Being the last of the litter I am small and space saving. The shredding of their Christmas tree was unfortunate, agreed. But it looked like a scratching post to me and anyway who in their right minds has a tree in the house? Trees are for outside.
The shinny, sparkly things were an attraction and actually I thought I looked quite the part on the top branch looking down on the assorted decorations cast onto the “good carpet”, many of which were actually intact. After they had calmed down, it seemed a low profile was the best plan of action. Although it might, in retrospect, have been better to have found an alternative way rather than through the Lemon Meringue Pie, by way of half a sausage and a tomato sauce covered potato scone. It might be difficult to believe, but apparently red cat’s paw prints are not de rigueur on a white Scottish Country Dancing Dress.
Somehow I got the blame for “points off during the Duke of Perth” which allowed “her” from the neighbouring farm to win the Cup despite “having a face that looked as if she was sat on when it was warm”. Mind you I saw her come up the path to her farm at 4am and she seemed unruffled by the sooty hands of Big Leslie, the sweep, all over her bodice. The same was not true of her father who set her to her room and went into the night with his shotgun.
I am not sure if it was the tree, or the mixed paw prints of me and big Stevey that were the final straw which led to the advertisement in the classifieds . Unknown to me I was for sale for 4 guineas. A few days later I heard her on the phone saying, “Yes, she is the last, her brothers went as a pair, yes… yes… perfectly behaved, litter trained and everything. Great potential as a mouser.”
Now I don’t know about you, but I feel far from happy about my bathroom habits being discussed over the new S.T.D. system of long distance calls, recently inaugurated by Her Majesty . So rude. At least the operator was not involved or it would have been all over the village. There is nothing “her in the exchange” does not know about.
Perhaps I should have known something was up when she began to distance herself from me and ostentatiously paid a great deal of attention to that moth-eaten old collie that passes for a sheep dog around here. I was just nice and toasty resting in the bottom of the Rayburn (as they had left the door open after removing a batch of treacle scones destined for the Farmer’s Dance), when I heard the sound of car tyres coming up the farm track, very slowly as if bearing persons of great importance, anxious to create an impression and intimidate the rustics. “Now you’re for it” said the moth eaten one chewing on a revolting ham shank.
“So very kind” said the lady as she entered the farm kitchen in a fur coat with gloves on and a hat, under which she was wearing a pair of fashionable flyaway glasses. In her left hand she carried a rather smart handbag and in her right she held an Eau de Cologne soaked handkerchief which she pressed against her nose from time to time. I am not sure why, as I thought it smelt quite awful.
She invited this lady to sit down at the kitchen table which the lady admired saying “My what a wonderful piece of 19th century provincial furniture. And do you have the matching elbow chair? An acid dip would do wonders should you wish to sell.” It seems she does and no she didn’t. “A cup of tea in your hand” was offered and the visitor was invited to sit at the aforementioned rural wonder.
The fur coated lady looked anxious about the offer and from her handbag brought out a square cut from an old mackintosh which she proceeded to smooth before placing on the seat of the chair and gingerly lowered herself onto it saying “I mustn’t keep you; I am sure you have many agrarian activities in which to engage.”
Tea was produced with little ceremony although a fresh scone was produced which she declined, saying, “While one appreciates the effort to which you have gone, one has already partaken of a scone at Lady Pentland-Firth’s and one must watch one’s waistline, although I see you are possibly not of the same opinion. However, who would see you out here in the wilds? It must be wonderful not to have to worry about appearances. Is this milk pasteurised?” “No; straight frae the coo.” “I thought so, judging by the warmth of the jug. Think I will forego milk, if you don’t mind. After all we wouldn’t want all that work of William Jenner’s to have been in vain, would we? Now what age is the kitten?” “Aboot twa months.” “And what does she eat?” “Onything.” “And where does she sleep?” “Onywhere.”
Turning On The Charm
I could see the lady in the fur coat and gloves was less than impressed with the detail available on me so I decided on a charm offensive and leapt into her lap. Sensing she was not overly amused by the leap, I stared at her with a range of appealing looks, rubbing my face on her hand. I saw the hint of a smile. I saw hope.
“Dinae fuss yersel Mrs; it’s all wan tae me.”
“What is her name?”
“Ma man calls her the pest, and tae be honest if you din’ae want her, it’s the hessian sack the morrow, if ye ken ma meaning. We’ve already twa dozen cats on this farm.”
“Have you thought of birth control, Mrs eh?”
“Aye that’s what the sack is for. Kitty goes in sack, sack goes in water, no more kitty. Efficient birth control, I’ve read ma Malthus.”
“I’ll take her.”
“Thought ye might, bargain at 4 guineas and can I interest yous in a couple o’ turnips at 4d? And by any chance are yous needing a Christmas tree or a goose?”
With very little ceremony, I was bundled into the basket and a blanket was placed over me “to minimise the shock of transport.” I felt this might well be a mere detail compared with the possible shock of “the hessian sack” whatever that might mean. Just to show willing I meowed all the way back to the new home and to be frank because the prickles of a Christmas tree were poking through the wicker work of my transporter and I could just make out the face of a goose slumped over a box of assorted root vegetables and tatties ideal for roasting.
I am settling in well here in Glasgow in the very desirable Victorian villa which Mumsie keeps telling me makes me a very lucky kitten. These are truly strange people, my Mumsie and the Dada, but basically very kind and I have the best of food served in a Wedgewood bowl by “a woman what does”, but it seems to me, not a lot.
I am keeping my eye on her as she looks as if she might resort to a hessian sack at a moment’s notice especially since I helped myself to some of her fish in milk with bacon. I do, however, have my own blue blanket which Mumsie has put of the sofa and where I am allowed to sit on in the evening with the Dada and sometimes Mumsie.
There are a number of other people in this household including a rather sweet child called Gayle who already adores me, even if she is trying to put me in her doll’s pram. Then there is her nursery nurse, a fay woman called Hairy Mary from Inveraray who has the second sight and says because I am black, I am a cat of good omen as long as I cross her path from left to right, that is from evil to good. This is not easy as I am not entirely sure which way she is coming from at any given time.
There is also a lady from the West Indies who calls me Molasses on account of my colour and my tendency to get caught in sticky situations. Of course this menagerie does not include all the various itinerant callers. There is for example a decayed aristocrat Lady Pentland-Firth who according to Mumsie likes anything with “a pulse.” Then there is a Winnie who comes by bicycle and owns a wool shop in Auchterarder, she says I am a witch’s cat and gives me balls of two ply to play with.
There are secretive characters as well, a Handsome Stranger who is involved in the shadows where Mumsie once worked during the last unpleasantness. The Dada doesn’t like him for some reason. Then there is his friend Professor Sir Boozy Hawkes who is an expert in cats in music and works at the very good varsity in Glasgow.
Mumsie and the Dada have told me that they are very successful business people in the city of Glasgow where they run an interior design shop, “Chez Nous”. They also have a shop in Edinburgh, a city which they criticise a lot because its citizens “can peel oranges in their pockets.” I am glad they peel the orange in their pockets, I hate oranges. They prefer Glasgow where, despite its problems, people often have “fruit in the house when no one is sick”.
It is hard to see why they are so successful at business as the Dada does very little but play in his shed and Mumsie is either at the hairdresser’s or engaged in charitable work.
Much of this is centred around the church, a sort of hive where she is the Queen Bee. She is not universally popular here due to being behind the Minister’s removal to “a place of safekeeping for his own good.” It all has something to do with soup and tray bakes which is what they live on in the winter and is a sort of social currency.
Mumsie is oblivious to this, and anyway her weekly giving provides a substantial part of the congregational income. Her sidekicks – Mrs Lottie Macaulay (who is married to the cheating but millionaire Bungalow Builder) and Mrs Cynthia Savage (who is married to a Pickle and Preserve King) – would like to depose her, but she is always one step ahead due to her S.O.E. training. Her one weak spot is her business partner and cousin, Miss Lulubelle, who is from America’s very Deep South.
They have been rivals since childhood, Lulubelle is a go getter, Muriel is a traditionalist and there are tensions.
Most of this washes over the Dada who is more interested in his car, playing golf, his Club and above all his museum in a shed. Mumsie feels his efforts would be better concentrated on the business. Mumsie is very keen on Britain getting together with Europe ever since the last Unpleasantness and thinks there will be new markets for her business. I am not sure this will ever happen – it is as likely as a long running musical about cats.
Oh I almost forgot. I have been given a name by Dada, Cleopatra the Queen of the Cairn. I must dash – Mrs Travers is having sardines on toast for lunch.
Merry Christmas.
Cleopatra Wylie
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