The Diamond Cat

by Marian Babson

  “Take care of Pasha for me.” Sylvia pounced. “It’s too late to get him into any cattery now—they’re all booked up for the Bank Holiday weekend.”

  “Yes, they would be.”

  “I didn’t know I was going to do this.” Sylvia fixed her with desperate eyes. “But suddenly, I can’t stand it any more. I’ve got to see what she looks like, how they look together—” She broke off with a choking sob.

  “All right.” Bettina would have agreed to more than that to escape this embarrassing scene. “All right, I’ll look after Pasha.”

  Bettina shuddered again at the memory and wondered how Sylvia was faring in Edinburgh. On that sombre thought, she turned off the light and, thoroughly exhausted by the problems of the day, fell asleep.

  But not for long. This time it wasn’t the cats who awakened her. The house was silent, but the feeling of having been suddenly and uneasily disturbed remained.

  Had her mother called? She shuffled into her slippers and pulled on her robe, her disquiet growing. Was it too quiet? By now, her mother should have called again. Unless she couldn’t …

  She padded along the hallway to stand, one hand on the doorknob, listening outside her mother’s room. Silence. Deep silence. Carefully, she turned the knob and inched the door open.

  Still silence. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the pale oblong of the windows across the room; the windows overlooking the street, outlined by the rim of light around the curtains.

  Belatedly, she recognized that part of the silence could be attributed to the fact that the rain had stopped. So had the wind. Had anything … anyone … else?

  She held her breath, listening, straining her eyes to catch any faint rise and fall of the bedcovers.

  Then, in the distance, she heard it. The sound that had wakened her. The muffled roar of a powerful motor. Outside, coming closer. The rim of light around the windows brightened as headlights moved slowly down the street.

  At this hour? After such a storm? Unless they were lost. Or the storm had brought down more trees, blocking the major road, so that the traffic was being detoured along this normally quiet street.

  She tiptoed across the room and twitched the curtains aside slightly, looking down on the street. Instantly, she had the unnerving feeling that she was being observed herself. She shrank back involuntarily, retaining enough presence of mind to hold the curtain still, so that no one looking up could tell whether it had been carelessly drawn or recently moved.

  The sleek dark limousine rolled past at a stately pace, as though leading a funeral procession. But no other cars followed it. She leaned forward to watch its slow progress to the end of the street, where it turned and began to retrace its path. The growl of its engine rose to an ominous roar as it came closer; she would know that engine again when she heard it.

  “Bettina!” The sudden cry made her jump. “What are you doing there? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Mother.” Bettina retreated from the window, fingertips to her lips to signal silence, as though their voices could be heard by anyone inside the passing car. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

  “Sleep? I haven’t slept a wink all night. There’s too much disturbance going on. I told you we’d have no peace with all those cats.”

  “The cats haven’t made a sound,” Bettina said firmly, hoping she was right. “You’ve been asleep and dreaming.”

  “I have not! And you haven’t answered me. What are you doing in here?”

  “Just looking out of the window. I thought I heard something outside …” The car had reached the end of the street and was turning again.

  “No,” she said quickly, as her mother stretched out a hand towards the bedside lamp. “Don’t turn the light on.”

  “Why not?” But the hand fell back to the mattress, almost with relief.

  “It will wake you up. You want to go back to sleep.”

  “I tell you … I won’t …” Mrs. Bilby’s voice was fading, only the need to argue keeping her awake.

  Outside the limousine cruised slowly past and reached the other end of the street. Bettina heard it drive slowly down the parallel street.

  Someone lost and looking for the right address … probably.

  “Sleep …” she repeated softly, hypnotically (she hoped). “Go back to sleep …”

  With a soft huffling sigh, her mother relaxed and her breathing became slow and even.

  Bettina tiptoed to the door, closing it softly from the outside, and stood for a moment in the hallway, still listening.

  In the distance, the heavy motor droned monotonously.

  From below, a faint questioning yowl sounded tentatively.

  Adolf. Awake and wondering if anyone else was.

  Still tiptoeing, she gained her room and closed her door firmly. She was going back to sleep herself.

  Chapter 5

  In the morning, a pale sun shone weakly on a water-logged world. The television news yielded its fresh quota of highways under water, bridges washed away, trees blocking roads, houses without roofs, scaffolding collapsing, abandoned cars with nothing showing above water but the roofs, bodies of cattle and sheep floating down swollen rivers, ships in distress off the coast, major structural damage to buildings ashore, and all the other tragedies, disasters and calamities following in the wake of the storm.

  Weather pundits speculated cheerily as to whether all this meant that meteorological patterns were changing and the country was due for a bitter winter, or whether the storm was simply a freak happening.

  A panel of experts, chuckling merrily, were just agreeing that it might be an abnormally bad winter when Mrs. Bilby hit her remote control and had the satisfaction of seeing the screen go dark.

  “They don’t have to be so bloody happy about it,” she grumbled. “You can tell their roofs don’t leak.”

  “I’ll get someone to see to it as soon as the holiday is over,” Bettina promised recklessly. Anything to head off another litany of complaints.

  “And what do you think you’re going to use for money?” her mother challenged. “I’ve told you before, I’m not standing for a second mortgage on this house, no matter if it falls down around our ears. We’ve got all we can do with the one we’ve got—and it’s only another eight years until we’re free of it.”

  Only! Another eight years! And that was if all went well. If she lost her job, or fell ill …

  “We’ll manage somehow,” she said. “The work’s got to be done or the place will fall down around our ears.” She was suddenly aware of a warm, almost hot, feeling emanating from the cylinder in her pocket.

  Burning a hole in her pocket. Dare she use one of the diamonds? How could she go about converting it into cash? No! No! Resolutely, she pulled her mind away from the temptation.

  “Well, I don’t see how.” Her mother looked at her suspiciously. “Unless you’ve got some savings I don’t know about.”

  “There’s only the bit we’re saving up for a holiday. We could—”

  “Oh, no, we couldn’t! That’s my once-a-year chance to get away and have a bit of a rest. I’ll see the hallway knee-deep in water before I give that up.”

  “You may not have long to wait.” She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. She discovered that her hand was clutching convulsively at the cylinder. Adolf watched her with hopeful interest; all sorts of goodies came from hands thrust into cardigan pockets.

  “You’d better empty those buckets again, but don’t put them away. The roof will be dripping for ages yet and it may start raining again. I don’t trust this weather.”

  It had been a long time since Mrs. Bilby had trusted anything or anyone, but there was nothing to be gained by pointing that out.

  “I’ll see to the buckets right now,” Bettina said.

  “If they’re too full, dip a bit out with a saucepan.” Her mother followed her into the front hall. “You don’t want to strain yourself—” She broke off abruptly and moved forward t
o look out of the narrow window flanking the front door.

  “Here! What are those men doing out there?”

  “What men?” Bettina tried to look out, but her mother blocked the view. She stepped into the living room and stood behind the curtains of the bay window.

  She could see them clearly now: two men with long poles, poking about in what seemed to be a small pond stretching from the pavement to the middle of the street about three houses down. The pond had not been there Friday night.

  “What are they doing?” Mrs. Bilby demanded, joining her behind the sheltering curtains.

  “Trying to unblock the drain, I’d say.”

  “If you ask me, I’d say they can’t even find the drain. Just look at them, fishing around with those poles. They’re nowhere near it. Typical incompetence! And we pay our rates for this!”

  The cats, taking advantage of the open door, clustered around their ankles, ready to join in whatever was going on, even an indignation meeting. It was probably a treat for them to see Mrs. Bilby indignant about something besides themselves.

  Bluebell eeled around the curtain and leaped up on the windowsill, followed immediately by Enza. Adolf remained on the other side of the curtain, but lurched up to rest his front paws on the windowsill and look out. Pasha hurled himself against Bettina’s ankles with a mournful plaint; he was missing the attention he usually got from Sylvia.

  Bettina gathered him up absently and stroked him as he settled down in her arms, staring complacently through the curtains from his now-superior viewpoint.

  One of the men straightened up and looked around uneasily, as though sensing the combined gaze of all those watching eyes. He said something to his companion, who also straightened, rubbed the small of his back and peered around near-sightedly.

  The first man said something else, took what appeared to be a mobile phone from his pocket and pulled out the aerial, holding the phone to his ear. The younger man took advantage of his superior’s incoming call to rub his back again and do a few stretching exercises. He did not appear to be accustomed to manual labour.

  The older man began to pace up and down the pavement, leaning over slightly to peer into the lagoon along the kerb as he walked. When he turned abruptly, he caught the younger man doing a knee-bend and snapped something at him.

  Guiltily, the young man began wielding his pole again, moving to a fresh position beside the pool, while the other slammed down the aerial and replaced the phone in his pocket.

  “That was a short telephone call,” Bettina said.

  The older man swerved suddenly in her direction, almost as though he had heard her.

  “Don’t let them see us!” Mrs. Bilby stepped back, obeying the cardinal Suburban Commandment: Thou shall not get caught spying on your neighbours.

  Bettina moved back with her, but the cats remained in place, shamelessly staring at the unexpected entertainment outside.

  The older man shook his head and stepped back—but not fast enough, as a sudden movement from his subordinate sent a tidal wave swooshing across the pavement. He looked down at his sodden shoes gloomily, shook his head again and started away towards an unmarked van parked near the corner of the street.

  As he passed the house, the array of cats in the window obviously caught his eye. He stopped and stared at them. They stared inscrutably back. After a moment, he continued on his way.

  “They don’t even know how to dress for their job these days,” Mrs. Bilby said. “Fancy not even wearing boots. Did you see those shoes? Ruined! They were never intended to go splashing about in puddles.”

  The rest of the man’s wardrobe had not been designed for all-weather wear, either, Bettina noted. The dripping trouser ends were pinstriped and the raincoat was from one of the designers more noted for fashion than practicality.

  The younger man was more suitably dressed in jeans and a duffel coat, but Bettina suspected that anyone who took a close look would discover an exclusive label on the jeans and the coat was obviously new and expensive.

  Neither of the men looked happy about the position they found themselves in. It was obviously above and beyond the call of ordinary duties.

  “The Water Board must be pretty desperate to send those two out on a job,” Mrs. Bilby said. “They haven’t even got the right equipment with them.”

  “After this storm, the situation probably is desperate,” Bettina said. “They’ll have sent out anyone they can muster as emergency crews. All hands to the pump—”

  “And where is the pump? They probably started out as plumbers,” Mrs. Bilby sneered. “They’ll have to go back and get their tools.”

  “Perhaps they’re from the council.” Bettina wasn’t sure she believed that, either.

  “And working on a Bank Holiday Sunday? Storm or not, that’s a laugh!”

  The man still working gave a shout, tugging at his pole which appeared to be stuck. The older man went running back. They both fought with the pole, trying to free it from whatever had caught it.

  “They’d better be careful,” Mrs. Bilby said darkly. “Else they’ll do themselves an injury. That’s no way to—”

  The pole bent almost double, then sprang straight again. The younger man staggered back, clutching his forehead.

  “Utterly useless!” Mrs. Bilby said happily. She edged forward and twitched the curtain aside, her natural caution forgotten in the desire not to miss any of the entertainment.

  The older man retained his hold on the pole and said something short and probably sharp. The younger man squared his shoulders and advanced to renew his own grasp on the pole. They began rocking it to and fro, slowly at first, then more quickly. At what appeared to be a command, both men heaved upwards on it.

  For a moment, nothing happened, then it yielded abruptly, sending them off balance. The older man lost his grip and lurched forward, landing on his hands and knees in the middle of the huge puddle.

  “Tears before bedtime!” Mrs. Bilby crowed triumphantly. “What did I tell you?” She leaned forward avidly, so restored to good humour that she actually patted Adolf’s head before thrusting him aside.

  “And look at that—it’s not even a pole. That’s a garden rake they’ve got there, an ordinary garden rake. Talk about no equipment!”

  “It seems to have done the trick,” Bettina said. “The water’s going down.”

  A large clump of matted leaves was caught in the tines of the rake. The young man began pulling at them. The older man struggled to his feet, his lips moving. It was probably just as well they couldn’t hear what he was saying. He brushed ineffectively at the water cascading off his clothing.

  His cohort’s shoulders hunched against the obviously uncomplimentary tirade, but he continued tearing away the leaves and hurling them from him.

  “Look at that,” Mrs. Bilby complained. “He’s throwing them all back where they’ll block the sewer again. The man’s an idiot! Why doesn’t the other one stop him? One of them ought to know what they’re doing.” She was so incensed she appeared on the verge of rapping on the windowpane and calling out to them.

  “Don’t!” Bettina caught her hand as she raised it.

  “You’re right.” Mrs. Bilby backed away hastily. “Attract their attention and they might want to come in here and dry off. Let them go back where they came from.”

  The wetter one appeared to be arguing just that. The younger man nodded, but continued to rake frantically at the receding waters. He stirred up more leaves, occasional twigs and branches and miscellaneous water logged objects, all of which he scrutinized carefully before throwing them back into the water.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” Mrs. Bilby demanded. “He’s sure to block up the sewer again if he doesn’t stop.”

  “But the water is still going down.” Bettina tried to look on the bright side. “Maybe they do know what they’re doing.”

  “More luck than judgement, if you ask me,” Mrs. Bilby sniffed.

  Both men stopped what they were d
oing and turned to watch as a small battered blue van appeared at the end of the street and drove slowly past them.

  “That’s odd,” Mrs. Bilby said. “You don’t often see this road so busy on a Sunday—especially with everyone away and after the storm we’ve had.”

  “Perhaps the storm has done more damage locally than we know about.” Bettina felt a growing uneasiness. “They seem to be looking for something, too.”

  “They’ve certainly been driving around in mucky places. Just look at how filthy that van is—even the numberplate is so covered in mud you can’t read it.”

  That was the thing that had been bothering her. One of the things. She looked towards the sleek but anonymous van parked at the corner. The numberplate on that was also obscured by mud and leaves. Had both vehicles been driving through the same rough terrain? And why?

  More to the point: why had they both wound up in this quiet suburban street?

  Or had they? The moving vehicle had reached the end of the road; it turned and drove out of sight.

  The two watching men turned back to their work in a slightly bemused manner. The small pond had disappeared into the sewer, leaving a thick residue of mud and leaves. They stared down at it and they did not appear to know what their next move should be.

  They conferred briefly, the older man adding weight to his argument by plucking at his sodden trouser leg and shaking it at his confrere. For good measure, he sneezed.

  The younger man nodded gloomily and they started back towards their van, keeping to the gutter and stopping to kick at lumpy objects along the way.

  “There’s something not right about those men,” Mrs. Bilby said. “Do you think we should call the police?”

  “I thought you didn’t trust the police.”

  “Not with anything valuable, but they ought to be able to deal with criminals. Or lunatics.”

  The sky had grown dark again. Large lazy drops of rain began plopping slowly against the windowpane.

  The two men looked heavenwards and their lips moved. They did not appear to be praying.

  There was the sound of a car motor immediately ahead of them and they snapped to attention, staring in the direction of the sound.