Кейт Мур - Felix The Railway Cat

‘Felix?’ she asked uncertainly.

And then Felix ran up the chimney.

She leapt over the hearth in one jump and dived athletically up into the open chimney above, through which – perhaps – she could smell fresh air and freedom. All Jean could see was her tail and her two back legs as she scrabbled and scraped against the sooty chimney in her bid to climb up, up, up and away.

‘FELIX!’ yelled Jean at the top of her voice. She scrambled round the coffee table, which suddenly seemed like an obstacle upon which Felix had counted for a few seconds’ delay. Nevertheless, somehow Jean managed to grab those wriggling back legs with both hands before they completely disappeared from view.

Her heart was pounding. I can’t let her escape, I can’t let her escape ran the mantra in her head.

Felix writhed and wiggled against her, trying to find some traction. It was a sort of ‘dog-leg’ chimney, where the channel curved round and then narrowed, and Felix was trying to get round the bend, her front paws scrabbling hard against the chimney as she attempted to find a way through. As she struggled, she dislodged centuries of puffy black soot, which fell in thick ebony drifts around both her and Jean, coating the two of them.

Jean was panting. She genuinely thought she was going to have a heart attack. Oh my God, it’s Christmas Eve , she thought to herself. It’s Christmas Eve – I can’t let her go. What if she gets hurt? What if she escapes? Or what if she gets stuck in the chimney?! I’ll have to call the fire brigade!

She could just imagine their reaction.

‘You do know it’s supposed to be Father Christmas coming down the chimney tonight, madam,’ they would chortle behind their hands, ‘not Santa Claws …’

But never mind the firemen: Jean was far more concerned about what the station team might say. Even though Jean genuinely believed she might keel over at any moment from the stress, she knew it wasn’t her that her colleagues would be alarmed about.

‘Oh, Jean’s had a heart attack?’ they would say, so blasé. ‘Well, never mind that. How’s Felix ? How do we get the cat back? If she’s stuck up the chimney, we’ll just have to demolish Jean’s house!’

Jean tugged harder on Felix’s squirming hind legs, trying desperately to drag her back to safety in the living room, and the cat mawed and dug in to something within the narrowing chimney, holding on tight to her escape route. Jean pulled and Felix howled, Jean yanked and Felix squealed, and every second felt like an aeon as Jean’s heart hammered in her ears.

And then Felix let go. Whoosh! Cat and cat lady fell backwards from the chimney. Felix did a commando roll and shot away into the kitchen. She was safe. Peace was restored. Home sweet home.

Yet that home was no longer quite as sweet as it had been before Felix had made her bid for freedom. As Jean sat panting before the fireplace, she surveyed the damage.

She was covered in soot. Felix, she had seen, was totally covered in soot. The wooden floorboards, the hearth … everything was covered in soot.

But more pressing than the dirt, to Jean’s mind, was the need to block up the chimney. What if Felix did it again?

Jean couldn’t believe what had happened. On her visit in 2012, Felix hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the fireplace – and now this!

The escape artist was mewing in the kitchen, a kind of ‘Well, I say!’ mew at all the commotion, but she wasn’t grumpy or bothered by what had happened. Her attitude seemed pretty equable: ‘I tried that, it didn’t work, so let’s move on.’

But just because Felix didn’t seem concerned about it now, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t turn her attention to the chimney again in the future, perhaps in the middle of the night when Jean was sleeping and no one would be awake to watch her go …

Jean tiptoed to the kitchen door and shut it firmly so that Felix was, at least, safe for the time being in there. I’m going to have to block the chimney , she thought. She picked up a cushion, but realised it was way too small. She debated pushing something in front of the fire, so that Felix couldn’t get to the chimney, but whatever she placed there would inevitably have cat-sized gaps at the sides, through which the lithe Felix would easily be able to squeeze. In the end, she went upstairs and grabbed an old duvet. Pushing and shoving, she rammed it up the chimney till the hole was completely filled.

‘There!’ said Jean when she had finished. ‘That will have to do.’

That particular mission accomplished, she now turned her attention to what was evidently going to be a big job: the clean-up. Jean walked from the fireplace through to the kitchen. Following in Felix’s footsteps was easy as the cat had left a sooty black trail everywhere she went. Jean decoded the evidence like a crime scene investigator. Here was where the cat had landed from her fall and rolled across the floor. Here was where she’d had a good old shake to get some of the soot off. And here was where she had curled up in a big fluffy ball in the corner.

‘Felix,’ Jean said to her, and the cat looked up. They stared each other out, and Jean shook her head reproachfully. ‘Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me? I nearly had a heart attack!’

Felix gave a little purr, as though to say, in conciliatory fashion, ‘I won’t!’ She got up and started twisting through Jean’s legs.

‘Friends?’ asked Jean.

And friends it was.

Jean grabbed an old hairbrush and Felix stood still, ready to be groomed. Her trips to the parlour had never been quite like this. First Jean stroked her, and a lot of the soot came off in her hands. Then she pulled the brush through Felix’s fluffy fur, and brushed and brushed and brushed her till she was clean. Felix stood there, letting Jean minister to her, until there was a solid black circle of soot all around where she stood. Only once she was totally clean did Jean let her go. She then wiped up the living room and the kitchen and all of Felix’s sooty pawprints, then let the cat back into the lounge.

Felix tiptoed in and went straight over to the fireplace as though drawn to it by a magnet. She cast a look over her shoulder at Jean, who was watching her like a hawk.

‘Don’t even think about it, Felix,’ she said dryly.

Felix drew closer to the hearth and looked up. She sniffed at the edges of the duvet, then ducked her head and walked away. Nevertheless, she kept on looking back at it, as did Jean. Is the duvet secure? Jean fretted. Might Felix be able to dislodge it?

Amid her worrying, Jean looked down at herself. Her pink dressing gown was pink no more. Her hands were pure filth. I’m going to have to have a shower , she thought. She was scared of going upstairs in case Felix imitated Harry Houdini again while she was gone, but she had no option. So Jean showered, and put her blackened clothes into the washing machine. Then, as the washer tumbled and hummed melodically, she and Felix finally settled in for the night.

When Jean sat down on the sofa in the living room, Felix immediately jumped up into her lap for a cuddle. All was forgiven. Santa Claws was just the station cat once more.

After that, Jean and Felix had a lovely Christmas. Following her little escapade, Felix was no trouble at all; she didn’t even cry at night. On Christmas Day, Jean gave her a treat of a little bit of Sainsbury’s finest unsmoked salmon, which she sentimentally served up in a white china bowl that had once belonged to her children when they were babies: it had the letters of the alphabet painted on it in blue. Felix absolutely loved that salmon; she devoured the small amount Jean let her have and purred noisily for more.