A Comfort Оf Cats

Fourteen

Charles said as it was nearing the end of December maybe she'd gone off to find a mate. She wouldn't have vanished as abruptly as that, I said – not when she'd been haunting us the way she had. We'd gone to town the previous afternoon. She'd been on the lawn when we left. Someone had undoubtedly spotted her, knew we were out, and had taken advantage of our absence.

I was pretty certain who it was, too. I looked meaningly at Fred Ferry when I saw him. I intended calling on him on Christmas morning and if the Ferrys were cooking pheasant...

Fred commented on her absence, too. Naturally he would, I thought. Part of his cover-up. Members of the moonlight fraternity are usually expert in the art of appearing innocent. I thought it a bit thick all the same when he asked where were thic li'l old bird then.

'Goin' to have her for thee Christmas dinner?' he said. 'I thought thee wussn't feein' her for nothin'.'

How could he, I thought – but just in case I was wrong I went clucking for her up the lane. Charles searched for her in the orchard – he'd been over there pruning trees a few days previously and had looked up to see her watching him from the nearby path as if she'd come along for company. If she did get broody, he said, that might well be where she'd build her nest, knowing it was our land and safe. She might already have decided on a spot and not be bothering to come down – obviously she'd get shyer as the mating season approached.

Not a sign. We'd said we wouldn't get fond of her but inevitably, of course, we had. Every time I went out of the door I missed her and wished that she would come back. What a wonderful present it would be if she came back on Christmas Day, I thought, as the short winter days went by and the yard stayed silent and pheasant-less. She wouldn't, of course. Why Christmas Day, anyway? Pheasants didn't know about that. In any case she was probably hanging in Fred Ferry's larder, awaiting her Christmas Day appearance on his table...

Believe it or not, she did come back on Christmas Day. We were expecting friends and I'd got up early to put the turkey on and gone out to change the cats' boxes – and there she was, padding quietly about in the vegetable garden as if she'd never been away.

Six days' solid absence. We couldn't think where she could have been. Certainly she couldn't have been thinking of nesting, she was so obviously back to stay. She followed me down the garden, looking for her corn and stayed outside the kitchen door all day. We fed her with tit-bits till they practically came out of her ears and the cats sat in the window and watched her. On the lawn – it was Christmas, so never mind if she dug holes – Annabel ate apples and carrots and Christmas pudding and complacently watched her too.

'Din' eat her then?' Fred Ferry shouted across, going past in the afternoon. He had a sprig of holly in his cap but why he had his knapsack on his shoulder on Christmas Day... Charles said he probably picked it up automatically and didn't feel right without it – just as whatever day it was he had to have his tramp around the hills. Maybe, I said. Personally I doubted it... Then I remembered how wrong I'd been in suspecting him over Phyllis.

'Happy Christmas!' I called after him up the hill. Poor Fred. He nearly fell flat in his tracks.

I was wrong, though, when I said now we were a complete unit again – ourselves, Annabel, the cats and Phyllis. A few days later an enormous cock-pheasant appeared – the most gorgeous we'd ever seen – and started strutting grandly with the little hen on the hillside behind the cottage. He wouldn't venture into the yard, though. When we threw out food and Phyllis came flapping down, he stayed where he was looking anxious.

So that was where she'd been during those six missing days, we said. Up in the forest courting. She'd certainly picked herself a handsome husband and we were immensely flattered that she'd brought him back. Whether they'd stay together for nesting... we didn't know much about pheasants' habits; there is very little about them in bird books, but it would be nice, we thought, if they did.

We imagined them bringing the brood down to visit us. Philip, as we named him gracing our lawn. He was as beautiful at close quarters as any peacock. His metallic copper back merged through gold to a glossy green head, his front was gold spotted with black, his tail swept the ground like a train. He had scarlet wattles, two feathered tufts that stuck up on his head like ears... indeed he was a gorgeous fellow. Crossed with an exotic, probably, and how dowdy little Phyllis had managed to attract him... She'd probably told him about the corn, said Charles. And anyway, had I looked at Phyllis properly lately? I looked now. Goodness gracious, she'd grown still more even since Fred Ferry had commented on her – and her coat was beautiful too. Probably the result of the way we'd been feeding her. Phyllis had changed from a woebegone waif into a most desirable young pheasant lady.

Even so, she was still smaller than the next pheasant she introduced, another hen, whom Charles named Maisie. It looked as if she intended to come on the strength too, he said, so we might as well call her something.

Either pheasant hens are more trusting than the cocks, or they are more placid during the courting season. At any rate, although Maisie was never as tame as Phyllis – she retreated warily when we got too near her and would never look directly at us, while Phyllis appeared to have a system of pre-determining our moves by staring up at us straight in the eye – she did, from the moment she appeared, come in and feed in the yard, which was more then could be said for Philip, who strutted, beautiful as a Fabergé weathercock, worriedly up on the hill taking care to keep his distance.

Were Phyllis and Maisie his harem? we wondered. But no, there was one more to come. Seeing Maisie wandering round the yard on her own one afternoon (Phyllis's presence wasn't quite so continuous these days), I gave her some corn and, after I had come back indoors, heard a most peculiar bubbling sound. It wasn't the ordinary pheasant clucking so, wondering if perhaps she wasn't feeling so good, I went to watch her through the window. Sass, of course, was already there. He spent most of his time these days silently regarding pheasants out of windows with what was supposed to be sinister intent, but the pheasants didn't take any notice of him.

'She's calling a cock-bird,' said Charles, coming to watch over my shoulder. Philip, I thought... The old, old story... She was trying to steal him from Phyllis while Phyllis was out of the way. At that moment, sure enough, a cock-pheasant came over the wall, but it wasn't the handsome Philip. This one was buff-coloured, smaller, and had lost his tail somewhere – probably a fox had grabbed at it. He hardly looked the mate for the attractive Maisie, any more than one would have expected Philip to have fallen for Phyllis. But there he was – Charles immediately named him Maurice – pecking bashfully at the corn with her in the yard. Sass looked menacingly at them out of the window, but love was obviously oblivious of all.

Seeing that Maurice came to no harm, within a day or two Philip fluttered down from the hillside as well. We now had a quartet who seemed to have adopted us. It was going to be interesting to see how things developed. Meanwhile – by this time Christmas was a fortnight behind us – another strange story was in the making.

There was an elderly widow, whom I will call Mrs Laye, who lived some twelve miles away from us. She liked painting and we had met her through an art exhibition Charles had organised some while before, when she told me she had read my books. She had two cats – Belinda, a long-haired tabby and Franz, a Seal-point Siamese. She had asked us to tea to see them. We liked Mrs Laye and so we had gone. Belinda was elderly and gentle. Franz was two years old, intelligent and like quicksilver. This was a good while before we had Sass, but when we did, one thing that struck me immediately was how much he resembled Franz. Not just in looks, though they had the same pointed face and gangling, waif-like body. Franz, too, carried things around in his mouth and haunted his Mum like a shadow.

He was a friendly cat, but scared of men, since he rarely ever met any. The one exception was a Franciscan monk attached to the local Catholic Church, whose special task was visiting the elderly and who often came to tea with Mrs Laye. Father Francis – Franz was named after him – was our fellow guest when we were there. He was a jovial, bearded giant of a man who had formerly been a probation officer. My most striking memory of that afternoon – it was winter and very cold – was of Father Francis sitting in an armchair by the fire wearing enormous open sandals – without socks, which made me shiver – carefully supporting, in the lap of his brown woollen habit, one blissfully warm Siamese.

Mrs Laye wrote to me regularly after that and I invited her to come and see the gang. She was reticent about imposing, as she called it, but had come the previous summer. A friend had brought her over, as she didn't own a car. She so enjoyed her afternoon. She sat for ages with Sass on her lap, commenting on his likeness to Franz. She had her photograph taken with him. She loved Shebalu, she loved Annabel, she loved the cottage – but it was Sass who made her day. She'd brought him a ball that bounced particularly high – Franz had one, she said – and when he obligingly brought it back to her and put it at her feet, Mrs Laye's happiness was complete.

I remembered it all so vividly when, two weeks after Christmas, the friend who'd brought her over rang to say that Mrs Laye was dead.

I was stunned. I'd had a letter from her just before Christmas telling me all she was doing – practising for carol-singing with a party from the church, helping at a Christmas bazaar, organising an old people's social, Father Francis had been to tea... She'd had to put her Christmas tree in the hall because Franz kept taking off the decorations. He particularly liked walking around carrying a little glass bell in his mouth – he loved to hear it tinkle. She finished by saying she was looking forward to our visiting her in the New Year. How glad I was now that I'd said we would.

She'd been found sitting in her armchair in front of the fireplace. It was a peaceful way for her to go. The thing that upset me most, that freezing January day, was to hear that Franz was missing.

Someone had noticed that Mrs Laye hadn't taken in her milk and a neighbour had gone in through the back way. Naturally his first concern had been for her. He hadn't given a thought to the cats – who, said her friend, were never let out on their own so they must have been in there with her. They must have been cold and hungry. She had been dead two days when she was found and the cats had never missed a meal in their lives. They would have been frightened, too, by someone suddenly coming in; they would probably have hidden somewhere.

In the confusion that followed Belinda must have slipped out through the door – she'd been found sitting on the doorstep that evening and was being looked after by an elderly couple whose dog had just died and who were absolutely delighted to have her. But Franz, so intelligent, so full of zest when he was on his own with Mrs Laye but so nervous in the presence of strangers – especially men, and there had been police and a doctor and ambulance men trampling through the house – Franz had completely disappeared.

What could they do? asked Mrs Laye's friend. If she liked, Charles and I would come over and help search for him, I said, but as he was such a nervous cat, it would be better for neighbours who knew him better to call him – and put food down for him and watch for his return. Most likely he'd come back like Belinda – and if there was any question of finding a home for him when he did, we'd do our best to find him a good one and look after him in the interim.

We waited for news. Three days later one of Mrs Laye's neighbours phoned me. There was still no sign of Franz, she said. She didn't think he'd run out like Belinda, though – he was too nervous. She was sure he was still inside the house. She'd searched for him herself as soon as she'd heard the news – the police had given her permission. The first place she'd looked had been Mrs Laye's bed, knowing that Franz always slept with her and that that was where he went when strangers came and he was scared. There had been no trace of him anywhere. Another neighbour had searched later, and so had the police. But she still had a feeling that he was in there somewhere, and now he'd been without food for almost a week. Mrs Laye's next of kin was a cousin, but she didn't know her name or where she lived. Mrs Laye had talked about me so much. Could I do anything? I'd do what I could, I said, and I rang the police.

It was late on a Saturday night, but they were most co-operative. I asked if it was possible for Charles and me to go to the house with them and put food and water down. If there was a cat in there it must be starving, and it didn't bear thinking about.

They'd searched the house twice for the cat already, said the sergeant, but if I thought it might still be there... They couldn't let me in themselves. The keys had been handed to Mrs Laye's solicitor who couldn't be contacted till Monday morning. But things were quiet at the station. He'd send a constable round right away to look through the windows with a torch and if he did see a cat he'd let me know.

I thanked him. How could I explain to someone who didn't know cats that even if Franz were starving he wouldn't sit in the middle of a room while somebody shone a torch on him? His instinct would be to hide. I wondered all the same why, if Franz were in the house, he hadn't been seen at a window. Our two would have been bawling for help long ago.

First thing on Monday morning I rang the solicitor, who arranged to meet Charles and me at the house at two o'clock. He had several appointments that day and after lunch was the earliest he could manage. I was on tenterhooks all morning. If Franz was still in there he must be so hungry. By now it was more than a week.

When we met the solicitor there was another delay. He didn't have the keys. He'd left them, he said, with a

local shopkeeper – there was only one set and police and relatives had had to go in and that seemed to be the simplest solution. He'd just called to fetch them, but the shopkeeper was out. It was his half-day and he'd gone to town, and wouldn't be back until five o'clock. If we'd like to come back then...

If we'd gone round the house with the solicitor it might have been different. I would have left food and water as I'd intended. But he had another appointment – the shopkeeper would go round with us, he said. Perhaps we'd let him know if we found the cat.

The shopkeeper, when he returned, was tired and cold, and he too knew very little about cats. All this fuss, he said... He and a policeman had searched the house twice – even moved out furniture and looked. The cat wasn't there. He'd bet us a thousand pounds we wouldn't find it. Just because the neighbours had got this idea... However, to satisfy us and as the solicitor had said we could, he'd get the keys and take us round.

We looked in every room and peered up the chimneys, though there was no sign of soot in the fireplaces. Under and behind furniture. Charles turned armchairs upside down. Under beds. Charles got down and peered up into the springs. He wouldn't be there, I said. In each room the shopkeeper stood and watched us, sighing exasperatedly and rattling the keys. He closed each door as we came out. When I suggested leaving the food and water he said there'd been untouched food in the kitchen when he'd first come in – he'd had to throw it away because it was smelling. There was no point in our putting more down. The funeral was the next day. Friends and relatives would be coming there afterwards – they would only throw it out. He couldn't leave the doors open, either. This was how he'd found them. Shut.

We parted from him on the pavement, he understandably irritated at what he considered our interference. As he'd predicted, we hadn't found the cat. I was sure myself now that Franz couldn't be in there. For one thing there hadn't been any smell, which one would certainly have expected if a cat had been locked for a week in an empty house. I could only think, now, that Franz had run out and had found himself a home somewhere else. Maybe someone had taken him in who didn't want to part with him and was keeping quiet about his turning up.

I hoped that was so. I couldn't get out of my mind Mrs Laye's account of Franz walking round carrying the bell off the Christmas tree. Only a few weeks ago he'd been sheltered, loved, and had never known what it was to be cold or hungry. Now where was he? I shivered in the icy night. Please... Not lost, like Seeley...

I wish I'd taken the shopkeeper up on his bet. The RSPCA would have been a thousand pounds richer. A fortnight later – three weeks after Mrs Laye's death – Franz was at last discovered.

He was in Mrs Laye's bed. He couldn't have been there all the time – it was the first place the neighbour had looked in and she assured me that she had opened it right up, knowing it to be his favourite refuge. But three weeks later Mrs Laye's cousin and the friend who lived with her, a retired nurse, had been packing a suitcase with some of her belongings on the bed. They'd been doing it gradually in the fortnight since the funeral and had been at the house quite regularly. They, too, had looked for Franz every time they went there and had been certain he wasn't there. They had packed several cases on the bed during that time and would certainly have noticed any disturbance. Nevertheless, that particular afternoon they noticed a bump in the bed, pulled back the bed-clothes and there he was. All there seemed to be of him, said Mrs Laye's cousin's friend, the nurse, was a pair of numbed blue eyes.

He must have crawled there to die. They dropped everything and rushed him home. The Vet was away and couldn't come until next morning. Meanwhile the nurse gave him hot milk and took him to bed with her. In the middle of the night, she said, Franz – still only semi-conscious – suddenly wet her and the bed.

The Vet, when he came, thought that had possibly saved his life – through fear or cold he'd somehow retained his urine and that had prevented him from dehydrating. As it was, it was an absolute miracle that he had survived for three weeks without food or water. We'd been told, when Seeley was missing and we were searching for him everywhere, that a cat would die without water after a fortnight.

I got regular bulletins. Franz was taking chicken broth. Franz was now eating chicken. The Vet had said he was going to be all right, and his kidneys were quite undamanged. There was just one thing, said the nurse on the phone. They'd heard how anxious I'd been about him. They knew Mrs Laye had talked about me so much. Did I think perhaps I had a prior right to him? He was such a loving, gentle cat. They'd dearly love to keep him...

Goodness, I said, nearly sobbing down the phone. Who had more right to him than they did? His owner's cousin and her friend, who had found him and saved his life? I could only give thanks that they had done and kick myself for not insisting that night on leaving the doors of the rooms open and putting food and water down, so that Franz might have come out from his hiding place to have it.

He lives the life of Riley in Bristol now. He bosses Mrs Laye's cousin's cat, Jamie, around unmercifully and has completely taken over the household. He likes chicken and carrying things round in his mouth and is the image of Sass. Mrs Laye, I know, would be happy for him. I hope she would think, too, that Charles and I did our best – though I shall always feel sick at the thought that we'd gone into the house where he must have been all the time and had been unable to find him.