More Cats In The Belfry

  Next day, presumably having taken comfort from the fact that he hadn't eaten her so far, she ventured into the Snoozabed while he was in the garden house and stayed there when I brought him in. He made no attempt to frighten her, but sat on a nearby chair looking long-suffering. By Thursday evening they were walking past each other across the room – ­obviously deliberately, and obviously equally deliberately ignoring each other. And on Friday evening, washing up after supper, with the door to the sitting-room open so that I could rush to her rescue if need be, as they still showed no real sign of becoming friendly, I nearly dropped a plate with astonishment when something big and dark flashed past the open doorway closely followed by something small and white travelling like a midget express train.

  Before I could move, they hurtled back in the opposite direction, Shantung whizzing along in front this time, ears flattened for lessened wind resistance, Saska bounding behind her in full chase. I peered furtively round the corner after them. Shantung, all six inches of her, had stopped and was sitting in the middle of the floor with a paw raised, daring Saska, advancing across the carpet on his stomach, to come One Step Nearer and she'd Bop Him – and Saska, everything forgotten save that he had a girl to play with again, was looking happier than he'd done in weeks.

  One small hiccup barred the progress of the entente cordiale. Later that evening, ensconced in his favourite armchair with Shantung between his front paws, washing her fit to flatten her to show she was now one of the family, Saska slipped his tongue accidentally into one of her ears. The rest of her, having been around the place for nearly a week, had obviously acquired the cottage smell by this time and was acceptable. Protected by those enormous pyramids, however, the insides of her ears still bore the taint of other cats and places. He withdrew his tongue, curled back his lips in the familiar feline gesture of having just smelled something unbelievably awful, and said 'Tchaah' again – which could have set things right back to square one but for the fact that Shantung took no notice, presumably having decided that he was a bit potty and did that sort of thing from time to time, or else that it was me he was swearing at. As she didn't respond to his Monster act he considered the situation for a moment, steeled himself, then shut his eyes and licked the inside of both ears thoroughly until they tasted right. Had to be done Some Time, he said – after which they curled together in a white and seal-coloured ball and went to sleep. Things at the cottage were apparently back to normal.

TWO

Not quite, they weren't. Saska, having been looked after for as long as he could remember first by his mother and then by Shebalu, obviously thought that was what female cats were for, and was anxious to re-establish the fact as soon as possible – to which end, having been accustomed to stretching out in the Snoozabed using Shebalu as a pillow, within no time I found him trying to do it with Shantung. She was so small he looked quite ridiculous, spread there like a big brown ink blot with only her tiny head poking out from underneath him. Time and again I rushed to rescue her only to find her purring like a barrel organ, obviously revelling in what she thought was his fond attention. I hoped she wouldn't complain if one day she came out flat, I told her.

  The business of his washing her didn't last long, either. Within days she was washing him, and he was expecting it. It was a mammoth task. He used to sit upright for it and it looked as if she'd taken on cleaning the Post Office tower, but it didn't daunt her. As fragile ­looking as the delicate Oriental silk after which she was named, she reached up to lick his ears as if they were the stars on the twin pinnacles of her ambition – as they probably were. She had a Big Cat to herself. She was Important. Life was Blissful, she kept on telling me.

  It was a complete transformation from the timid little scrap I'd first seen in Devon – as if she'd been kept under by the other cats she'd lived with and was now making up for lost time. She consistently climbed things, fell off them, ate things she shouldn't and told the world about it in the loudest voice I'd ever heard in a kitten. She even talked in her sleep. One of my most vivid memories of her kittenhood is of the two of them curled together in front of the fire in the Snoozabed – ­Shantung muttering dozily away with her eyes shut, Saska regarding her exasperatedly with one eye open. Shebalu never did that, said his expression.