by Doreen Tovey
It was all right, Sue assured me hoarsely. It was only that she had flu and had lost her voice. She thought she'd caught it trailing round garages with Gordon, looking for a new car.
'New car?' I said, knowing they'd recently spent a packet on the old one. They'd had to change it, she croaked. The gear-box had now packed in, plus umpteen other things. It just wasn't reliable any more. And their freezer had broken down and the man said it wasn't worth repairing so they'd had to buy a new one. They'd been away when it happened and the contents had all gone soft.
Gosh, I said. How awful. That wasn't the worst of it, she went on. To crown absolutely everything, Goldie had eaten the guinea-pig from next door.
I listened, hardly able to believe my ears. It seemed the little girl next door had wanted to introduce the guinea-pig to Pickwick. Pickwick has that sort of effect. Old ladies dote on him, dour-faced people smile at him – the world is full of Pickwick's friends.
Anyway, apparently the little girl said 'This is Basil, Pickwick,' and held Basil up to the fence and while Pickwick was peering politely through his fringe at him Basil wriggled from her grasp, fell into the garden, and Goldie, the Bassenji hunter, promptly broke Basil's neck. It was a horrifying story, its drama heightened by the fact that Sue was out when it happened. The dogs were in the garden alone, on the other side of the high fence and Goldie, having killed poor Basil, didn't eat him all at once.
There followed a sequence of the utmost high-mindedness – when Sue's next-door neighbour, in spite of what had happened, leaned over the fence flapping frantically with a tea-towel so that Pickwick shouldn't get at the corpse. The fence was too high for her to climb over, she told Sue later, and anyway she was afraid that Goldie might bite – but she knew Pickwick wasn't allowed meat on account of his kidneys and there was no point in making matters worse.
That was pretty good of her, I said. Sue said it certainly was. They'd replaced the guinea-pig, of course. The very next day, though, Goldie had stolen a joint of pork – the guinea-pig incident having obviously gone to her head – and while Sue, with Pickwick shut indoors for his kidneys' sake, was lecturing her about coming to a bad end, Max had come along, taken the rest of the pork up a tree, Shere Khan had joined him and they'd eaten it.
The sequence of incidents I was about to relate pales in comparison with that. It did all happen the same morning, however, which adds a certain drama to the occasion. It was a morning, shortly after Louisa's return from Canada, when I planned to catch up on a few chores. Clean the upstairs windows; machine the seams on a skirt I was making; and if there was any time left after that, start on mowing the lawn.
I knew it was going to be one of those days when, as I put my arm through the side of the open casement to clean the outside panes, I touched the adjoining shutter and it leaned out from the wall. I grabbed it and shouted for Charles. I hadn't, as he seemed to think when he arrived, been swinging on it. Our shutters don't close. They are purely decorative, each held to the wall by two bolts, and the top bolt had simply come adrift.
Charles examined it. Fortunately there was no need to take the shutter off, he said, but he did wish I'd be more careful. He fetched a ladder, mixed some cement, put it in the hole round the bolt. While it set, we supported the shutter with a rope that went from the bed-leg, out through the window and round to a drain-pipe. It was a good thing I had discovered it was loose, I commented. Supposing it had hit somebody on the head? Charles, obviously still convinced I'd been swinging on it, repeated that he hoped I'd be careful from now on. He hadn't time to be always mending things. He wanted to get on with the conservatory.
He didn't get very far with it that morning. I finished the upstairs windows. No more shutters came off. Relieved, I got out the sewing machine and put the seam of my skirt under the foot. I did two measly inches and the whole thing jammed solid, my skirt clamped in immovable teeth.
I do very little sewing and still use Charles's mother's hand machine, which he was able to take apart. He had to, to get my skirt out, though he wasn't very pleased about it. 'How long since you oiled it?' he asked. 'Don't women ever read directions? You should oil it every two or three times you use it, not once in twenty years.'
My grandmother used to do that, I said, and got everything she made covered in oil. 'Women and machinery!' said Charles resignedly. 'Now can I get on with the conservatory?'
Standing on the ladder being tough on his feet, Charles took time off at intervals to rest them. He was, therefore, fortunately indoors with a book when a stone jammed in the lawn-mower a short while later. It wasn't my fault. He will put Annabel on the lawn, saying she likes the grass. She also likes digging holes in it and rolling in them, the lawn being nicely flat. This throws up small stones which are later picked up by the lawnmower, and, being electric, it jams. Usually I can unjam it before Charles heaves into view wearing his Women and Machinery expression, but this time I'd let the motor run a fraction too long and the stone was wedged as if it had been welded to the machine.
I gave the blades a couple of what I hoped would be quiet taps with a flat stone from the rockery. It sounded as if I was hitting an anvil. Hoping Charles hadn't heard it, I removed the mower to the privacy of the garage and strolled, humming, down past the window to the coal-house. Equally nonchalantly I meandered back a moment later carrying the garden fork as a decoy. Nobody indoors, glancing up from a book, could have seen the coal-hammer I had concealed against my off-side trouser seam. At least, I hoped nobody could.
Up in the garage I hit the mower blade with the coal-hammer and it unjammed at the second attempt. Nonchalantly I strolled back down to the coal-house again – it wouldn't do to leave the evidence around. Charles always gets suspicious when he sees the coal-hammer, it being my usual recourse in an emergency.
I was back on the lawn, the mower going great guns, when Charles came out, his feet refreshed. 'Everything all right?' he enquired, as keeper of the cottage machinery. 'Absolutely fine,' I assured him. 'Good,' beamed Charles benevolently, passing on to the conservatory.
I had spoken too soon. I was cutting the second lawn that afternoon when the flower-arrangement woman turned up. I hadn't seen her since our original encounter but she had said she'd be coming again. I'd learned in the interim that her name was Tomsett and that her husband travelled in ball-bearings. I'd jovially remarked to the Rector's wife, who'd told me, that that must be rather uncomfortable. Alas, it fell on stony ground. 'What must, dear?' she enquired.
Anyway, there was Mrs Tomsett in her feathered hat saying she'd like to speak to me – which meant, since she was speaking to me already, that she expected to be invited indoors: something which, in Siamese households, is not always very convenient.
There can be few Siamese owners who, if they are honest, can say they never have to jump to it when the doorbell rings. To hide, for instance, the favourite possession which somebody insists on keeping on the hearthrug. (When Shebalu was young it was the pot-scourer. Another cat I knew was forever bringing down the bath-sponge.) To whip off the covering bits kept over chair-arms in a desperate attempt to preserve them. In the case of two friends of ours, Dora and Nita, whose home is immaculate, to unpin cellophane protectors from the bottom of their velvet hall curtains.
They have two slant-eyed tyrants, Sugar and Spice, who spray as a means of intimidation. Won't let them out? Right, say the cats, taking up positions against the curtains. As Dora points out, they have improved. They used to spray the wall behind the sideboard. They also once sprayed into the control panel on the electric cooker and sabotaged the Sunday lunch. Lately the novelty seems to have worn off a bit. They confine themselves to the curtains. Even so Dora and Nita nearly go mad, pinning on deep cellophane hems when visitors leave, whipping them off when anybody comes, watched by two inscrutable Machiavellis who are likely to spray just for the hell of it the moment the visitors have gone into the sitting-room.
In our case – to revert to Mrs Tomsett – had I known she was coming there w
ere several things I would have done. Moved the earthbox we kept behind the armchair in the hope of one day persuading Sass to use it, for instance. Whipped up the old rug we kept under the earthbox because, so far, we hadn't. Nipped the vinyl corner-pieces off the carpet in the hall which now looked scruffy as well as peculiar. Shebalu had lately taken to raking at them, when she was shut out, as her own method of trying to get in.
Oh well. It obviously wasn't my day. I ushered Mrs Tomsett in. Actually she overlooked the corner-pieces, her eye caught by the flower arrangement on the carved oak chest. It was a big old tureen filled with lilac and yellow tulips. 'Did you do that?' she asked. I nodded modestly. 'Very good,' she said. 'I'm glad my words had some effect.'
As a matter of fact they hadn't. I did that arrangement every spring. In a tureen, because the cats couldn't knock it over. Lilac, because we have loads. The perennial tulips certainly were perennial – they were plastic. Some of the best imitations I've seen. Shebalu pulls the petals off real ones and I hate seeing flowers destroyed.
I ushered her into the sitting-room. She heard I wrote, she said as she sat down. She wrote too. Poetry. She must show me some of her work. What she'd really called for, though, was that she'd heard I was opening a boarding cattery. She'd like to help me by leaving Mauritius with me while she and her husband were in Spain. 'I'll give you full instructions about looking after him, of course,' she said, 'seeing that you've had no experience and Mauritius is rather fussy.'
I swallowed, while twenty years of keeping Siamese passed before my eyes. I never did learn why her cat was called Mauritius. I told her we weren't in the boarding business – the house and run were for our own Siamese. 'As for experience,' I said (I knew my voice was rising)... 'when anyone has kept cats as long as we have...'
From experience I should have expected it. At that very moment Shebalu appeared and got into the earthbox behind the chair, which undoubtedly Mrs Tomsett wouldn't have noticed otherwise. She squatted, then began to rise. I knew what was coming. I leapt forward and held her down.
Mrs Tomsett regarded the pair of us incredulously. Having finished, Shebalu celebrated by galloping merrily round the room and Sass appeared from nowhere and joined in. Going like the clappers, they hurdled Mrs Tomsett's outstretched legs, leaving her nylons neatly laddered as they passed.
Actually it was fitting retribution, better than any reply I could have made, but as Mrs Tomsett got up and made her exit, saying that quite obviously she'd made a mistake, I did wish that just sometimes the cats didn't let us down, particularly when it came to sitting in earthboxes.
We hadn't finished yet, however. Going through the hall, Mrs Tomsett glanced again at my flower arrangement. Stopped. Went over to touch one of the tulips. 'Plastic!' she said. 'Plastic tulips! I might have known it!' With which she departed through the door.
When I told Charles about it, he said 'A Day In The Life Of A Racing Pigeon.' It is one of his favourite comments. Goodness knows what it means. Charles's sayings are apt to be somewhat abstract, like 'Needs must when the Devil drives the barrel-organ.' But this time it sounded most apt.
Eleven
Fortunately things settled down quite quietly for a while after that. Shebalu didn't, as I was afraid she might, start spraying in earnest again. Charles said she'd obviously recognised Mrs Tomsett as a cat and she'd just been warning her off – subtle when you analyse it, if not very complimentary to cats. Charles himself, between brilliant remarks, continued repairing the conservatory, pointing out when I asked about the dresser that it was time now for outdoor work. I wouldn't need the dresser during the summer, he said. We'd be off most of the time in the caravan.
The caravan. How I'd looked forward to it on those winter nights when, seated by a blazing log fire, I'd gone through the caravan magazines a friend had lent us, read useful hints out to Charles and imagined us, foot-loose and self-contained, bowling gaily along the road. There is something of the nomad in most people, and in Charles and me more than most. One of the most marvellous trips we had ever done had been six weeks in Canada with a camper, when we cooked meals in the open, spent our nights by lonely mountain lakes, and lay awake in the moonlight listening for the rustling that meant bears were about. Now we had a caravan in England. We could go off whenever we liked. 'All of us,' I'd say, putting my arms round the cats curled comfortably on my lap. 'Isn't it going to be fun?' Which was not quite how it struck me now that spring was approaching and I got down to considering it in earnest.
Where would they sleep? With me in my sleeping bag, I could bet on it. Any time they came to bed with us in the cottage it was my shoulder they always made for. Sass insisted on First Place, which was under my chin, and would tread heavily over Shebalu to get it. Shebalu would take umbrage and leave the bed, only to return and poke me in the face a few minutes later. I'd lift up the bedclothes and let her in and the circuit would start all over again, Charles meanwhile snoring soundly away at my side which was why they wouldn't sleep on him... One way and another I didn't get much rest, and that was why we usually shut them downstairs. There was nowhere to shut them in a caravan. I wouldn't get any sleep at all...
I imagined them prowling round the caravan looking up at the rooflight. We must remember to keep that closed. I visualised Sass at work on the store cupboard when we were out. Sass has paws like jemmies. Any door that has a push-catch he can open within minutes. Leaving him for hours with a food cupboard didn't bear thinking about. Neither did the problem of his earthbox. Where were we going to keep it? There was a lavatory compartment in the caravan but I couldn't see him using it in there. His oracle would probably decide it had to be on Charles's bed and we'd have another clash of temperaments.
We hauled the caravan out of its shed into Annabel's new field so that we could get it ready for the road. We quite often put Annabel in there to graze as well, on a tether as we hadn't yet done the fencing. Inevitably the rumour went round the village that we were going to use Annabel to pull it. Equally inevitably we had to reassure Miss Wellington that nothing was further from our thoughts and in any case it had to be towed by a car. Sometimes, said Charles... just sometimes... it would be nice if people got things straight. Meanwhile we were gathering information about other people holidaying with cats.
There was the man, for instance, who came past one afternoon while I was cleaning the caravan windows. (Charles had replaced the broken one and made a perfect job of it.) Was I the one who kept the Siamese? he asked. I said with feeling that I was. Did I take them with us in the caravan? He imagined that it was ours... We'd bought it to take them with us, I said, but I was just realising the snags. Snags? he said. There weren't any. They always took their Siamese with them.
All I can say is, there are cats and cats and anyway he had only one. I listened fascinated while he told the tale of how a balanced Siamese behaves. Ching, he said, was used to a collar and lead. (So were ours, I nodded.) For his sake they didn't tour around with the van – they took it somewhere and left it in one place. For a couple of days they exercised him around the caravan field on his lead, releasing him to run ahead of them as they neared the van. When he knew exactly where it was and raced to sit outside the door, they could then let him out for exercise on his own, knowing that he'd always come back.
They'd never had to look for him? I asked. He said Ching was too fond of his food. (So were our two. So Seeley had been. But I'd never trust to that again.) What about when they went out? I enquired. Oh, Ching stayed in the caravan and slept. They left the windows slightly open, of course, in case it should get too hot... (I thought of Sass and his jemmy paws and likewise wrote off that one.)
Earthbox? Outside under the caravan. Ching was accustomed to using the garden. At night they put a box in the lavatory compartment but he never got up to use it. Where did he sleep? In the wardrobe. He liked to lie on in the morning and that way they didn't disturb him when they got up and dismantled the bed. He was sure, said the man, that we'd find it easy to cope and that
the cats would enjoy coming with us. I bet they would. Whether we could cope was a different matter. My doubts loomed larger and larger...
We had two other testimonials in favour of taking them. One was from a schoolteacher who wrote saying that for years she'd taken her Siamese to Scotland in a motor caravan. The cat got really excited when the van was being packed and tore up and down the stairs. She used to take her climbing in a rucksack until Jan (the cat) became too heavy. She'd now retired and was about to move to Scotland – presumably because Jan enjoyed it.
The other testimonial we were given first-hand when a motor caravan parked outside the cottage one Saturday afternoon. A girl got out and went round the back – to get her walking boots, I presumed. I was cutting the grass (the mower, touch wood, was going well) and prepared to ask my usual question. Was she likely to be long? If so, would she like to park behind our coal-house because where she was, nobody else could get by. Undoubtedly we live in what looks like an outpost of civilisation but we do have neighbours along a couple of tracks. One of them, a fiery Scot, was in the habit of letting the air out of the obstructer's tyres and then going home leaving his own car behind the first one. The times we'd soothed people, helped them blow up their tyres and rung Angus to come and let them out – his car now blocked theirs, which proved we hadn't done it, but it hardly made for a peaceful life.
