Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (25 page)

  'Maybe,' he concedes. 'Tribeca's supposed to be very trendy, isn't it? Charlene would enjoy that.'

  I flick my watch towards me and realise that I should be heading off.

  'Well, cat duty calls.'

  He lowers his head in seeming despair and grasping his MEK, stands up. 'Don't blame me if it's a nightmare.'

  'It's going to be fun. I've never visited a cattery before.'

  We descend the stairs and push through the hotel's glass doors into sharp sunlight.

  He stands on the pavement looking glum. 'Actually, I bought you a little something to cheer you up while you're there.'

  He fumbles around in the MEK and produces a plastic bag from WHSmith's which he hands to me.

  'Go on, open it.'

  I draw out the slim tome. The cover illustration is of a prostrate female lying on the ground. The title reads:
When Things Fall Apart
.

  'That's great, Ed. I'm sure it'll prove excellent bed-time reading.'

  He gives me an earnest nod of the head and together we head off along Jermyn Street.

Rachel's voice sounds scratchy and she's speaking so fast that I miss half of what she's saying.

  'Rachel, I can't hear you. Slow down.'

  'Isn't it fantastic?'

  'What is? Let me guess: you're calling with some good news?'

  She doesn't trace the irony in my tone.

  'Prince Charles is going to attend the launch of the Crown jewels book at the Tower of London.'

  I catch my breath. This genuinely is fantastic news.

  'They've just called from The Stationery Office. We'll obviously have to amend plans somewhat, but it's so exciting.'

  The book launch is still four months away, but there is a great amount of logistics involved, especially now there will be royal presence.

  'It's wonderful, Rachel. Thanks for letting me know.'

  'Just think, if we pull this off well, the work will really flood in. You won't have time to dwell on wretched moggies anymore.'

  If she only knew the truth. If we successfully pull off this project I may at last feel able to cut loose the ties of London and, in the spirit of departing politicians, spend more time with my family and of course other exceptional animals.

There's a light drizzle of rain falling on the quiet country lane. The lush green hedgerows are full of wild flowers and tall weeds, dock leaves and nettles, reminding me that this is the rural England of my childhood. I am standing outside a substantial red brick manor house, watching the departing taxi dissolve in a mist of rain. There's no going back.

  I look up and down the road. There isn't a soul in sight and apart from the rather shabby manor house peeping up from beyond extensive foliage, there's nothing but swaying trees, fields of skittish lambs and rolling countryside. Grasping my suitcase by the handle, I wheel it over to the black iron gate on which a perfunctory wooden sign announces that I have arrived at Grove House and The Cat's Whiskers. It doesn't mention the word cattery but perhaps that's self evident. I peer through the dusty railings to the gravel drive and courtyard beyond. The gate wheezes as I drag it open and make my cumbersome way over the gravel, the wheels of my case stubbornly buckling against the small stones. No sooner am I half way up the drive than a gigantic Dobermann comes hurtling towards me as if from nowhere, teeth bared and growling ferociously. I stop in my tracks, foolishly considering running for my life, although secretly acknowledging that the beast would be upon me before I'd even reached the gate. There's nothing for it. I stand my ground and attempt to muster an ounce of dignity before facing my adversary. For a split second the hound draws to a halt, tongue hanging from its jaw, as it sizes me up. Then with a sudden gallop, it leaps up with powerful front legs resting on my shoulders and begins licking my face. I stagger backwards, tripping on my case and muttering 'Good dog' inanely to the rain. A rosy faced, burly chap in old corduroys and wellies now appears on the drive, squelching through the gravel and grinning from ear to ear.

  'Ah, you've met Beauty then? Come on, girl!'

  The dog drops its paws and stands panting by my side.

  'I think she mistook me for a bone.'

  'Yeah, she's a right little bugger with guests, but she's as harmless as a fly.'

  Try telling that to my Scotsman when I'm found mauled to bits in a ditch. I smile politely.

  'I'm here for the cattery management course.'

  'Sure you are. Let me take your case. I'm Willie Patterson, the glorified odd job man around here since I retired. My wife, Jessie, runs the cattery.'

  I offer him my hand and pat the dog a trifle self-consciously. Willie stretches forward and effortlessly lifts the case off the ground, his eyes resting on my suit and then shoes. He gives a little titter.

  'I hope you've packed some better kit than that because you'll get well and truly mucked up while you're here.'

  Oh shucks, if only I'd known! As a dizzy PR all I've packed are a couple of ball gowns, some four-inch heels and a bottle of Evian. He waits for a response.

  'Don't worry,' I say reassuringly. 'I had some business meetings earlier in London. I've got jeans with me.'

  He gives a slight nod and walks jauntily back up the drive to the courtyard, the dog and I following in his wake. We enter the house by what appears to be the back door. A narrow scullery leads into a rustic kitchen, with an old cooking range and suspended iron hoop from which copper pans dangle, and beyond that a small dining room and long bright hallway.

  'I'll show you to your room and then you can meet Jessie. She's looking forward to showing you the ropes.'

  Yippee. I follow him up the creaky oak staircase and into a small room with buttercup yellow walls and blinds. The windows are wide open and the sound of loud baa-ing seems to echo around the gardens. I wonder if there are any escapologist ewes amongst them. Willie drops the case at the foot of the brass bed.

  'Don't worry about the lambs. They just get a bit excited in the rain. Normally, they hardly make a sound.'

  He potters over to the window, hands on hips, peering at the blur of green beyond.

  'The bathroom's down the corridor,' he says dreamily. 'I'll see you in the kitchen in a few minutes.'

  He plods off, closing the door behind him.

  Some neatly folded yellow towels are piled on the bed along with a plump and efficient looking folder entitled, 'PRELIMINARY TRAINING COURSE'. Oh boy, what have I let myself in for?

'So you see, it all worked out in the end,' Jessie is saying, as she begins clearing away the plates. I watch as she loads a tray and disappears into the nearby kitchen. I find myself captivated by the story of how she and Willie came to own a cattery. Having run a successful furniture business in Sunderland for many years, this intrepid couple decided to retire, up sticks and run The Cat's Whiskers from a new home in Dorset. They had a nightmare with planning permission but persevered and after a two-year battle with local authorities finally gained a licence. Jessie admitted that at times she'd nearly thrown in the towel.

  I pick up a tureen, observing that only a few forlorn florets of broccoli remain at the bottom, and attempt to follow her into the kitchen.

  'Oh, you stay put. It's enough with the blooming cats getting under my feet in there!'

  I sink back into my chair. There's no standing on ceremony in this household.

  'The thing is,' says Willie with a cynical grunt. 'I was never keen on the idea. Seemed like a lot of work to me.'

  'He's a dog man, you see,' cuts in his wife.

  'As I was saying,' he continues a tad impatiently. 'I thought it would be a lot of hard work for little return.'

  'And was it?' I ask.

  He passes his napkin over his face and slowly returns it to the table, folding it into a neat triangle. I wonder why he does this when, judging by the dessert spoons in front of us, we still have pudding to come. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

  'Too darned right it was.'

  His wife bustles back into the room carrying a crusty pie and a jug of cream.

  She eyes her husband critically. 'The truth is that when I was growing up in Wales my old mum ran her own cattery and kennels so I knew what I was in for. It doesn't make you rich but it does keep you busy and that's good when you retire.'

  Willie stares at his napkin with renewed interest and places it on his lap.

  'Jessie's just potty about felines. Besotted.'

  'It's true,' she concedes. 'The cats are our family. We don't have kids.'

  A pause. 'I like dogs, mind, but they're not the same.'

  'You always know where you are with a dog,' says Willie firmly.

  'I'm sure,' I say, for want of anything insightful to add.

  I watch as Jessie cuts into the steaming pie, placing hefty slices onto dainty floral dishes which she passes to us. It smells heavenly.

  'Apple pie! That was one of my grandparents' treats when I used to visit them in Carmarthen. I love it.'

  Jessie rests her gaze on me briefly. 'Well, you can't be all bad if you've got Welsh blood.'

  'Actually, some Irish and Scottish too,' I counter.

  'Oh, heaven help us!' mumbles Willie, dolloping thick cream onto his pudding.

  'So, why do you want to open a cattery then?' He observes me with his rheumy blue eyes.

  'I love cats and I've adopted countless ferals.'

  'That's fine if you want to be Mother Teresa of the cat world but if you want to earn a living...'

  'Give her a chance to speak, Willie,' hisses Jessie.

  'I'd like to create the sort of cattery that I'd want to put my own cat in. A small oasis for cat owners who loves their pets. I'm not looking to make it my main income. More a hobby.'

  Willie clicks his teeth. 'We'll knock all that rubbish out of you tomorrow!'

  His wife gives a little giggle. 'Leave her be. The truth is, love, that it's no picnic, so you really need to be sure you're doing the right thing.'

  Willie finishes his apple pie and licks his lips.

  'You'll find out soon enough. If I were you, I'd get yourself plenty of sleep tonight.'

  Ominous words. I offer to help wash up but Jessie's having none of it. She shoos me away from the table and so, wishing them both good night, I make my way upstairs to the bedroom.

  'Remember, six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning,' Willie calls after me. 'And make sure you're wearing some decent clobber.'

The laptop is purring like a contented cat, its screen basking in the bright rays cast by the bedside lamp as I tap away. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with a pile of pillows pressing against my back, I give a heavy yawn and decide to call it a day. Somehow I've managed to edit three press releases and put the finishing touches to a detailed planning document for the Crown jewels event. That'll keep Rachel off my back. I shut down the computer and rub my eyes. According to the energetic Jessie, we'll be cleaning out litter trays and doing the breakfast round very early so I must get some kip. A lorry rumbles by in the distance as I plod across the room and dump the laptop on the desk. Outside it is eerily silent and dark. There's not the braying of a donkey or the tinkling bell of a mountain sheep to be heard, and why would there be? Mallorca seems a million miles away from this picture of English rural bliss. Even the air smells different. I shiver with the chill and, turning off the bedside lamp, snuggle under the covers, my mind swivelling back to the curious evening just spent in Jessie and Willie's company. It's a pity Alan isn't with me. He'd have hit it off immediately with Willie and enjoyed his remarks about my Mother Teresa pretensions in the valley. The Scotsman is exasperated by the growing number of scraggy moggies hanging about our land and largely blames this phenomenon on Ollie and me for sneakily feeding them when he's not looking. Much as we hotly deny the accusation, he regularly stumbles across empty feeding bowls in the long grass so that our guilt is self-evident. Just recalling his recent outburst when a clumsy feral cat crash-landed on his shoulder from a lemon tree has me giggling. And that's how I fall asleep, laughing. A good thing, because I have a feeling it will be my two hosts, Willie and Jessie, who'll be having the last laugh over the next few days.