Free Raining Cats and Donkeys by Doreen Tovey Page A

picture, alas, that resolved itself, the moment we ourselves were in bed, into the sound of claws being stropped down below us in celebration on the chair covers; the sound of a Siamese Grand National by firelight over the furniture (in friendship this time, as we could tell from the change of direction as Solomon chasing Sheba gave way, to his intense delight, to Sheba chasing Solomon); and the reply as we shouted and banged on the floor in protest, from a basso profundo Seal-point voice assuring us that everything was all right down there . He and Sheba were enjoying themselves.
    Â Â They enjoyed themselves to the extent that, within days, they were trying to send us to bed. Come eleven o'clock and Solomon would start rubbing against Charles's foot. Sheba would practise long-jumps from chair to chair. Solomon, when all else failed, would sit on the back of the armchair in which they slept and wail, with his eyes fixed on the door through which we must go to fill their hot-water bottles and clean our teeth, that it was Late... he was getting Circles under his eyes from staying up... Sheba had circles too, he would shout, Sheba being Charles's cat and Solomon thought that might speed him up a bit...
    Â Â There was no question of moving them back upstairs when the winter ended. They were down there for good.
    Â Â Things were progressing everywhere now. Mrs Adams had taken down the maroon plush curtains and replaced them with spring-like white muslin. Father Adams was pursuing the traditional country pastime of having a row with his neighbour over their boundary. Miss Wellington was painting her garden gnomes – a task which, as there were eight of them plus an assortment of spotted toadstools, ensured that she was on the other side of the wall, brushing away with an air of intense absorption, every time the row over the boundary disturbed the desert air. And there was tension at the Rose and Crown.
    Â Â There usually was. From who pulled the bells wrong on Sunday to the way some hapless newcomer was growing his potatoes, they were always in a state over something. This time, however, it appeared that disaster had really struck.
    Â Â A Mr Carey had bought a cottage in the lane adjoining the side entrance to the pub. He'd decided to build a garage at the side of the cottage and to alter his existing gate and run-in, which was right outside his front door, to an entrance further along that would also serve the garage. While he was walling up the old entrance he'd further decided to front it with what he considered to be an improvement – a steep bank of earth, in line with the other grass verges along the lane, planted with heather roots that he'd brought back from his walks.
    Â Â Unfortunately other people didn't see it like that. The old way in, being right opposite the pub's side entrance, had been the one place in the whole lane where cars could squeeze past while the brewery lorry was unloading. Every time there was a beer delivery now there was a queue of car owners honking agitatedly to pass. The brewery driver got bad-tempered having to keep breaking off to move the lorry. Father Adams said it didn't do the beer no good, being rolled in in all that hurry. Mr Carey – a non-drinker himself and entirely unmoved by such sentiments – said why didn't they unload the lorry at the front door of the pub... a suggestion, entirely feasible, which was rejected out of hand on the grounds that the lorry had always been unloaded at the side door and who was he to alter things?
    Â Â The matter had been referred urgently to the Parish Council. Unfortunately they met only every two months. Meanwhile there was a weekly traffic block at Carey's cottage, a nightly indignation meeting at the Rose and Crown, and considerable speculation as to whether the heather, planted so doggedly by Mr Carey, would grow.
    Â Â General opinion was that it wouldn't. It grew in the peat on top of the moors, but