Now I knew that there would be nobody at work on a Saturday, the building being completely locked up so it was quite handy for what I had planned. I dropped my partner off at work and made my way to the office. It was quite strange pulling in to the car park as it was, of course, completely empty. I unloaded the boot and made my way around the corner of the building. This spot was ideal as it was completely concealed from everything, and as our office was at the end of a one way street there would not be any passers-by. I set about my business.
As I worked I saw the cat at the back of the car park, emerging from the bushes (presumably from the back of one the houses) and setting out on its days hunting. I was quite far away and it did not notice me. I set everything up and concealed myself around the back of the building to wait. I did not have to wait long! There was a loud bang and I ran from where I was concealed to see if my trap had worked! As I rounded the corner all hell broke loose. It had worked! I strode up to the small cage I had rigged in to the tree and saw the spitting ginger fur ball caught firmly in the medium sized metal trap I had taken with me. No escape for the little sod!
It was quite a small cage really so the cat could not turn around in it at all but it was hissing, and spitting and striking its paws against the bars of the cage as I approached. Do you know, it did not even had the grace to look scared! It did however look extremely pissed off.
That was about to change.
Pumping pressure in to the twenty gallon water bottle the cat sat spitting at me, the look on its face one of fury.
Then I let it have it.
Now as I already knew, cats do not like water. I cannot help but feel that this particular cat however will by now have developed quite a phobia about it. I soaked the little bastard. At first it squealed and hissed but eventually it went quieter and quieter as it got wetter and wetter. Twenty gallons is a LOT of water, believe you me, but I enjoyed every single drop of it. Unlike the cat, which by the time I had finished looked more like a drowned rat than a cat. Glorious! It even had the grace to be quiet, now and just sat there shivering looking totally demoralised.
Then I let it go.
I have never seen a cat - or indeed any domestic animal before or since move quite that fast! It shot across the car park wailing as it went and disappeared in to the gardens at the back of the trees. Chortling I packed up all my stuff - the now empty pressure bottle, the trap itself and stowed it all back in the boot. I felt greatly pleased with myself, and decided to have one last cigarette to “take in the moment” as it were before I drove home. Looking back now I can tell you that it worked. We have never seen the cat again, though I did once notice it sitting on a fence at the rear of the car park looking despondently across the hedgerows. Priceless!
I seem to remember now that it was a lovely day, and as I stood on the grass smoking a great feeling of tranquillity descended upon me. I know that all of this may sound a bit obsessional, but at the time I felt totally justified in what I had done, and was quite at peace with myself.
Which is when I noticed the small grey field mouse running towards me. It is quite an unusual thing to be scared by such a small creature but I did take a step backwards, and then settled again. Then another one ran towards me from the hedge row. Then another - and another. Then what looked like a small weasel - or was it a vole? Why I did not run I did not know. I think I may have been paralysed with fear - who knows?
The first mouse was now about six feet in front of me and it stopped there, and I swear as I breathe it raised itself up on its back legs to look up at me then settled back on all fours again. Then more mice - small field creatures, small birds began to land on the grass. They formed a semi-circle about me now, with the by now possibly scores - or hundreds - they were arriving too quick to count - forming a fan shape behind the first grey mouse which stood alone in front of the gathered hoard as if waiting. Eventually the exodus of small woodland creatures ceased. In front of me a vast array of small creatures sat, regarding me, with the small grey mouse at its head.
Silence fell.
Then, incredibly as if by signal the grey mouse stood up on it’s hind legs once more and stared straight at me. It gave a small squeak.
And then it bowed.
The gathered array of creatures behind it then all stood on their legs, a ripple going through the crowd of small animals as they did so. Then they bowed too. The birds at the back of the large group dipped their wings and then, as soon as it began they stopped. Silence fell once more.
Slowly they began to disperse back to the hedgerow, the birds flying away in to trees until the first grey mouse was the single remainder of the gathering. Then it too turned and was gone.
I probably do not need to tell you that I was completely dumb founded and in serious need of a strong brandy when I eventually got home! I think I made it back from the office in record time that day!
I decided to tell my partner what had happened when I collected her from work but somehow I never got round to it. It was not that much of an omission, for all she wanted to talk about was whether the mouse traps had worked or not and what was the next step if they did not work, and so forth. I am not afraid to admit that with all that had happened I had quite forgotten about the problem at home!
The next morning I went downstairs in the dark full of trepidation. I was not sure what I would find, but when I put on the light, nothing. Checked the traps. All empty. No mouse droppings.
Now all this happened quite some time ago, in fact looking back on it was probably twenty years, and do you know what? The cat never did come back!
The other odd thing (if what had happened to me was not odd enough) was that I never ever saw another mouse at home ever again.
Not one.
For Absent Friends
Here sits a bench, marked by time, mildew covered and shrunken; old and bowed by age. Moss covers the warped wooden slats of the seat, the arms of the bench fragile and no longer straight. Dark green lichen covers parts of the wood, large misshapen irregular green puddles of moss and mould. If time was taken to look more closely at the bench itself however, you may just be able to make out the faded carvings made by some of people who have sat there. John loves Jane one may just possibly say, another illegible but the numbers 1945 just about visible. Look closer however, and you may notice that although many of the carvings are old, some are much older, but are mostly unreadable, more like man made scars in the wood, yet faded away by the effects of many seasons of weather, lost like whispers on a breeze.
Ted thought that it was beautiful. Neglected for certain, but workable. The bench would fit three people with comfort, four at a push, and had stood where it was for as long as anyone could remember. Hundreds of years, apparently, and as Ted stood examining it he thought that it certainly looked as if it had been there that long.
“It’s a nice bench” thought Ted “In need of a bit, well a lot of attention for sure, but sturdy nonetheless.”
As he stood there in the rain he decided that it was going to be him that fixed it.
Ted was handy with his hands. He always had been. His wife had remarked upon this sometimes in a slightly saucy way, and Ted smiled at this, though she was gone nearly five years now.
The bench sat just inside the sandstone walls of the small village church, facing the small building and the cemetery that almost encircled it. The church was old and as faded in places as the bench, but had been better looked after and in places looked almost new. The roof, the gutters jarring with the old stone walls, bright plastic guttering and dark slate standing out in sharp contrast with the picture postcard look of the church. A neat path ran through the cemetery and widened at the church entrance (small donations box sitting proudly on the wall ) then vanished behind the building, leading to an arched exit that was the only way in and out of the churchyard, which was surrounded by a medium sized sandstone wall on all sides. From the gate a small path curved around a small children's playground, the small struts of the swings
just visible above the long sandstone wall, and across the field a little way a small roundabout turned in a ghostly manner all by itself, caught in the stiff breeze.
The headstones in the cemetery (long closed) were mostly faded too, but the grass around them was tidy and well cared for. Ted knew that was mostly down to George the gardener who seemed to take a great deal of time to make sure the church grounds were well looked after. All in all it was a lovey peaceful place. A few large trees bordered the western edge of the grounds and the bird chatter from there could be heard almost everywhere in the area surrounding the church. Ted thought that if a single word could be used to describe the grounds it would be tranquil. The main street, such as it was, and it was not by any means a large village, seemed some way off. The sounds of traffic never seemed to invade here.
“Yes” though Ted, “Tranquil just about sums it up.”
It took Ted a few days to seek out the vicar and for him to grant permission to renovate the bench. The vicar was without doubt a very busy man, and at first could not seem to understand exactly what it was that Ted was proposing. Once however he realised that Ted had quite a bit of experience in carpentry, but more importantly he was going to renovate the bench at no cost to the church then he seemed much more forthcoming about Ted’s project, and permission was duly granted.
Ted began to make his plans. He considered restoration to be a very precise art, and although he was not that much of an expert, he thought that if you treated the wood with respect and were careful with it then the difference between mending and restoration would be pretty much irrelevant and the result would be much the same. Because he could only work on the bench when it was not raining, progress was at first slow, but steady. As the layers of mildew were removed the wood below began to appear. Although old it was obvious to Ted that it was good wood and so the cleaning up commenced. Ted thought it would never be as new - it became obvious as the letters carved into the wood slowly revealed themselves that it was a very long time since the bench could be considered new. He couldn't be exactly sure but one of the years carefully carved onto one of the slats of the bench he was almost certain read 1712.
Oak, it looked like, thought Ted but of course he wasn’t interested in going right down to the wood - clean was his aim, and perhaps just a bit of varnish to seal it all up so it was protected from the weather once more.
Not that it was doing too badly, he thought - if the date of 1712 was right then this was good wood - smashing stuff. “They certainly don’t make them like this anymore” he thought to himself one day as he was crouched down on his knees removing a particularly stubborn stain from the rear leg of the bench, and that made him smile at how ridiculous that thought actually was.
Ted started his work on the bench early spring. It had been a mild winter, and if he read the weather right (and he was usually pretty accurate with these things) then it was going to be a hot summer, and so he started earlier. As luck would have it the weather by and large was fine, and he managed to get the bench into a condition where he could successfully say that it was cleaned up, and so the preserving began.
He decided to leave the dates and names carved into the bench exactly as they were - to Ted, removing them would be tantamount to an act of vandalism, and so they were preserved along with the wood, for all to see and wonder at. Living history it was, thought Ted and he continued to work on the bench until early May.
On a glorious May day, the sun shining high in the sky and the scent of fresh cut grass coming to him from across the churchyard, Ted put down his brush, stood back and admired his work.
“Looks good, does that” said George suddenly appearing behind him, presumably having finished cutting the grass once again.
“It does” said Ted, “though it was good wood to work with and all it really needed was a bit of a clean-up.”
“Well, it has a bit of history about it, does that bench” nodded George, “seems it was made from one of them oak trees the other side of church - parish records show there was a right old to-do getting it down in the first place” he grinned and stooped to run his fingers across the grain of the wood. “Good and strong English Oak that though” he nodded and Ted was forced to agree.
The vagaries of the weather discussed and put to bed, George went on his way whistling as he went, and Ted basked in the sunlight enjoying a job well done. Chalking carefully on the floor next to the bench “wet varnish” he left it overnight to dry. Perhaps tomorrow he could have a sit on it for the first time, he thought. The weather forecast said it was going to be hot, and Ted felt somewhat inclined to believe it. “Dry and bright” he thought, and made his way home.
Day dawned and Ted was up early. Bright May sunshine shone through the thin net curtains of his first floor flat and so he packed a flask of tea and some sandwiches and set out for the bus that would take him to the churchyard. Half an hour later found him looking upon his handy work in bright sunshine. The overall effect would be that it could not be in any way confused with a new bench - it still had that aged worn look to it, but it was definitely much cleaner - preserved, in fact. So Ted took his seat.
Time passed and Ted was thoroughly enjoying his morning. Half an hour before George had appeared with hedge trimmers across the cemetery and had waved a greeting. Ted waved back but otherwise his peace and quiet was completely uninterrupted. The bench was definitely very comfortable and ideally sited. From here he had almost perfect peace and quiet with the occasional child's cry of pleasure from the park across the way. The church was in perfect view, the small stained glass windows sparkling in the sunlight. A few small birds fluttered about the roof and gutters. “Idyllic” thought Ted, and sighed. Taking out his carrier bag from under the bench he poured himself a cup of tea and had a sandwich, wrapping the remaining ones up carefully for later on.
From time to time people would appear, sometimes taking a short walk through the churchyard, or sometimes to lay flowers on graves. From time to time Ted would get the occasional nod. A small girl pushing a pram passed him just before one o’clock and gave a friendly “hello” before continuing on her way home. As the clock on the tower turned to two o’clock a tallish lady crossed the cemetery and spent some time tending one of the graves not far from where Ted sat. Eventually she stood up, brushed her hands together and gathered up a small cooperative carrier bag she had with her, dead flowers just jutting from the top of it. She paused to look up at the sun, then back at the church and then she made a bee line straight for the bench where Ted sat.
“Good afternoon” she smiled, as she approached. Ted stood up and raised his hat.
“Good afternoon to you too.” he said.
The lady paused and wiped her brow. “Thirsty work that” she said, pointing the carrier bag back in the general direction of the headstone from where she had just come. “Would you mind awfully if I sat down for a while?”
“Not at all” said Ted and waved her on to the bench.
“I can’t say I have noticed this bench before” the lady continued, removing a small bottle of water from her handbag and taking a small sip. “Is it new?”
“Not at all” said Ted, “In fact it has just been renovated. I believe this bench has been here for quite some time. Possibly hundreds of years.” Ted ran his fingers across the side of the seat nearer to him as if to emphasise the point.
“Gosh” she replied, “Well it certainly doesn’t look that way, does it? In fact it looks almost new. Well, perhaps not quite. Whoever did it made a really good job of it. “
Ted laughed.
“It was me actually” he said, and to his surprise blushed just a little bit.
“Really?” she turned to face him and Ted noticed for the first time the firm cheek bones, the bright blue eyes. “Well, well done you” she beamed “You really have made a very good job of it indeed.” and she turned back to look across the churchyard. “And such a lovely place for it, too. It is quite … well..”
“Tranquil?” interrup
ted Ted, and she laughed a little at that.
“Yes, tranquil. Very tranquil.” and she turned back to him and laughed a little once more, a slight colour rising to her cheeks. “Really quite pleasant.”
“Pleasant” echoed Ted, “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” and they lapsed into silence for a while, watching the birds flocking about the church roof and in the trees.
“1712 is the oldest date on it” said Ted suddenly out of nowhere.
“I’m sorry?”
“1712. At least I think it is. The old eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”
Ted paused and noticed that she did not seem to be following him.
“I’m sorry”, he said. “The initials carved into the bench are I think from 1712. Just here, look” And he moved slightly to the right to show her the writing there.
“Well. How marvellous. I am really rather fond of history and now I’m surrounded by it” she laughed.
Ted laughed too. “I hope you aren’t including me in that “ he said and then they both laughed together.
They passed the next hour discussing general things but nothing in particular. The weather, the local bus service. All kinds of everything, but all kinds of nothing too. The conversation they enjoyed, but they also took pleasure from both the bright sunshine and the company of each other too.
Eventually however the sun began to creep behind the church roof. Ted felt slightly disappointed when she started to gather her things together and eventually stood.
“I suppose it must be time to go” she said and Ted found himself gathering his things and getting ready to leave himself.
Paul McCartney's Coat Page 17
