Lynne Barrett-Lee - Able Seacat Simon

And perhaps I didn’t need to. I made a start on the herrings.

It was after we’d sailed before the extent of my ‘celebrity status’, as the captain put it, really began to sink in. Though I had managed to avoid any involvement in anything to do with trunks, leads or collars while on land, it seemed I wasn’t going to be able to escape entirely, as no sooner had we reached the open sea than Captain Kerans managed to collar me and affix the stiff new collar around my neck. He wasn’t content with my just wearing it – I was made to pose with it for a series of photographs, too. ‘You’ll be the star of Pathé news!’ he assured me.

Then there was the news report that someone had brought on board just before we’d slipped, and which, during our usual church service a couple of days later, Lieutenant Hett had produced and read out to the crew.

‘ Sailors get award,’ he began. ‘That’s “sailors” as in Simon and Peggy here, as opposed to you lot, obviously,’ he added, sweeping his gaze around the deck. ‘ Hong Kong: Able Seaman Simon and Guardsman Peggy received campaign ribbons on Saturday with all the modesty of heroes. In their case, it was a purr and a wag of the tail. As members of the crew of the British sloop Amethyst , during the dash down the Yangtse from communist captivity, they were honoured in a ceremony in the British Navy’s Fleet Club, complete with honour guard.

‘ Said Petty Officer Griffiths, who officiated at the ceremony, to Peggy the dog: Guardsman Peggy for meritorious service on HMS Amethyst , is hereby awarded the distinguished Amethyst Campaign Ribbon.

‘Simon the cat – Yes, that’s you, Simon. I told you you shouldn’t have missed it – got the same, word for word, and this additional citation: “Let it be known that though recovering from wounds, Simon did single-handed and unarmed hunt down and destroy Mao Tse-tung, a rat guilty of raiding food supplies.

‘Another Mao Tse-tung is the leader of China’s communists.’ He folded the paper and grinned. ‘Like we didn’t know that , eh?’

But the piece in the newspaper was as nothing compared to the surprise that would greet me a few hours later.

With all the routines of heading to sea again taking priority over everything, once the service was over it was all hands to their duties. We were well out of the harbour and on our way to Singapore when Captain Kerans came and found me.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, plucking me unceremoniously from his bunk. ‘Something told me I might find you here, you little scallywag. Come on. We’re off to see Frank in the wardroom.’

I had no idea why, but I didn’t mind the interruption. Now we were back at sea I would have plenty of time for napping. It was a good feeling. A good feeling indeed.

We duly went down to the wardroom, Captain Kerans humming to himself as he carried me. It was good to see him so happy too.

But he stopped in the doorway. ‘Goodness me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at this lot! Good Lord. What a thing, eh?’

As I was still half asleep, I wasn’t quite sure what he was on about. He seemed to be referring to a number of sacks – bulging hemp sacks, of the kind that the post usually came in – that had presumably been brought in by the quartermaster before we’d sailed.

He put me down on the big wardroom table and turned to Frank. ‘This lot is really all for Simon?’

Frank nodded. ‘Aye aye, sir. The lot. All been sorted already. And you’re right. You wouldn’t credit it, would you?’

Yes , I thought, padding across the table for a better look, but what is it? What’s this ‘lot’ that he’s on about? Because I’d missed most of what Frank would probably call the ‘carryings-on’, I had only the vaguest idea what they were talking about. And even less about what might be in the sacks.

Tins of sardines, hopefully. If they had been delivered here for me, there was a chance of that, wasn’t there? I licked my lips. Tins and tins and tins of sardines, if I was lucky. And if I was even more lucky, there might be some cream in there too. For all Captain Kerans kept saying I looked ‘like the cat that got the cream’ lately, I’d seen nothing in the way of cream – precious little in the way of milk, even – since we’d left Shanghai for Nanking all those months ago.

I could already feel my mouth watering at the prospect of my fond imaginings, but no one seemed much inclined to look for any. Instead, Frank pulled a clutch of papers from the top of one of the sacks, and started looking through them with what appeared to be great amusement.

He then pulled out another handful and Captain Kerans joined in too, wrestling out another wodge of them himself. ‘Well, I’ve seen everything now, Coxswain,’ he said, chuckling to himself and then waggling one of my ear tips. ‘I’ve seen a very great deal in my time in the Senior Service but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this before. Who could ever have imagined it?’ he asked Frank. ‘Fancy. I really have never seen anything quite like it.’

He thrust one of the papers under my nose. I was washing my whiskers – might as well, I thought, while they busied themselves in not finding any sardines – but the paper jiggled in front of me seemed at least worth a sniff. Then I realised what it was: it was post. It was letters. Just like the sacks of them that used to reach the Amethyst via the supply ships and, latterly, while we were marooned up the Yangtse, via the sampan or landing craft that used to bring them sporadically, and which always caused such a great fuss.

Post was important. I knew that. It had always been important. It was one of the things that kept the crew happy and boosted morale – though I was so often privy to it having quite the opposite effect (at least in private) that, for all that my human friends loved to receive it, I didn’t trust the business of post quite as much as I might have.

I sniffed the letter carefully. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Captain Kerans said, looking pleased with himself. ‘That’s you , little feller. Able Seacat Simon , is what it says there.’ He ran his finger along the writing. ‘ Care of HMS Amethyst, Hong Kong. As does this,’ he added, flipping through the rest of the pile in his hand. ‘As does this, as does this, as does this. They are all for you.’ He scratched his head again. ‘Honestly, Frank, really. Who’d have thought it? This little fellow here has obviously captured quite a few hearts!’

‘I’ll say so, sir,’ agreed Frank. He was still busy with his own sack and was now pushing his arm halfway down it. I wasn’t altogether sure what the captain meant. Captured hearts? Because, confused though I was, I’d at least worked out one thing: that the contents of the sacks seemed very likely to be related to the masses of people who’d come to greet us at the quayside on the morning we’d docked, and who’d continued appearing right up until we’d left Hong Kong. And related to the collar, and the ceremony I’d been at pains to avoid attending, and to the piece in the newspaper about Mao Tse-tung.

I eyed the sack Frank was still riffling through hopefully.

Perhaps he had found some sardines at last.

Apparently not. Well, at least, I doubted it, because what now appeared in his hand was a strange-looking package, wrapped in brightly patterned paper, and which looked as much like a tin of sardines as I did. ‘Permission to open it, sir?’ he asked the captain.

‘Of course, Frank, go ahead. I’m sure Simon’ll be keen to see what it is, won’t you, feller?’