Шейла Нортон - Oliver The Cat Who Saved Christmas

‘Shoo! Go on, shoo, you horrible cat, leave the poor birds alone. I put that bread out for them. They’d starve in the winter if it wasn’t for me. Go on, get lost, you scabby old stray. I don’t want your smelly cat pee in my garden.’

Well! I’d never been so insulted in any of my nine lives. Scabby old stray? I actually had to look around to see if she was talking to someone else. I could only assume the poor ancient creature had problems with her eyesight. How else could anyone mistake a fine, sleek, well-groomed and beautifully mannered cat such as myself, in peak condition and in the prime of my life, with a scabby old stray? It was so ridiculous it was laughable. I decided I should probably feel sorry for her, so rather than take offence and stalk off, I stayed where I was. Pretending I hadn’t even heard her nonsensical outburst, I occupied myself with having a good wash of my face to show the stupid starlings, chattering in the trees above me, that I hadn’t been the least bit bothered about catching any of them in the first place. I wasn’t worried about the woman, even when she started yelling again. After all, she looked far too old to come after me, let alone do me any damage.

Little kitten, I will never again make the mistake of underestimating an elderly human. I have no idea how she moved so fast. One minute she was on her doorstep, and the next, she was towering over me, her wooden spoon raised, threatening to knock me for six. All I could do was cower against the wall, spitting at her – she was blocking all my escape routes. Had I really survived the fire, and the fox, to say nothing of the terrible thing that happened when I was only a tiny kitten, just to end up being beaten to a pulp by an old woman with a spoon? I yowled out loud for help. Where were all my cat friends when I needed them?

And then, just as I thought I was done for, she stopped shouting and said: ‘Just a minute. What’s that? A collar?’

‘Yes, a collar, you silly old woman,’ I meowed at her furiously in Cat. ‘I’m a proper, decent, clean-living pet, not a stray.’

Not that I’m prejudiced against strays, you understand. Most of them have fallen on hard times and deserve a bit of help. I was all too aware that I might have ended up in the same position myself, more than once now.

‘Let me have a look at that,’ she said, and before I could try to make a run for it, she’d grabbed hold of me in a most undignified way and held me aloft, ignoring my squawks of protest, while she peered at the writing on my identity disc. ‘Oliver, eh?’ she said. ‘Well, Oliver, I don’t know where you come from, but you can bugger off there now, and don’t come back. I don’t put bread out for the birds just for greedy spoilt moggies like you to come sniffing around.’

So first I was a scabby stray, and now I was a greedy spoilt moggy? I was almost too angry at the insults to be frightened of the rough way she was handling me. Just as I was trying to turn my head far enough to give her a nip with my teeth, so that she’d put me down, there was a shout from a house across the road.

‘Hey, Barbara! What are you doing with the pub cat?’

Another ancient human – a male version this time. Things were going from bad to worse. But at least this one recognised me.

‘Bugger off and mind your own business, Stan Middleton! I caught this damned moggy going after the birds in my garden. Or after the bread more likely, the greedy thing.’

As if I wanted her horrible stale bread, when I had Tesco value meaty chunks with tuna available to me back at my foster home.

‘Put him down, woman, before you hurt the poor little sod. He’s Oliver, George’s cat from the Forester’s Arms. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s probably just lonely.’

‘Huh,’ the woman called Barbara said. ‘Lonely? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. And nor do you, Stan, before you say anything. Off down the pub with your old cronies every lunchtime – I’ve seen you.’

‘Don’t talk stupid, woman. The pub’s burnt down now. I’m stuck at home all day every day just the same as you. If the hall hadn’t had to close as well, I might have even been reduced to joining that flipping pensioners’ club of yours, sitting there with you and all the other old women, nattering about your knitting and your TV soaps.’

‘TV soaps?’ she shrieked – and I finally managed to wriggle out of her arms and shoot off out of her reach. ‘I can’t even watch the damned soaps any more. My telly’s broken and my son-in-law’s too busy to come round and fix it, the selfish little bugger. I’ve a good mind to send back his Christmas present to the mail order people. I haven’t finished paying for it yet.’

‘Same as my selfish granddaughter – no time for us old people, that’s their trouble,’ I heard Stan saying as I slunk away. Neither of them seemed to be taking any notice of me anymore. ‘If you weren’t such a stubborn old woman I’d offer to come and look at your TV for you, but I don’t suppose you’ll let me inside your house. Still sulking about that shrub I trimmed for you, I suppose. Thought I was doing you a favour, but you can’t please some people.’

When I was at a safe distance I turned back to watch them. Stan, the old male, had crossed the road now and they were talking together by Barbara’s gate.

‘Fix TVs, can you? I don’t suppose you’re any good,’ she was saying. ‘Still, you’d better come in and have a try, otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it. I suppose you’ll be wanting a slice of my fruit cake in return. You needn’t think you’ll get it on one of my best plates. And take your shoes off before you walk on the carpet – I don’t know where you’ve been!’

I was feeling quite sorry for Stan. But, you know what? Even from that distance, I could see he was grinning all over his face as he followed her into her cottage. Sometimes, little kitten, even an experienced cat like myself can’t make head nor tail of human behaviour. I trotted home to Sarah’s house as fast as I could, spent a good long time licking my sore paws where the woman had held me in her grip, and then had a well-deserved sleep to get over the experience.

The next day was a Saturday. You’ll learn to tell the difference with these human-invented days, little kitten, when you’re a grown-up cat like me. Saturdays and Sundays are when the children don’t go to school and most of the adults don’t go to work, not to be confused with holidays and special days like Christmas and Easter. Yes, I know it’s very muddling but humans don’t seem to be able to manage like we do, with every day being whatever we want it to be. Anyway, on this particular Saturday, I was sitting on Sarah’s windowsill when I saw something coming along the road that made me sit up straight and meow with excitement. At first I thought I might be seeing things, but as it came closer and finally stopped outside the house, I knew I was right. It was the same big old blue car I’d known for nearly my whole life, and there, getting out of it, was my very own human, George.

I jumped down from the windowsill and rushed for the front door, walking round and round in frantic circles and meowing my head off. Sarah came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea-towel, and the children came tumbling downstairs from playing in their bedroom.

‘What on earth’s all the fuss about, Ollie?’ Sarah said, as the children stood there giggling at my excitement. ‘Do you want to go out? What’s wrong with using the cat flap?’

And then the doorbell rang, and I almost climbed up the door, I was so beside myself.

‘Who can that be?’ Sarah said as she went to open it. And then: ‘Oh! Hello!’