Free A Comfort of Cats by Doreen Tovey Page A

Charles.
    Â Â 'What is it? An adder?' he demanded, rushing out of the kitchen door clutching the poker. Fred Ferry was as usual out in the lane.
    Â Â 'It's Sass!' I shouted. 'Shebalu's attacked him and he's bleeding. I've brought her back to keep them apart, but I've had to leave him behind!'
    Â Â Charles started to run. I knew what he was thinking. Since we'd lost Seeley we'd never left a cat out of doors alone, and now Sass was loose somewhere – on a trailing lead, which was dangerous in itself – and goodness knew what he might meet up with.
    Â Â 'How far back did you leave him?' he asked, hurriedly unfastening the gate.
    Â Â 'Don't know what thee two bist panicking about,' said Fred laconically. 'There he is coming along behind thee.'
    Â Â Sure enough, following Shebalu and me at a distance, was a woebegone little figure. Frightened, left behind, maybe thinking I didn't want him – still his one thought was to stay close. Never, of all the Siamese who have given their hearts to us, has one loved us quite so devotedly as Sass.
    Â Â Which was all very well but he had a piece out of one ear and Shebalu had hit him on his nose, which was bleeding. What did she mean by it? I asked her. Her? said Shebalu, calm as a Quaker now they were indoors. It was all his fault for encouraging that other cat. She strolled across, looked him over and licked his fur back into place. He was as good as new now, she informed us.
    Â Â He wouldn't have been for long, the way she was beating him up, but in March we had a week of heavy snow. It kept Belle away. Our two rarely went out. When they did, it was up a solid, snow-packed track from which her scent had been obliterated. Shebalu forgot about her and Sass could breathe again – which was more than could be said for the rest of us.
    Â Â Miss Wellington was on the trail. The weather forecast had given snow – heavy over Western hills, which was us. This explained why our starlings had arrived the previous day, several weeks earlier than usual. They nested in our roof every year – they had entrances under the tiles above the gutter – and they moved in like a migrating tribe of Red Indians. We could hear them up there, scuffling in one corner, banging away in another, protesting as they squeezed narrowly in through the holes. Making more noise than any of the others, as he had done for several years previously, was one we could distinguish because he'd somewhere or other learned to wolf-whistle.
    Â Â 'If theest stopped up they holes,' Father Adams told us every spring, 'they 'ouldn't get in there tearing up thee roof.'
    Â Â Actually we wouldn't have turned them out for anything. It had been their nesting place for years. But one or two of them did bang away as if they were using steam-hammers. They'd start up at dawn and I'd lie in bed listening, wondering what on earth they were up to. Extending their quarters? They certainly couldn't be catching insects at that speed, unless the beams were riddled with woodworm... I'd wake Charles to listen. He'd say if it was that rotten the starlings wouldn't make much difference and turn over and go back to sleep. I'd go on listening. Every now and then there'd be a piercing Whee-eeew, as if somebody was saying Now you've done it...
    Â Â That, however, was normal breeding-season behaviour. It was different the day before the snow. The starlings came in, rustled about a bit, as if they were unpacking their bags. There were a few flutters and scuffles and squawks. We heard the familiar wolf-whistle, probably saying Gosh, fancy finding this place still standing. Then they settled down, as if they were waiting for something – and twenty-four hours later we had the snow.
    Â Â It came during the night. Everybody in the Valley slept peacefully, knowing that the cars were all up at the farm. We'd all heard the forecast and Miss Wellington had phoned everybody anyway, and had stood