Джеймс Хэрриот - All Things Wise and Wonderful

“What a shame. And he’s pretty, too. Four white feet and all those unusual colours.” With her finger she traced the faint bands of auburn and copper-gold among the grey and black.

Tristan laughed. “Yes, I think that chap has a ginger Tom somewhere in his ancestry.”

Helen smiled, too, but absently, and I noticed a broody look about her. She hurried out to the stock room and returned with an empty box.

“Yes … yes …” she said thoughtfully. “I can make a bed in this box for him and he’ll sleep in our room, Jim.”

“He will?”

“Yes, he must be warm, mustn’t he?”

“Of course.”

Later, in the darkness of our bed-sitter, I looked from my pillow at a cosy scene. Sam in his basket on one side of the flickering fire and the cat cushioned and blanketed in his box on the other.

As I floated off into sleep it was good to know that my patient was so comfortable, but I wondered if he would be alive in the morning.

I knew he was alive at 7:30 a.m. because my wife was already up and talking to him. I trailed across the room in my pyjamas and the cat and I looked at each other. I rubbed him under the chin and he opened his mouth in a rusty miaow. But he didn’t try to move.

“Helen,” I said. ‘This little thing is tied together inside with catgut. He’ll have to live on fluids for a week and even then he probably won’t make it. If he stays up here you’ll be spooning milk into him umpteen times a day.”

“Okay, okay.” She had that broody look again.

It wasn’t only milk she spooned into him over the next few days. Beef essence, strained broth and a succession of sophisticated baby foods found their way down his throat at regular intervals. One lunchtime I found Helen kneeling by the box.

“We shall call him Oscar,” she said.

“You mean we’re keeping him?”

“Yes.”

I am fond of cats but we already had a dog in our cramped quarters and I could see difficulties. Still I decided to let it go.

“Why Oscar?”

“I don’t know.” Helen tipped a few drops of chop gravy on to the little red tongue and watched intently as he swallowed.

One of the things I like about women is their mystery, the unfathomable part of them, and I didn’t press the matter further. But I was pleased at the way things were going. I had been giving the sulphapyridine every six hours and taking the temperature night and morning, expecting all the time to encounter the roaring fever, the vomiting and the tense abdomen of peritonitis. But it never happened.

It was as though Oscar’s animal instinct told him he had to move as little as possible because he lay absolutely still day after day and looked up at us—and purred.

His purr became part of our lives and when he eventually left his bed, sauntered through to our kitchen and began to sample Sam’s dinner of meat and biscuit it was a moment of triumph. And I didn’t spoil it by wondering if he was ready for solid food; I felt he knew.

From then on it was sheer joy to watch the furry scarecrow fill out and grow strong, and as he ate and ate and the flesh spread over his bones the true beauty of his coat showed in the glossy medley of auburn, black and gold. We had a handsome cat on our hands.

Once Oscar had fully recovered, Tristan was a regular visitor.

He probably felt, and rightly, that he, more than I, had saved Oscar’s life in the first place and he used to play with him for long periods. His favourite ploy was to push his leg round the corner of the table and withdraw it repeatedly just as the cat pawed at it.

Oscar was justifiably irritated by this teasing but showed his character by lying in wait for Tristan one night and biting him smartly in the ankle before he could start his tricks.

From my own point of view Oscar added many things to our menage. Sam was delighted with him and the two soon became firm friends, Helen adored him and each evening I thought afresh that a nice cat washing his face by the hearth gave extra comfort to a room.

Oscar had been established as one of the family for several weeks when I came in from a late call to find Helen waiting for me with a stricken face.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“It’s Oscar—he’s gone!”

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“Oh, Jim, I think he’s run away.”

I stared at her. “He wouldn’t do that. He often goes down to the garden at night. Are you sure he isn’t there?”

“Absolutely. I’ve searched right into the yard. I’ve even had a walk round the town. And remember.” Her chin quivered. “He … he ran away from somewhere before.”

I looked at my watch. “Ten o’clock. Yes, that is strange. He shouldn’t be out at this time.”

As I spoke the front door bell jangled. I galloped down the stairs and as I rounded the corner in the passage I could see Mrs. Heslington, the vicar’s wife, through the glass. I threw open the door. She was holding Oscar in her arms.

“I believe this is your cat, Mr. Herriot,” she said.

“It is indeed, Mrs. Heslington. Where did you find him?”

She smiled. “Well it was rather odd. We were having a meeting of the Mothers’ Union at the church house and we noticed the cat sitting there in the room.”

“Just sitting … ?”

“Yes, as though he were listening to what we were saying and enjoying it all. It was unusual. When the meeting ended I thought I’d better bring him along to you.”

“I’m most grateful, Mrs. Heslington.” I snatched Oscar and tucked him under my arm. “My wife is distraught—she thought he was lost.”

It was a little mystery. Why should he suddenly take off like that? But since he showed no change in his manner over the ensuing week we put it out of our minds.

Then one evening a man brought in a dog for a distemper inoculation and left the front door open. When I went up to our flat I found that Oscar had disappeared again. This time Helen and I scoured the market place and side alleys in vain and when we returned at half past nine we were both despondent. It was nearly eleven and we were thinking of bed when the door bell rang.

It was Oscar again, this time resting on the ample stomach of Jack Newbould. Jack was leaning against a doorpost and the fresh country air drifting in from the dark street was richly intermingled with beer fumes.

Jack was a gardener at one of the big houses. He hiccuped gently and gave me a huge benevolent smile. “Brought your cat, Mr. Herriot.”

“Gosh, thanks, Jack!” I said, scooping up Oscar gratefully. “Where the devil did you find him?”

“Well, s’matter o’ fact, ’e sort of found me.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack closed his eyes for a few moments before articulating carefully. “ Thish is a big night, tha knows, Mr. Herriot. Darts championship. Lots of t’lads round at t’Dog and Gun—lotsh and lotsh of ‘em. Big gatherin’.”

“And our cat was there?”

“Aye, he were there, all right. Sittin’ among t’lads. Shpent t’whole evenin’ with us.”

“Just sat there, eh?”

“That ’e did.” Jack giggled reminiscently. “By gaw ’e enjoyed ’isself. Ah gave ’im a drop o’ best bitter out of me own glass and once or twice ah thought ’e was goin’ to have a go at chuckin’ a dart. He’s some cat.” He laughed again.

As I bore Oscar upstairs I was deep in thought. What was going on here? These sudden desertions were upsetting Helen and I felt they could get on my nerves in time.

I didn’t have long to wait till the next one. Three nights later he was missing again. This time Helen and I didn’t bother to search—we just waited.

He was back earlier than usual. I heard the door bell at nine o’clock. It was the elderly Miss Simpson peering through the glass. And she wasn’t holding Oscar—he was prowling on the mat waiting to come in.