by Mandy Morton
‘Oh you did make me jump! How long have you been there?’ Hettie asked, struggling to release herself from the bean bag.
‘Long enough to know that your guitar ought to come and live with us rather than gathering dust in this shed. Some of these posters would cheer up our walls, too.’ Tilly launched herself enthusiastically into the mountain of memorabilia, selecting a couple of colourful examples of Hettie caught on stage with her band. ‘We’ll ask Poppa to put them up for us next time he drops in. I think we could have a sort out in here – there’s lots of nice things we could use. That bean bag would make an extra chair, and the guitar could live on it when we’re not using it.’
Before Hettie could argue, Tilly dragged the bean bag across the floor and loaded her selection of posters onto it. She disappeared down the garden path, leaving Hettie to lock up and carry her now eight-string guitar to the relative safety of their room. It had taken her some time to revisit a past she mourned, but it had only taken Tilly five minutes to reunite her with all that was good about herself.
With the chores out of the way and Hettie’s guitar installed on its bean bag, their thoughts turned to a light lunch before afternoon tea at Furcross. There was no shopping to be done, as the contents of the Malkin and Sprinkle hamper would last them for some time, and at least that saved them from the prying eyes of weekend shoppers. She selected two tins of luxury sardines in extra tomato sauce from the hamper, and they settled to the task of opening them. Hettie’s tin opened without incident but Tilly’s key wouldn’t turn more than halfway across, where it became stuck fast. ‘Why do they make it so difficult to open sardines?’ she asked, tugging at the key. ‘The tomato sauce ends up spraying itself everywhere. They put pilchards in a proper tin so you can use a tin opener, so why can’t they do the same with these?!’ She was getting tearful with the frustration of being able to see her sardines but not eat them, and Hettie – sensing the approaching disaster – gave Tilly hers to eat while she took up the battle between key, fish, tin and more particularly tomato sauce. When the lid finally gave way, the sauce cascaded all over Tilly, Hettie and a sizeable area of their gingham tablecloth; in fact it was several months later, when Tilly had occasion to climb on top of the filing cabinet to change a light bulb, that she finally removed the last splashes of tomato from the ceiling.
‘I think we might have to buy a car,’ said Hettie, dabbing the sauce from her fur. ‘We need to be able to get out and about under our own steam. Poppa has been wonderful, but he’s a busy plumber and he isn’t always available. I don’t think we should be seen catching buses too often – it’s not good for our image.’ The fact that Tilly was still covered almost entirely in tomato sauce had given rise to thoughts on how they should project themselves; in Hettie’s book, image was everything.
‘Cars are very expensive,’ Tilly said thoughtfully. ‘They drink lots of petrol and the old ones are always stopping whenever they feel like it. Miss Lambert had one. It was green with real leather seats and she had to wind it up. It never started on frosty mornings and she usually had to push it home. I’m not sure we’d get on with a car.’
‘But you don’t have to wind them up any more,’ Hettie argued in defence of the modern motor car. ‘They almost drive themselves these days.’
‘That’s what I mean – they do as they like,’ countered Tilly. ‘What if we wanted to go to the seaside and IT wanted to go shopping? I bet IT would win. You’re always hearing taxi drivers apologising for being late because they got lost. Well, that’s what happens with cars: they make you late because they please themselves where they go and how long it takes them. And even if you do get somewhere in a car, where do you park it? Have you seen those meters on sticks? They’re everywhere, and if you park by one of those you have to put money in it. Why would you want to do that? And if you don’t put money in it, one of those nasty know-it-all cats with a peaked cap will give you a ticket for your trouble.’
Tilly cleared away the empty tins as Hettie, feeling a little defeated, glanced through the local advertiser, now also covered in sardines and tomato sauce. One advert leapt off the page at her. ‘Well I never! Look at this! “RECONDITIONED MOTOR BIKES AND SIDECARS”.’ The ad went on to list a number of machines that were ‘as good as new’, finishing with a contact number and address, and it was that which made Hettie’s heart sing: ‘Enquiries c/o Hambone’s Hardware.’
Forgetting her personal war with the motor car, Tilly bounced onto the table to read over Hettie’s shoulder. ‘Ooh! I wouldn’t mind one of those. I once lived in a sidecar in a garage for three weeks until I was discovered and turned out. It was ever so cosy at night – just like having my own little place. Can we go and look at one?’
Hettie was pleased that Tilly wasn’t averse to all modes of transport, and grew quite excited at the prospect of their detective agency having wheels. ‘I’m not sure we can afford these prices, but the Hambones may be able to offer a good deal on one if we save up a bit. We could go and look at some on our way to Furcross to see if we like them, but you’ll have to get cleaned up first. You look like something from a horror film with all that red sauce everywhere.’
Tilly sprang into action, filling their sink with soapy water and scrubbing away at her fur until all traces of lunch had been removed. Hettie did the same and ten minutes later they set out down the High Street. It was a week since Meridian Hambone had been set about by the Claw brothers and Hettie had come to her rescue, but life seemed to stand still in the dusty Aladdin’s cave. Meridian sat as she always did, perched on her stool by the till and offering toothless grins as an introduction to her emporium of domestic delights. Seeing Hettie, she let out a squawk like an old crow. ‘Gawd love us! If it ain’t me guardian angel! What brings yer in today?’
Hettie stepped forward while Tilly hovered by the watering cans, wondering if Meridian stocked a special tin opener for sardines but was too frightened to ask. ‘Well, I noticed an ad for motorbikes and sidecars in the paper and it said to contact Hambone’s. I wondered if we could have a look at them?’
Meridian displayed her very best toothless grin. ‘Them’s Lazarus’s. ’E does the bigger stuff in the yard out the back. ’E’s out there now tunin’ ’em up. You go through the shop and out the door by me ’lectrics.’
The backyard of Hambone’s was a sight to behold. On first glance it was piled high with scrap metal, but a closer inspection revealed it to be the place where new life was given to old things. There was a small caravan over in the corner which, from the signage on its window, functioned as the sales office. Hettie could see Lazarus Hambone inside with another cat and, as she and Tilly approached, he emerged with his customer, counting a wad of notes to conclude a deal. The customer left through a pair of double gates at the back of the yard and Lazarus shut them firmly behind him before returning to the office. ‘Miss Bagshot – I wasn’t expectin’ royalty today! What can I do fer the most famous cat in town? ’Cept fer Oralia Claw, that is.’
Hettie’s ears blushed at his words and Tilly – believing that Lazarus Hambone really was a giant – hid behind her. ‘We’ve come to see if you have a motorbike and sidecar that we could run about in,’ Hettie said. ‘We think it would help if we had some transport for our detective agency.’
Lazarus beamed, showing a full set of pearly white teeth that had obviously not been inherited from his mother. ‘I got just the thing! Perfect for a couple of go-getters like yerselves. Follow me.’ He led them past a mountain of exhaust pipes, old tyres and bits of engine to an area roped off from the yard’s general chaos – and there stood two neat rows of motorbikes and sidecars. They were all in various states of renovation: some waiting for handlebars, others undergoing complete paint jobs, and one looking ready and willing to take to the road. ‘This one’s a good’un. She’s got a few ’undred miles left in ’er, ideal for a first go, an’ the sidecar’s got plenty of room. Nice little runner altogether. I can just picture you two solvin’ yer crimes in this.’
Lazarus Hambone had been selling motorbikes long enough to know that ‘no’ usually meant ‘yes’ with a little extra push here and there. He would always be grateful to Hettie for saving his mother from the Claw brothers, and it was time to put his bargaining skills to work. ‘I tell yer what I’ll do. I’ll take yer out for a spin on ’er, so’s you can get the feel of it, and if yer still likes what yer see, I’ll work out a plan so’s yer can pay me a bit at a time. I’m not in any hurry for the money and I can offer yer a very good price. I owes yer, and a Hambone always settles ’is debts.’
Tilly, who had placed herself between Hettie and the giant Lazarus, stared from one to the other, waiting and hoping that they would soon be heading out onto the open road in the shiny red creature that had stolen her heart. Hettie looked into Lazarus’s face and saw an honesty she didn’t expect from a wheeler and dealer. Without any further conversation, she nodded and turned towards the motorbike. Lazarus slid back the lid on the sidecar and Tilly – using one of the shiny black mudgards as a step – leapt into the seat which offered space for two. When he returned from his caravan with helmet and goggles, he found both cats sitting in the sidecar, excitedly waiting for their ride. ‘I brought you an extra pair of goggles in case yer wants to ride pillion,’ he said, seeing how comfortable Hettie and Tilly had made themselves in their little red bubble.
Hettie hadn’t had time to consider that she would eventually have to master the motorbike, and was quite content to sit with Tilly in the comfort of the sidecar while Lazarus Hambone put the vehicle through its paces. ‘I’m happy just to watch from here at the moment, Mr Hambone,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I’m wearing my very best mac. I think I’ll need something a little more practical if I’m to ride astride.’ Tilly giggled at Hettie’s motorbike talk, and knew that she could soon start to plan an interior revamp for the sidecar destined to become an important part of the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency.
Lazarus wheeled them out onto the road, shutting the double gates behind him, then leapt onto the motorbike and kicked it into life. With a roar, they shot off down the road, turned right into the High Street, and sped away through the outskirts of the town and out into the countryside. Hettie and Tilly clung to each other in sheer delight and shouted above the noise of the motorbike. ‘It’s just like a ride at the fair!’ screamed Tilly, as Lazarus swung round a corner. ‘We’re going to have such fun! We could even go to the seaside in it.’
Hettie looked up at the giant, be-goggled form of Lazarus Hambone as he gave the motorbike its full throttle and wondered how long it would take her to master the art of being a biker – but that problem was for another day. ‘I think we’ll have to buy it, whatever it costs,’ she shouted to Tilly, as main roads gave way to winding lanes lined with the colours of autumn.
The deal was done by the time Lazarus dropped them at the entrance to Furcross. Hettie had been offered terms that she simply could not refuse, and Lazarus had also promised to teach her the basics of the road. He expected this aspect of the deal to take some time, and so it was agreed that Hettie would present herself at his yard every Tuesday tea time for the foreseeable future until she had got the hang of it. Tilly put herself forward as added support; the idea of being driven around country lanes in the bright red sidecar appealed to her almost as much as watching TV and – as their new mode of transport was to be kept in Hambone’s yard until Hettie was capable of driving it away – it would be her only chance to see it.
They waved Lazarus off and headed for the front door of Furcross, which was flung open long before they had even thought of knocking. Marcia Woolcoat stood on the threshold, bedecked in what could easily have been a bright orange tent had it not chosen to feature a double row of large lime green buttons down its front. ‘Miss Bagshot! How splendid of you and your friend to honour us with your presence! Please come through to my parlour, where Marley is about to serve tea.’
By now, Hettie was more than used to Marcia Woolcoat’s fluctuating moods, but this welcome was over the top even by her standards. Feeling a little nervous, she hung her designer mac on her usual peg and followed the matron of Furcross down the corridor, with Tilly skipping along behind, straightening her best red cardigan as she went.
Marcia Woolcoat’s parlour had transformed itself into a warm, vibrant haven of colour. There was a blazing fire in the grate, the photographs had returned to the walls and mantelpiece, and several vases of chrysanthemums stood around the room in autumn shades of gold and red. The sofa that had so often been the battleground for Marcia Woolcoat’s inner demons was now occupied by a very pretty cat dressed in a blue jumper and matching trousers, with a cheerful spotted scarf around her neck. Hettie had to look at her twice to work out who she was; after all, dead cats look very different to live ones, as she remarked to Tilly later.
‘Please sit down Miss Bagshot, and your friend? Miss … er …?’
‘This is Tilly, just Tilly, and I would prefer to be called Hettie instead of Miss Bagshot,’ Hettie said, squashing herself onto the sofa next to Tilly and Alma Mogadon. ‘It seems much friendlier.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased. In that case, you may call me Marcia and my sister here is Alma. I feel we have known each other for years, Miss … er … Hettie, and I hope our friendship will endure. How can I ever thank you for restoring my sister to me and making me see the error of my ways?’ Marcia batted a tear away with her paw and sat down in her armchair opposite the sofa, addressing her remarks to all three cats. ‘Before Marley gets here with the tea, there are a number of things I wish to say. My sister and I have spent the week laying ghosts to rest and talking about our future, which we are very much looking forward to – but before we can embrace what is to come, I must put things right and remember whom I have to thank for pulling the scales from my eyes.’ Hettie, Tilly and Alma all leant forward, completely transfixed as Marcia Woolcoat continued. ‘When I first invited my sister to join me at Furcross, it was more from my need for a qualified nurse than a wish to indulge a family member, but, as time went on, Alma became the sister I thought I had lost. As you now know, I have been estranged from my mother for many years. She made it clear when Alma was born that she didn’t want me in her life, and I endured some terrible acts of cruelty before I decided to make my own way in the world. I missed my sister when I left, but I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t return, even if it meant never seeing Alma again. My mother found it impossible to love us both, and she had made her choice. By the time Alma and I were reunited at Furcross, our mother had become a difficult and demanding elderly cat, and – having lavished so much love on Alma – she fully expected that my sister would look after her in her later years. I refused to take any part in this problem, and made Alma choose between us. I now realise that this was an impossible position in which to put my sister. My lack of understanding nearly cost Alma her life, and if it hadn’t been for you and your careful handling of the case on which I engaged you, I fear there would have been a very different outcome.’
As Marcia’s last remark was addressed directly at Hettie, she had no alternative but to allow her ears to blush a bright red. Tilly fidgeted on her behalf, sharing a nod of approval with Alma, who seemed to be hanging
on Marcia’s every word. And the words continued. ‘I am fully aware of the outcome regarding Oralia Claw and the deception in which she encouraged my sister to take part, but I am most grateful that you have resisted revealing the full story to the papers and have somehow managed to keep Alma and Furcross out of the news. It is to your credit that you go about your business in such a way that the innocent are protected and the guilty are brought to book – but I am also guilty, which is why I feel the need to confess and make reparation to those I have hurt.’
There was an almighty crash as Marley Toke fell into the room, pushing a tea trolley laden with cakes and sandwiches and almost unseating the samovar. ‘Oh my days, Miss Marcie! Me trolley’s lost a wheel. Dat lurched out o’ me grasp on de way from me kitchen, and it took me all me time to catch it. Den, just as me get ’ere, de front wheel go somewhere else!’ Tilly and Alma sprang to Marley’s rescue, steadying the trolley as the cook selected one of Digger Patch’s novels from the shelf and shoved it under the offending corner. Tilly couldn’t help but remember that the last time she and the trolley had been in such close contact there was a dead cat on the bottom shelf, but she was pleased to see that it was now taken up with the most delicious of teatime treats: fish paste sandwiches with the crusts cut off; small pork pies; cheese straws; crisps; a huge chocolate cake; and a mountain of iced buns in pink, lemon and white.
