thank you so much for putting me up last night,” I mumbled, my mouth full. “I’m so grateful. There was no way I could have stayed in the Hen House, it was awful, wasn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t great. Do you need to go back for anything?”

  “No. Do you think I ought to go and say goodbye though? Oh pants!” I slapped my forehead. “I do have to go back. I left my laptop there! Damn, damn, damn.”

  “What time do you have to leave the property?”

  “Ten this morning.” I looked at my watch. “An hour’s time!”

  “There you go, then. You’d better go now.”

  “Urgh. They’ll try and rope me into cleaning up.”

  “Just say you’re helping me with something and you have to go straight away.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, like they’ll all be really understanding about that.”

  Gwyn shrugged. “I find the truth is usually best.”

  “Yes. I know. You’re right. And I ought to go back because they might be wondering where I am.”

  Gwyn raised his eyebrows. “You think so?”

  “Yeah. Probably. If they’re up yet. Anyway, if there’s going to be any showdown about not helping in the clean up then it’s best done now and not at the wedding. Do you want me to give you a hand with the washing up before I go?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  We stood side by side, me washing, Gwyn drying. So much more civilised than last night when Henna and Laura were washing up and I thought plates were going to fly. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of them bickering, with Henna trying to hide the dirty plates in the cupboards.

  “I’m glad you’re coming up to Carrog with me,” Gwyn said quietly, interrupting my thoughts.

  I glanced sideways. He was looking immensely uncomfortable, drying a plate with a furrowed brow belying his deep concentration on the task in hand.

  “Me too,” I managed; sounding really cheesy and wanting to come up with something better, but failing completely.

  I wished I didn’t feel so awkward in front of him. I wished I could take my hands out of the soapy water and put them round his neck and pull him to me. But it would have been wrong, I don’t know why. There was a restraint between us this morning. A natural hesitancy. But then we’d only met a couple of days ago so perhaps it was to be expected.

  I wondered whether I’d wasted an opportunity with Gwyn last night. The man had invited me back to his place, for goodness sake, had come downstairs and laid a duvet over me. Had maybe even kissed me, I couldn’t quite remember. I should have pulled him onto the sofa with me – what had I been thinking, going back to sleep? Surely the mood would have been more conducive to action last night than this morning? How could anything possibly happen in the bright light of day? Maybe if I had taken the lead last night then things would be different this morning. But then, I had been extraordinarily tired. And extraordinarily rough-looking. And smelt pretty bad too. And however perky Gwyn looked this morning, I was pretty sure that he had been as tired as I had been last night. So perhaps making a move last night would not have been the most appropriate thing, given the circumstances. Still, it was pretty frustrating to think that last night might be all we had, apart from a few hours journey babysitting a puma.

  “Are you OK?” Gwyn bought me sharply out of my reverie.

  “Fine. Fine,” I said, focusing on scrubbing the already very scrubbed butter dish.

  “It’s just you had a really strange expression just now.”

  “Oh!” I tried to affect being all bright and breezy. “You know, just thinking about the cat.”

  Gwyn nodded and went back to concentrating on his drying. “Yes, it’s a tricky one. I must say that I don’t feel entirely happy dropping it off in mid Wales. But like we said last night, leaving it here is not an option. It’s going to get caught and it’s going to get killed. At least in mid Wales it’s got a chance.”

  “But what about the locals? Will they have a chance?”

  “Tomos was saying it’s hardly populated around there, and the cat’s not going to actively seek out humans, so it should be fine. Did you hear the police helicopters this morning?”

  “Is that what they were? Police helicopters? I saw one the other day.”

  “There are three up there this morning. Two police and one media helicopter. The big cat story’s all over the radio this morning too. I reckon our cat got up to mischief just before Tomos caught her last night and the police have upped their search. I wonder how your policemen were when they reported for duty this morning? Did you see any of them when you went back to the house last night? Except the one in your room, that is.”

  “Erm, yes, but they were catching up on their beauty sleep too,” I said euphemistically, still not wanting to reveal the sordid details to Gwyn, “so I’m sure they’re in fine form this morning for some big game hunting. Do you think if the policemen have dogs with them then the dogs will pick up the scent and trace the cat to Tomos’ trailer?”

  Gwyn shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s a possibility, I suppose. That’s why we need to get moving. Are you ready to go down to the house now?”

  “Sure.” I let the water drain out and dried my hands on Gwyn’s tea towel, my fingers just brushing against his. “So I’ll see you back here in half an hour?”

  He smiled and my heart leapt. I quickly stopped myself from gazing at him in adoration and went to get my holdall, waving goodbye before heading out into the cat-free outdoors with a spring in my step.

  30

  The sun was already hot and I turned my face up to catch it. I felt exhilarated and refreshed – I felt, in fact, exactly how I should have felt after my beauty treatments, if the blurb on the booking form had been anything to go by: I was “rejuvenated”. All the petty worries about my Dull Life Crisis, about my work and my social life, boyfriends (or lack of) and friends (ditto) evaporated for the time being and I just enjoyed being. Walking along and listening to the breeze rustle the treetops and the birds singing and the occasional faint bleating of a grazing sheep. No gales, no black rustling woodland and absolutely no toothy animals lurking in the hedgerows. Just sunshine, birdsong and the promise of a good day spent with a gorgeous dark-haired Welsh farmer. And a vicious puma locked in a trailer. Maybe this euphoria I was feeling was what Marcia felt when she was on the back of a horse, careering across the countryside – maybe this was what she was on about when she was talking about “being at one with nature”.

  I walked on, finding it hard to
believe that this was exactly the same stretch of path I’d walked along a few hours earlier and how differently I’d felt then. And how differently I felt about the Hen House. Last night when I’d set off to Gwyn’s farm the Hen House had been a sanctuary, somewhere safe from the scary outdoors. I remember the feeling of despair that descended when I turned the corner and the yellow lights of the Hen House disappeared from view; how lonely and isolated I’d felt when I couldn’t see it anymore. But now, as it emerged from the woodland when the track curved sharply, my heart sank. The spell had been broken. I could no longer think of it as a bohemian backdrop to my exciting weekend.

  Now all I could think as I crunched my way down the gravel driveway was the smell of fags and booze, the orgiastic sleeping arrangements and the man passed out in his own pool of vomit by the front door.

  How would the house be this morning? Would anyone be up? Had they made a start on cleaning yet?

  Well, the man had gone, and so had his stomach contents. I walked up the steps to the front door, hesitating for a moment, dreading what I’d find when I walked in. I turned the knob and pushed open the door, slipping into the hallway.

  It still smelt like a student union on a Saturday night. Urgh. I walked in to the lounge and there was Laura, mop in hand, cleaning the floor where the sticky cans had dripped last night. She had a thunderous look on her face, scowling in the direction of two ashen-faced blokes I’d never seen before, who must be from the stag do. They were trudging round the room putting cans and fag ends into black bin liners.

  “Rachel!” Laura stopped mopping. “Where were you last night? No one knew where you’d gone.”

  “Was I missed?” I asked, half hoping that I actually was and that they cared.

  Laura looked slightly awkward for a moment, examining the handle of the mop. “Well, not exactly. One of the blokes said they saw you arrive with another man in the middle of the night so we just thought you’d left with your farmer bloke. Was it Gwyn?”

  “Yes,” I said sheepishly.

  “Oh bravo you! I didn’t see him arrive. What time did he turn up because no one else remembered him being here at all?”

  “He wasn’t here at the party exactly,” I said, not wanting to tell her what happened, “it’s a long story…”

  It was a risk but Laura didn’t look like she was the type of person that enjoyed listening to long stories. Fireside yarns were all well and good for some, but this girl needed a short succinct briefing and she was done.

  “Yes, well, never mind that, Rach. You will never guess what happened to one of the stag boys last night!”

  “Go on,” I said, perching on the arm of one of the sofas. Surely Laura wasn’t about to launch into a story about her sordid threesome? I really didn’t want to hear it and, looking at the grandfather clock still tick-tocking away in the corner, I had to make a move.

  Laura came over and sat on the other arm of the sofa. “One of the stag do lads had rather a lot to drink and went and threw up outside. Hah!” She shot a look at the lanky red-headed boy that was collecting beer cans and he visibly shrunk away from her, head bowed. “At least someone had the sense to go outside to throw up. Anyway, apparently the lad passed out on the driveway and when he came to…” She paused and looked at me.

  I shrugged. “Go on.”

  “When he became conscious there was a puma! Seriously! A puma, standing right in front of him.”

  I stood stock still. What do I say? “Oh her, yes well, she’s really quite tame.”

  “Don’t you think that’s shocking?” Laura prompted, clearly looking for a response.

  “Shocking? Yes. Absolutely! Was he all right?”

  “Yes. Managed to get himself up and go indoors without being attacked. Most of us were in bed by that time and didn’t hear him. One or two were around and he told them, but by the time they went back outside to check the animal had gone.”

  “Golly,” I said, sounding all Enid Blyton in my phony surprise. So that’s what the puma had been up to before Tomos had caught her. Gwyn had been right, she had been busy before she went in the trailer. No wonder the police were all over the valley this morning if she’d paid a visit to the Hen House and its police occupants.

  “Well,” Laura was saying, “all the policemen and Josh stayed over last night and this morning as soon as everyone heard the story of the puma at the front door the policemen and Josh were off to the police station in an instant. I mean, can you believe it? This animal really exists! And it was here, right outside the house.”

  “Incredible.”

  “You said you heard something the first night, didn’t you, after Gwyn had gone off with his vet chap to check on the dead sheep? Maybe it was the puma that you heard too. To think how much danger we’d put ourselves in. Christ, we were lucky. To be honest, I didn’t believe that it really existed, I thought it was a bit of a hoax or something – just a fox up to some tricks.”

  I nodded, lips pursed.

  “Howie!” she suddenly barked and I leaped in the air. The bloke who had sat in front of the TV a few hours ago with his spliff and his Stella sidled over to us, bloodshot eyes and grey skin testament to his hard night. I had to hand it to Laura, she must have had her fair share of drink at the party and yet here she was looking alarmingly fresh and in command. And not only that, but she’d managed to get this wasted bloke up and about at just after nine in the morning, and here he was sporting a really quite fetching pair of yellow rubber gloves and carrying a bucket filled with cleaning products. The girl worked miracles.

  “Have you cleaned all the bathrooms now, Howie?”

  “Only the upstairs ones. I’ve still got to do the downstairs toilet,” he croaked, eyes fixed to the floor.

  “Hurry up. You’re emptying the bins after.” She glared at him and he slunk off. “Sorry, Rach, you have to keep these boys in hand. Anyway, where did you stay last night?” She went back to mopping the floor.

  “Oh at Gwyn’s,” I said as lightly as I could, not wanting to make a big thing about it. “I got back to the Hen House but my bed was already taken and I didn’t fancy trying to kick the residents off it so Gwyn offered me his sofa and I accepted.”

  “Oh, that would be Henna and one of the policemen I suppose,” Laura said with a smile on her face.

  I nodded.

  “Well, it was some party last night,” Laura admitted, and I half-waited for her to say something about her own remarkable private gathering, but she didn’t. “Louisa is really pissed off about the stag boys gatecrashing her night. Well, we all are.” She glared once again at the two boys clearing the cans away and they scurried out of sight out towards the kitchen like cockroaches fleeing the light.

  “Did you stay on the sofa?” she asked, watching the stag boys scuttle away with a look of deep satisfaction.

  “What?”

  “On Gwyn’s sofa. Did you stay there or was there a better offer once you got to his house?”

  I laughed. “No, I stayed on the sofa. I’m not sure if I should be offended that there was no better offer, but what with one thing or another we’d had a hell of a night and it was about two in the morning when we got back to his farmhouse so we just crashed.”

  “What happened? Why was it a hell of a night?”

  I bit my lip. “Oh … you know … just something at the pub…”

  “Sounds like a long one, so you can tell me later. Right now there are things to do and now you’re back you can make a start on the kitchen. I’ve drawn up an informal list of things that need to be done and when Louisa comes down she can help you with the list I’ve assigned you to do. I told her this morning that hen or no hen do she has to chip in on this one. Most of us are the worse for wear and we need to pull together to get this house in a fit state to give back. I’ve already called the caretaker who’s given us until midday to clean up after ourselves, but it’s going to be a tough mission to get it in a good enough state for us to get our deposit back. You can see the new rota on the
kitchen next to the old one. I’ve called in Sunday Emergency Rota 1. It’s informal because I haven’t had everyone sign it off but I’m sure that they’ll all agree to it. They should do, they trashed the place.”

  I stood there. Looking at her. Half of me, the self-righteous half of me, wanted to say a firm, “No, I will not clean up your mess,” and explain that I had a legitimate reason for being elsewhere as I was going to help a friend with a problem. A furry problem with many pointy teeth. And that the state of the Hen House was not my problem: I hadn’t got drunk and trashed the place. I hadn’t let the stag men in. I hadn’t been entertaining two men up in my room when I should have been keeping an eye on the party downstairs.

  And then there was the part of me that desperately wanted to avoid any confrontation. Especially confrontation with a Hackney-trained TA-loving hardcase. And besides, I’d had my fill of confrontation for the weekend. How much could a girl reasonably be expected to take? The various courses of action – stay and clean, stay and explain myself or just scarper without a word played out in my head and for a couple of seconds I stood and smiled inanely at Laura. What should I do? What should I do?

  Laura was frowning now – quick responses were the order of the day with her, none of this “making your mind up” business.

  “Right,” I said brightly, “better get the rubber gloves on. I’ll just go upstairs and check my laptop’s not been damaged first, then I’ll get right on to that kitchen list. Version number one, did you say?”

  “That’s right,” she said, looking at me rather suspiciously and then shrugged her shoulders and carried on mopping. I bounded up the stairs, past Henna who was hunched on the landing looking very green and gingerly sweeping up the fragments of what had been a porcelain candlestick. She nodded at me, too ill to talk.

  “Just going to check my laptop’s OK.” I bounded past her.

  I knocked tentatively on the door to my room and hearing nothing I went in. That bed had really seen some action over the course of the weekend. Only not when I was the occupant. Ahh well…