by Harriet Hahn
The days flew by. Almost everyone accepted the wedding invitation. Wedding presents poured in at Haverstock Hall, where they were set out on a big table in the morning room. Helena’s maid of honor, a delightful redheaded girl named Poppy Balsom, agreed to take over the lease on Helena’s apartment. Mrs. March agreed that Jarries could go to the wedding, and even go a day or two early, since Helena and Lord Henry particularly wanted him.
And so it was that Weatherby drove James and me to Haverstock Hall early in the week of the wedding.
The hall had been transformed. Even in the short few weeks since she had agreed to become Lady Haverstock, Helena had made important changes. The gold and white furniture in the big drawing room had been replaced with comfortable sofas and chairs, and it was now an inviting place to visit. Throughout the house, heavy velvet draperies had been eliminated. Light poured into the rooms, and precious furniture that could be damaged by sunlight had been stored, or given to the National Trust.
Wilson and his staff were preparing for the reception, which was to include a huge buffet and dancing as well as drinks.
James toured the house, a job he considered his duty as the best friend of the lord of the manor. However, the brilliant sunlight outside beckoned, and James decided to explore the activities on the village common.
On the common, an acre of grass in the center of the village, groups of men, women, boys, and girls were deep in physical activity. Morris dancers with bells on their feet were stamping and kicking in one corner. A group of boys were practicing hitting a target with a lance while riding on the shoulders of bigger boys. Tumblers were going through their routines. In fact, the common was filled with activity. There was very little conversation to be heard. The air was largely filled with grunts, interspersed with an occasional “Watch it!” or “That’s sloppy work.” James stretched first his front legs, then his hind ones, and prepared to enter athletics. Of course, he assured himself, he could do anything athletic better than anyone else. The fact that physical effort took training, and that by and large he was a sedentary cat, given to drinking single-malt whiskey and eating Fortnum & Mason’s crab salad did not enter his head.
He joined the Morris dancers and learned their routine easily, but he tired quickly. On his way to the tumblers he passed a maypole that had been set up temporarily in the center of the common.
A maypole did not usually stand in the center of the common. In fact, there had not been one for fifteen years, and this one would come down right after the fête; the hole that had been dug to hold the pole would be filled in immediately, and although it wasn’t properly anchored, it would do for the dance.
James stood at the bottom and looked up. The maypole was some fifteen feet high and looked, from James’s vantage point, as though it reached the sky.
“Hey, cat,” said a passing dancer, “don’t climb that pole, you’ll never get down again.”
“Scat,” hissed a companion dancer to James, then asked the first dancer, “Why are you talking to that cat? He can’t understand you.”
“Dunno,” said the first. “Just seemed the thing to do.” They stamped off, jingling the bells around their ankles.
James appraised the pole thoughtfully, and then joined the tumblers. He found he was very good at somersaults, and that he could walk a balance beam on four legs but not, to his distress, on two. He tried to do a backward somersault, but failed. He tried leaping into the air and executing a twist, but failed utterly. His only successes were his landings. Always on his feet.
There was more to this athletic business than he had thought. He eyed the pole again.
Weary from all the activity, he collapsed next to a bench where a pair of elderly women were talking and observing the scene.
“Last time we had a maypole, some dumb cat climbed it and the fire department had to get it down,” said one.
“I wonder what’s so hard about it,” said the other. “Cats can climb trees both up and down.”
“Well, I hope one doesn’t try it this time,” said the other.
James looked back at the pole. So no cat had successfully climbed up and down that pole. He would show them a thing or two!
As the afternoon wore on, the athletes departed for the day and James was left alone. He approached the pole and placed a tentative paw on its smooth side. He started climbing up. It was harder than he had thought it would be, but he persevered. Finally, muscles tired, he reached the top. What a glorious sight! He could see the green where a platform had been set up with its back to the road. On this platform the dignitaries would sit for the dances and maypole event. Beyond the platform was the road, and across the road was a row of shops well known to James because he had visited most of them at Christmas. The road was nearly empty, but he noticed in front of the jeweler’s shop a girl who looked vaguely familiar, accompanied by a young man. The girl was looking in the window of the shop with great intensity. The man was looking around furtively.
On the opposite side of the common was a small woods. The road split at the corner past the shops, and houses lined the side that bounded the green. The other side of the common was bounded by the churchyard.
James surveyed all sides of the common, puzzled for a moment over the problem of where he had seen the girl before, and then tackled the problem of how to get down.
After all the comments he had heard, he felt he had to get down himself, there were no two ways about that. He tried going down headfirst; that was impossible. At last, infinitely slowly, taking time with each move, he climbed down backward and returned to Haverstock Hall, where he wolfed down a huge meal in the kitchen and curled up on my bed. He was exhausted but happy. I did it, he thought. But who is that girl? Then he fell asleep.
During the night it rained, but in the morning the day sparkled, and all morning the sales booths set up along the side of the green bounded by the churchyard were busy. A lunch tent had been set up on the side of the green facing the houses, and the road had been blocked there for the day so that those serving the lunches could get back and forth easily to the houses where supplies were kept. In the afternoon, various contests took place in the center of the common around the maypole.
During the afternoon, Lord Henry, Helena, and all the members of the wedding party who wanted to participate, as well as village dignitaries and, of course, James, sat on the platform. The shops across the street had done a good business during the day, what with people coming and going all the time. As the contests began, the sales staffs of the shops came across the road to stand on the edge of the common and watch.
Prizes were awarded, and beaming villagers took home ribbons for best delphinium and biggest beetroot. The winners of the athletic contest received small cups. At last the cultural part of the program began and the Morris dancers, their bells tuned to an uncertain harmony, stamped around the common. As they disappeared, a certain confusion ensued as the grammar school children gathered for madrigal singing. Under cover of this activity, James slipped off the platform and headed for the maypole, which was now draped with pink and white ribbons attached to a disc on the top. As he started to climb, his progress was hidden by the ribbons. No one paid any attention. He navigated over the edge of the disc and sat on its middle atop the pole and surveyed the scene, grinning with self-satisfaction.
The sun moved in the heavens, songs and skits were over, and James was almost sleepy.
As the maypole dancers picked up their ribbons he was jerked sharply awake.
The maypole dance was the closing event of the day, and a goodly crowd surrounded the common. Most of the merchants had left their shops and come across the street to see the finale. The village constable rested his bicycle against the platform and stood on it to watch.
Some ten boys and an equal number of girls dressed in white circled the maypole, weaving the ribbons into a mesh pattern against the pole and gradually getting closer and closer to it.
The pole had been slightly loosened by the rain during the
night. The ground under it was soft, and the press of young people around it, pulling first in one direction, then another, widened the top of the hole in which the pole was placed.
The once confident James began to feel just slightly seasick as the top of the pole began to make a small circle through the air. The more the dancers danced, the wider grew the circle the top of the pole made, and the sicker James got. He began to look around frantically. Suddenly he noticed—across the street at the jewelry store—the girl, the girl he had seen months ago at Baron’s Chambers, who had left so precipitously. She was looking in the jewelry store window, and the man with her was trying to break open the door.
James, frightened by the now widely swinging pole and concerned about a possible robbery, let out a wild howl at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. At the same time he lifted a paw and pointed in the direction of the shop.
The dancers froze. The spectators looked first at James, and then, as he waved his paw, they turned around and looked across the street. The constable jumped down and raced to the jewelry shop, where he collared the man, who was also frozen by the howls that continued from the top of the maypole.
The dance had stopped. The pole sagged to one side. James sat shaking on the tilted disc. Helena, ever resourceful, had left the platform where confusion reigned as people tried to sort out what was happening where. She got some of the boys to remove a canvas awning from one of the booths, and then boys and girls together held the edges of the awning under the spot where James was sitting, sick and frightened.
“James,” Helena called when all was ready, “you’ve saved us from great trouble, and now we’ll save you.”
“Jump,” she cried. “We’ll catch you.”
But James had made his own decision, and so, laboriously, sometimes headfirst and sometimes the other way round, he climbed down the tilted pole. There was resounding applause as his paw touched the ground. He walked with great dignity the three steps necessary to reach Helena’s arms, and then collapsed.
The maypole was righted. The music began again, and the dancers once again wound and unwound their pink and white ribbons. Only the village constable and two would-be thieves did not see it.
The next afternoon, Helena and Lord Henry were married in a lovely ceremony. James sat next to me in one of the front pews. He was stiff but content.
There was a splendid reception. Everyone assured Fiona that the fête, sale, and cultural event had been a huge success. Footmen passed champagne, and the buffet was laid out in the dining room. There was dancing in the drawing room, and games were played in the billiard room. The party lasted well into the early hours.
James recovered rapidly and frolicked about, lapping champagne and eating lobster until he wore himself out and curled up on my bed.
We were both up fairly early the next morning, and James limped down to a great English breakfast. Afterwards, we said good-bye to Lord Henry and Lady Helena, who hugged us both, and then we were driven back to Baron’s by Weatherby.
I now packed again, while James supervised, because I was leaving Baron’s for the year. My work was finished, at least for the present.
As I finished packing, I said to James, “We ought to have something really special tonight.”
James nodded.
I got out the carrying bag. It needed dusting, for James had not needed to use it for some time. He hopped in, and we headed for Fortnum & Mason.
There I was again, with a cat in a bag, peering at the delicacies in the cases.
“Shall we have some caviar?” I asked the air.
The bag mewed.
“A jar of your best beluga caviar,” I told the clerk. We added some melba toast and some Devonshire cream because James loves Devonshire cream on absolutely anything, and a bottle of Old Bushmills single-malt for a change, and I hurried back to my flat with a parcel in one hand and a cat in a bag in the other.
And so, at last, sated with delicious things to eat and drink, I was prepared to sit and watch the late news with my eyes closed in company with my friend. But James had other ideas. He rose and waved me to the door. In passing, he picked up the carrying bag in this teeth and dragged it with him. I opened the door to the flat. James deposited the bag outside the door, then returned, and we watched the news together after all.
At eleven-thirty there was a knock at the door.
There, as usual, was Mrs. March. “Is James here?” she asked.
Also, as usual, James was on the stairs behind her, this time sitting on the carrying bag. He waved a paw and headed upstairs, dragging the bag with him.
Next morning when the cab arrived, there was James, sitting on his table, ready to look over a new tenant. A rare personality indeed!
Turn the page to begin reading from the follow-up to James the Connoisseur Cat
I had arrived in London the day before with commissions for a number of clients. I am an art expert of sorts and I do research for various individuals and institutions, bid at auction for clients and, on occasion, try to find specific items. This time I planned an extended visit in London.
“Peter in?” I asked Marilyn, who greeted me as I came in. Marilyn’s blue-black hair was pulled straight back and worn in a braid on top of her head. She has huge brown eyes, sharp features and a very personal style. She is keenly intelligent and slightly intimidating until you know her. At that moment her handsome face had a tiny smear of white frosting, as she was eating a piece of Penny Black birthday cake.
She grinned at me. “Yes, and hard at work,” she said through a mouthful of cake. “Welcome back to London; I’ll tell him you are here.” She picked up her phone and did so. “Have a piece of cake?”
I shook my head.
“Go right on in,” she said. “You know the way.”
“You look wonderful,” I said, and she did.
I knocked at Peter’s door and opened it to be assaulted by a flying grey bomb. I held out my arms and was embraced by a big, silver-grey, short-haired cat with golden eyes, who settled into my arms, grinning and purring.
Peter leaned back in his chair, which not only swings forward and back, but like a barber chair can go up and down as well. Hugging the cat I dropped into one of the wooden chairs. James, for that was the cat’s name, wriggled out of my arms, encircled my neck, danced around the back of the chair, jumped to the worktable, where he did two or three somersaults, and then returned to my lap.
“Oh, James, sir,” I said. James is an exceptionally aristocratic cat and likes to be properly addressed. “I am glad to see you. And you too, Peter.”
Peter also had a piece of birthday cake on his desk because in the Thwaites stamp department this day was being celebrated. It was May 6. A banner printed out on lengths of computer paper was draped across the entry to the third-floor offices. It read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PENNY BLACK. For those unacquainted with British postal history, the Penny Black was the first adhesive postage stamp and it made its appearance on May 6, 1840.
Thwaites is one of London’s great auction houses and Peter Hightower, at seventy-four, is the head and moving spirit of its stamp department. Peter’s office sported a big desk, bookcases jammed with books and catalogs, filing cases and a worktable with an excellent light. There were also two very old wooden chairs, comfortable but nondescript, for visitors. Peter himself is of medium height with a ruddy face, white hair, a rounding shape and twinkling blue eyes that miss nothing. He is one of my dearest friends.
There was a knock at the door and Marilyn appeared carrying a tray with coffee for Peter and myself and a saucer of cream for James, who has tasted coffee but doesn’t really like it.
“Welcome to London,” said Peter warmly. “What brings you to town this year?”
“Two rather dull pieces of research for academics who need to publish and don’t want to do all the work. And there is an interesting commission which, if I can bring it off, or if it is there to be brought off, will mean a very handsome fee indeed.”
“L
et’s hear about the interesting one,” said Peter.
“It seems there was a French sculptor who made a name for himself in England about 1748. He was not only a very skillful artist but had a great flair for the dramatic, and he executed some marble monuments, particularly funeral pieces, which are still of interest. All I can find out about him at the moment indicates that he was born, or at least baptized, in Lyon in 1702 and then appeared in England in the 1740s. He is known at least once to have made a terra-cotta model of one of his sculptures before he committed it in marble. That one was of Shakespeare, but there is the vaguest hint that he may have made others.”
“Yes, yes,” said Peter, who not only knows postal history but has a wide-ranging interest in all the arts. “I think I know whom you mean. His name is Louis-François Roubiliac.”
“That’s the one. If I can find one or more of these terra-cotta models for his statues, presuming he made more than one, and can buy one or more, I stand to make a very handsome fee. My client is a collector of sculpture who has a passion for these dramatic pieces, and I should dearly love to find one. If I do, it will be sheer luck, I think, but I’m going to try.”
Peter swivelled around in his chair and searched in a stack of monographs on the floor beside him. At last he found what he wanted.
“Here’s old L-F.,” he said. “According to this, it is possible that the young sculptor might have gone to Dresden from Lyon. There is the suggestion that he had an uncle in Dresden, an accountant. There was also a fine sculptor working in Dresden in the 1720s when your boy would have been in his teens.” Peter began to chuckle. “It so happens we have just taken in a large correspondence covering the period from 1715 to 1738 in Dresden. It is largely commercial and I am starting to look it over just now. I’ll see if anything at all suggestive turns up.”
James, who had given up the cream and was playing with a wad of paper on the worktable, looked up at me and shook his head.
“You think it’s hopeless, do you?” I asked.
