More Cats In The Belfry

  Next, having once more unthinkingly left their dishes on the cooker top while I fetched them in (it had never been necessary to take precautions before), I followed behind to find him standing up there bolting food out of one dish with his feet in the other while Tani bawled from below that she'd Smack Him if she was me: he didn't have any Idea of Manners.

  Then he rediscovered the fascination of water. I found this out one day when I wondered where he'd gone and did my usual panic patrol round the cottage, opening doors and looking in cupboards. Rushing through the kitchen for the umpteenth time I happened to glance at the sink and there he was, a small seal-masked figure like a furry highwayman, sitting in it absolutely entranced, watching the drips, completely oblivious of the fact that as they fell they bounced off his outsize ears. After that, when I followed Charles's practice of watering special plants in the garden with rainwater from one of the butts, he would rush after me when he saw me with the watering can and follow me round assiduously. Straight from the spout or falling gently through the rose, it was all the same to him so long as it was water and he was watching it.

  Out of doors, when he wasn't following the watering can he was usually on the heels of Tani, whose turn it now was to look fed up when he jumped over her, or pounced on her tail, or spoilt everything by poking an excited paw into a hole in the wall that she'd been sitting patiently in front of for ages. At least I knew where he was, though, when I saw the snake.

  Leaving them together in the long grass at the edge of the lawn one morning, I'd gone up to the area beyond the garage where Charles had been in the process of building another conservatory. It was roofed with perspex sheeting, and the stones he'd been using for building the walls were still heaped underneath; until I could get round to clearing it out I used it for dumping things under shelter and I'd gone up to fetch the hoe I'd left there the previous day. As I went in, wearing sandals on bare feet, avoiding the nettles that had grown up between the stones, I felt a sudden warmth against one ankle. Saphra rubbing against me, I thought. But no, I remembered. He was on the lawn. It was my imagination. I went on without looking down, picked up the hoe, turned to come out – and saw, where I must have brushed against it going in, a large coiled snake lying sunning itself on the ground. It wasn't an adder. It was too big and it hadn't the diamond markings – but if there is one thing I don't like it is snakes.

  Saphra! I thought in alarm. Any moment he might come whizzing round the corner and pounce on it, scenting a plaything. And supposing it was an adder. Their markings and colourings do vary. There are black adders up on the higher hills.

  I leapt high over the snake, still curled, apparently asleep, and ran down the path. All was well. Saph was still on the lawn with Tani, his small cream and brown figure sitting importantly upright alongside her elegant, slender ice-white one. I grabbed him, hurried him to their run, rushed back for Tani, thrust her in with him and fastened the door. I went back to check on the snake's markings, but it had disappeared. It hadn't been asleep. It had seized its opportunity to slip away into the stone-pile. It couldn't have been an adder, I told myself. But I'd keep a weather eye open all the same.

  It was July before I saw the next one, and despite my watchfulness it turned up in the cat-run itself. Jeanine McMullen, author of A Small Country Living and presenter of a country programme of the same name on the radio, had come to do an interview with me and we got on like a house on fire. Jeanine herself runs a small farm on the side of a remote Welsh mountain and is fond of cats, and we had much in common. We exchanged hints on looking after cottages, and Jeanine recorded stories about the animals Charles and I had had, and our life in the valley. We were standing in the garden at the end of the interview when, microphone in hand, she looked across at the cat-run and said, 'Do you think the cats would talk so I can record their voices?'

  Sure, I said. A reader from South Africa and her husband had brought some biltong as a present for them the previous week. Biltong, which is sun-dried deer meat, once formed the travelling rations of the South African pioneers; today it is sold there in small bags, like potato crisps, and eaten as a snack. The cats were mad about it. I'd only have to wave the bag in front of their run, I assured her and they'd be yelling their heads off.

  So I fetched it and crackled the bag at them, but they took no notice: simply sat there some way back from the wire netting front of the run, facing each other and concentrating on the ground between them. 'They've got something live in there,' I said. 'Probably a slow-worm. I'll go in and rescue it.'