More Cats In The Belfry

  So passed the summer, with Saphra continually in trouble. I wouldn't have changed him for worlds, but the affairs of the village passed me by more or less at a distance. Certainly with very little impact. The Friendly Hands Club came back from their holiday jaunt, Mrs Binney not yet having officially landed her catch, though the general opinion of those who'd accompanied them was that it couldn't be very long now. Except, that was, for Fred Ferry's father Sam, who'd gone along the trip himself, arthritis and all, and whose comment was that that Tooting bloke was an adjectival twit and if Maude married he so was she.

  It seemed that Mr Tooting had tried to show Sam how best to mount the steps to a museum with the aid of his stick. Sam, having a temper like his son's – and more sense, he'd informed his would-be mentor, than any ruddy townie wearin' a piddlin' pig-keeper's hat – had poked Mr Tooting in the knee with the stick to move him out of the way, Mr Tooting had fallen down the steps, and the coach party had had its biggest laugh of the holiday. The two were not now speaking to each other, and another village feud was in existence.

  Nearer home, Poppy Richards had moved into her cottage and was busy settling in and interesting herself in local affairs. She seemed much more sensible than her sister, from what I'd seen of her. She liked Saphra and stopped to talk to him when she went by, and had been added to his list of friends.

  Still nearer home, down the lane past Father Adams, Janet and Peter Reason had added four geese and half a dozen ducks to the two horses, labrador dog and tabby cat they already owned, and things had livened up no end. The Reasons had a considerable amount of land, spreading up towards me in one direction and almost the whole of the rest of the way down the valley in the other. The lane, a rough-surfaced bridletrack, ran through the middle of it, fenced only where it passed the horses' field, and for the rest of its length open to the Reasons' low cottage terrace on the right-hand side and their large parking area and stretch of woodland on the other. A wonderful place for a swashbuckling gander and his entourage to wander abroad in, and wander and swashbuckle they did.

  Almost any hour of the day except after lunch, when they took a siesta on the sloping lawn above the terrace, Gerald the gander and his wives could be seen marching up the lane, down the hill, or past my side gate and up the forestry track, swaying from side to side like a quartet of outsize skittles, honking to let the world know they were coming and followed, like children trailing a Salvation Army band, by a huddle of quacking ducks.

  They ventured incredible distances – far up the lane beyond me, stopping to look in at the gateways of the two other cottages along the route and honk defiance at the Alsatian which thrust its head through a cat-flap in the door of one of them and barked; way up the hill to the farm where they would peer patronisingly in at the unenterprising farm geese in their paddock; on to the Rose and Crown on the corner, before turning, and parading slowly back. Always with Gerald in front like a standard-bearer and the ducks bringing up the rear. And, as the weeks went by and nobody opposed him, with Gerald growing more belligerent.

  He offered to fight Fred Ferry whenever they met on the hill. Fred, being a countryman and used to geese, merely swung his knapsack to fend him off and said 'Why dussn't thee go and pester Old Pans?' (Old Pans, incidentally, wasn't nearly as dim as Fred thought she was. When Gerald passed she was usually inside her gate with the bolt on, throwing bread across to land outside Fred's.) Any time walkers ventured down the lane to Gerald's own cottage he stood in the middle of it and dared them, and the walkers usually turned back. Aided by his army, too, Gerald had a wonderful time every Friday morning, when the men from the Council came to check the swallet.

  Our local swallet is in the stream bank further up in the forest, and when the stream swells after heavy rain the surplus water, in theory, goes down the swallet into underground caves and comes out, as has been proved by putting dye in it, in a village pond five miles away. If, however, the swallet is blocked by silt and stones brought down by the force of the water, the stream overflows its banks, rushes down like the Lynn in full spate, and washes away the lane surface.

  To prevent this, once a week two hefty Council workers parked their van outside my cottage, strolled up to the swallet carrying spades, cleared it of any blockage, ambled back checking the ditch for debris and overhanging brambles, went on down to the Reasons' to check there was no obstruction where the stream crossed the bridleway into the horses' field, then ambled back for a cigarette and an appreciative breath of valley air before heading off back to base.