More Cats In The Belfry

  If I had thought, however, that things had changed – that with just me and the two cats at the cottage my image was going to subside into one of quiet, cat-companied sobriety – I soon discovered my mistake. I had far more to do now that I was on my own – weeding the borders, weeding the paths, pruning the fruit trees, cutting the lawn-edges – and, to make the best of my time, I hit on the idea of doing such jobs while I was out with the cats. It worked. It is amazing how many weeds one can pull out of a section of path, or leaders one can cut off an apple tree with long-handled pruners, in five minutes while keeping an eye on a kitten. The snag was, it usually was only five minutes. Tani I had no need to worry about. She never went outside the garden, and if ever I lost sight of her I only had to blow Charles's scout whistle and she would reappear, streaking at the speed of light for the cat-run and into the cat-house where she considered that Nobody, not even Kidnappers, could get her.

  Saphra, growing up now and not so inclined to tag at her heels, was a different proposition. One minute he'd be on the front path with her, peering down a mousehole while I pulled out some weeds. Next moment he'd have upped and offed to the top border to dig a hole and I'd be up there with him, discreetly cutting a piece of lawn-edge. As soon as he'd finished that (and hole-digging was an art in itself as far as Saphra was concerned: he'd excavate down to his elbows before the hole was deep enough, sit on it, flood it to overflowing and turn round to examine it, his very own contribution of that most interesting substance, water, in wondering detail before covering it over with a long-distance paw as if such things were nothing to do with him)... as soon as he'd finished that, tail up, feeling a New Man, he'd belt up the steps by the garage, round the corner and along the drive, and I'd be after him, cat-crook in hand, to stop him going out under the gate.

  The cat-crook was home-produced. Years before, cutting down undergrowth in the wood opposite the cottage, I'd bent down a tall hazel rod that was too thick to cut with shears and was impeding my way. Some two years later I came across it one day when I was again clearing the ground up there. The rod was now about an inch and a half thick and some six feet long, with a hook where I'd bent it over at the top. A natural shepherd's crook, I decided, and sawed it off at the base, brought it back to the cottage, trimmed it, dried it out and varnished it. A fine support stick it make for rambling over the hills, and useful protection for a woman on her own, or in the garden for seeing off dogs that threatened the cats through the gate, or for fielding one fast-growing young boy cat with ambitions to be an explorer. It fitted exactly round his neck and, extended from behind, reached him across distances which I, with just my hands, couldn't have spanned.

  He knew when he'd been foiled. He'd reverse out of the crook and come back to sit watching for anything that might move in the row of raspberry canes – where I, dropping the crook and picking up the three-pronged fork I kept at the side of the garage, would weed at top speed for a moment or two until he moved on again.

  Logical when one knew the reason for it, and I got through a lot of weeding that way, but it was a source of considerable speculation to casual passers-by. Not so casual eventually. I began to recognise the same faces, gathered two or three together or in Fred Ferry's case on his secretive own with the mysterious knapsack on his shoulder, gazing over the wall in wonder as I darted hither and thither, picking up a tool, scratching the ground with it, then throwing it down and sprinting like mad to some place else, always clutching my shepherd's crook.

  'Never keeps at any thin' for long. She's always on the run like that,' was one comment I heard.

  'Sad how gets 'em, innit?' was the reply. 'But she always was a bit queer, wun't she?'

  'Whass she got thic crook for? Reckon she's goin' in for sheep?' reached my ears on another occasion.

  Well, I wasn't. And I hadn't replaced Annabel, either. I'd thought of it, but Louisa reminded me of the winter nights when Annabel had colic and Charles and I had to hold her up between us and lead her up and down the lane by torchlight till she recovered, with her sagging dramatically to the ground at every opportunity.