Джеймс Хэрриот - All Things Wise and Wonderful

Miss Simpson watched with interest as the cat stalked inside and made for the stairs. “Ah, good, I’m so glad he’s come home safely. I knew he was your cat and I’ve been intrigued by his behaviour all evening.”

“Where … may I ask?”

“Oh, at the Women’s Institute. He came in shortly after we started and stayed there till the end.”

“Really? What exactly was your programme, Miss Simpson?”

“Well, there was a bit of committee stuff, then a short talk with lantern slides by Mr. Walters from the water company and we finished with a cake-making competition.”

“Yes … yes … and what did Oscar do?”

She laughed. “Mixed with the company, apparently enjoyed the slides and showed great interest in the cakes.”

“I see. And you didn’t bring him home?”

“No, he made his own way here. As you know, I have to pass your house and I merely rang your bell to make sure you knew he had arrived.”

“I’m obliged to you, Miss Simpson. We were a little worried.”

I mounted the stairs in record time. Helen was sitting with the cat on her knee and she looked up as I burst in.

“I know about Oscar now,” I said.

“Know what?”

“Why he goes on these nightly outings. He’s not running away—he’s visiting.”

“Visiting?”

“Yes,” I said. “Don’t you see? He likes getting around, he loves people, especially in groups, and he’s interested in what they do. He’s a natural mixer.”

Helen looked down at the attractive mound of fur curled on her lap. “Of course … that’s it … he’s a socialite!”

“Exactly, a high stepper!”

“A cat-about-town!”

It all afforded us some innocent laughter and Oscar sat up and looked at us with evident pleasure, adding his own throbbing purr to the merriment. But for Helen and me there was a lot of relief behind it; ever since our cat had started his excursions there had been the gnawing fear that we would lose him, and now we felt secure.

From that night our delight in him increased. There was endless joy in watching this facet of his character unfolding. He did the social round meticulously, taking in most of the activities of the town. He became a familiar figure at whist drives, jumble sales, school concerts and scout bazaars. Most of the time he was made welcome, but was twice ejected from meetings of the Rural District Council who did not seem to relish the idea of a cat sitting in on their deliberations.

At first I was apprehensive about his making his way through the streets but I watched him once or twice and saw that he looked both ways before tripping daintily across. Clearly he had excellent traffic sense and this made me feel that his original injury had not been caused by a car.

Taking it all in all, Helen and I felt that it was a kind stroke of fortune which had brought Oscar to us. He was a warm and cherished part of our home life. He added to our happiness.

When the blow fell it was totally unexpected.

I was finishing the evening surgery. I looked round the door and saw only a man and two little boys.

“Next, please,” I said.

The man stood up. He had no animal with him. He was middle-aged, with the rough weathered face of a farm worker. He twirled a cloth cap nervously in his hands.

“Mr. Herriot?” he said.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

He swallowed and looked me straight in the eyes. “Ah think you’ve got ma cat.”

“What?”

“Ah lost ma cat a bit since.” He cleared his throat. “We used to live at Missdon but ah got a job as ploughman to Mr. Horne of Wederly. It was after we moved to Wederly that t’cat went missin’. Ah reckon he was tryin’ to find ’is way back to his old home.”

“Wederly? That’s on the other side of Brawton—over thirty miles away.”

“Aye, ah knaw, but cats is funny things.”

“But what makes you think I’ve got him?”

He twisted the cap around a bit more. “There’s a cousin o’ mine lives in Darrowby and ah heard tell from ’im about this cat that goes around to meetin’s. I ’ad to come. We’ve been huntin’ everywhere.”

“Tell me,” I said. “This cat you lost What did he look like?”

“Grey and black and sort o’ gingery. Right bonny ’e was. And ’e was allus goin’ out to gatherin’s.”

A cold hand clutched at my heart “You’d better come upstairs. Bring the boys with you.”

Helen was putting some coal on the fire of the bed-sitter.

“Helen,” I said. “This is Mr.—er—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Gibbons, Sep Gibbons. They called me Septimus because ah was the seventh in family and it looks like ah’m goin’ t’same way ‘cause we’ve got six already. These are our two youngest.” The two boys, obvious twins of about eight looked up at us solemnly.

I wished my heart would stop hammering. “Mr. Gibbons thinks Oscar is his. He lost his cat some time ago.”

My wife put down her little shovel. “Oh … oh … I see.” She stood very still for a moment then smiled faintly. “Do sit down. Oscar’s in the kitchen, I’ll bring him through.”

She went out and reappeared with the cat in her arms. She hadn’t got through the door before the little boys gave tongue.

“Tiger!” they cried. “Oh, Tiger, Tiger!”

The man’s face seemed lit from within. He walked quickly across the floor and ran his big work-roughened hand along the fur.

“Hullo, awd lad,” he said, and turned to me with a radiant smile. “It’s ’im, Mr. Herriot It’s ’im awright, and don’t ’e look well!”

“You call him Tiger, eh?” I said.

“Aye,” he replied happily. “It’s them gingery stripes. The kids called ’im that. They were broken hearted when we lost ’im.”

As the two little boys rolled on the floor our Oscar rolled with them, pawing playfully, purring with delight.

Sep Gibbons sat down again. That’s the way ’e allus went on wi’ the family. They used to play with ’im for hours. By gaw we did miss ’im. He were a right favourite.”

I looked at the broken nails on the edge of the cap, at the decent, honest, uncomplicated Yorkshire face so like the many I had grown to like and respect. Farm men like him got thirty shillings a week in those days and it was reflected in the threadbare jacket the cracked, shiny boots and the obvious hand-me-downs of the boys.

But all three were scrubbed and tidy, the man’s face like a red beacon, the children’s knees gleaming and their hair carefully slicked across their foreheads. They looked like nice people to me. I didn’t know what to say.

Helen said it for me. “Well, Mr. Gibbons.” Her tone had an unnatural brightness. “You’d better take him.”

The man hesitated. “Now then, are ye sure, Missis Herriot?”

“Yes … yes, I’m sure. He was your cat first.”

“Aye, but some folks ’ud say finders keepers or summat like that. Ah didn’t come ’ere to demand ’im back or owt of t’sort.”

“I know you didn’t, Mr. Gibbons, but you’ve had him all those years and you’ve searched for him so hard. We couldn’t possibly keep him from you.”

He nodded quickly. “Well, that’s right good of ye.” He paused for a moment, his face serious, then he stooped and picked Oscar up. “We’ll have to be off if we’re goin’ to catch the eight o’clock bus.”

Helen reached forward, cupped the cat’s head in her hands and looked at him steadily for a few seconds. Then she patted the boys’ heads. “You’ll take good care of him, won’t you?”

“Aye, missis, thank ye, we will that.” The two small faces looked up at her and smiled.

“I’ll see you down the stairs, Mr. Gibbons,” I said.

On the descent I tickled the furry cheek resting on the man’s shoulder and heard for the last time the rich purring. On the front door step we shook hands and they set off down the street. As they rounded the corner of Trengate they stopped and waved, and I waved back at the man, the two children and the cat’s head looking back at me over the shoulder.