Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Brought Down the House

First, Police Chief Brodie arrived, driving up the lane from the back street—the better to get away after piping his stint. He was resplendent in the Brodie clan kilt and shoulder plaid and his bagpiper’s feather ‘bonnet,’ a good eighteen inches tall.

As the carloads of guests started to arrive, Pat O'Dell was in the barnyard, showing them where to park and steering them to the bird garden. Burgess Campbell and Alexander were in the first carload to arrive—with the Bethunes, his surrogate in-laws. They were all in Highland attire, except the guide dog. There were the MacWhannells and the Camerons, the Ogilvies and MacLeods, all in clan tartans. Mavis Adams and the Morghans, who were not Scots, said they felt like illegal aliens.

The guests strolled around the garden, commented on the plantings, visited the butterfly puddle, and found the gazebo. They looked at the Siamese as if they were creatures in a zoo and the Siamese looked at them in the same way.

Then Pat O'Dell came around the side of the barn and signaled to Qwilleran by jerking his thumb twice over his shoulder, meaning ‘They’re here!’ Qwilleran caught Brodie’s eye and tapped his wristwatch, and the bagpiper plunged into the attention-getting solemnity of ‘Scotland the Brave’

What happened in the next few minutes is best described in Qwilleran’s own words. He later wrote in his personal journal:

Sunday, April 13—Standing in the foyer in a formal receiving line was the Royal Family: Queen Thelma, Prince Richard, and the lady-in-waiting. The queen was wearing lavish jewels—and one of her ‘artistic’ hats. Richard lived up to his reputation as a snappy dresser by wearing a Nehru jacket and two-tone shoes.

One by one the guests moved through the line, with introductions made by Fran, who was unusually vivacious. I was the last to be presented to Thelma.

I grasped her hand in both of mine and said warmly, “I've got to talk to you about that hat!”

Sounding like Mae West she said, And I've got to talk to you, Ducky... about that... moustache!” Her facial expression was pleasant, composed, and a trifle arch. “And this is my nephew, Richard Thackeray. Richard, this is the celebrated Mr Q.”

He had a good handshake and exuberant personality. “Call me Dick. I know all about you, Mr Q.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said.

His voice had a distinct quality—velvety, with an underlying resonance. Later Thelma would tell me that it gave her goose bumps; it was her brother’s voice, which four-footed creatures found magnetic, soothing, and even healing.

Janice was the last in the receiving line, her shyness at odds with a kind of eagerness. I couldn’t help wondering about her role in the household that had just moved into Pleasant Street.

With the introductions made and everyone holding a glass of champagne, it was time for a toast to the new neighbors. And Burgess did the honors with éclat. Everyone responded noisily and at length. Then Thelma made an acceptance speech, which brought cheers and whistles. I looked at the guide dog to see what he thought of the brouhaha. Alexander, as usual, was completely unflappable.

The group scattered, some clustering around Thelma, others sampling the cocktail snacks or walking up the ramp to be thrilled by the view from the top. Fran escorted Thelma on a tour of the main floor, pointing out decorative features. At one point Fran hissed into my ear, “What’s that thing above the fireplace? I told you I could lend you an artwork for the occasion—something more suitable!”

Thelma’s chief concern was the lack of television receivers. “Where’s your TV?” she demanded, sounding like Bette Davis. “Above the fireplace you could have a fifty-inch screen—the rectangular style for showing movies... And with these big, comfortable sofas you’d have a perfect setup for movie parties. I have a large collection of old films that I could lend you.”

Dick viewed the recumbent bicycle leaning against a stone wall in the foyer and asked me, “Do you really ride this? How does it feel to pedal with your feet up?”

“When you get used to it, there are many advantages,” I told him. “If you’d like to try it, you’re welcome to borrow it.”

Thelma’s assistant was standing alone at the bookshelves that filled much of the wall space on three sides of the fireplace cube. When I approached, she asked, “Have you read all of these?” It was the question I had heard many times from a nonreader.

“Some of them twice, or oftener. If you see a title you’d like to borrow, feel free... but if you don’t return it, the sheriff will be at your door with a search dog.”

The mild jest fell flat. “I don’t have time to read books,” Janice said. “I read aloud to Thelma –newspapers, that is, and magazine articles... Where are the kitties?”

I felt she was changing the subject to avoid personal matters. I may have been wrong. I said, “They’re in the gazebo. They don’t like large parties. Do you like cats? You might drive Thelma over some afternoon.”

“Oh, Thelma doesn’t like cats—not at all!” Janice looked about anxiously and said, “Excuse me. I think she wants me.”

I felt I was right; Janice was employed to drive the car, cook, and read aloud... not to reveal personal details that might reflect on the Thackeray image.

The champagne flowed, guests circulated, and neighbors conversed like long-lost friends.

At one point Polly said to Qwilleran, “I've been listening to talk about the Kit Kat Agenda, and it sounds like a splendid idea! It’s the local name for a national movement. Volunteers provide foster homes for unwanted kittens and their mothers, while other volunteers act as adoption agents, matching up the kittens with permanent homes. Burgess, Mavis, and the Bethunes are providing foster care, and Hannah MacLeod is an adoption agent.”

Qwilleran said, “But who can tell me about the logistics of foster care?”

“Ask Mavis.”

Qwilleran caught up with her at the snack table. “Try one of these delicious cheese puffs,” she said.

“I've already had three,” he said. “Tell me something about foster care. Where do the temporary cat-families spend their time? Where do they eat and sleep?”

“One needs a spare room for that purpose,” Mavis explained. “People go in to talk to them and play with them and introduce them to sociable activity. A kitten that is socialized has more personality and makes a better pet than a poor little thing cooped up in a cage.”

“I see the point,” he said.

“You should talk to Hannah MacLeod, one of our adoption agents. She’s lived here all her life and knows everyone, so she’s very successful in finding permanent homes.”

Hannah Hawley, a fine contralto, had recently married “Uncle Louie’ MacLeod, director of the Mooseland Choral Group, and they were in the process of adopting an eight-year-old boy.

“How’s Danny?” Qwilleran asked the couple.

“He’s such a bright, personable child,” Hannah said. “He loves to go with me when I take prospects to the foster homes to pick out a kitten—or two. Usually two. It’s hard to resist a handful of squirming fur looking at you with big eyes and mistaking your finger for something else.”

Qwilleran said, “I suppose there’s an adoption fee?”

“A modest one, considering that it includes all shots and neutering. To help cover expenses and publicize Kit Kat, we’re going to stage a Kit Kat Revue.”

Uncle Louie looked at Qwilleran hopefully. “Do you sing or dance?”

“I might be able to write a skit,” he replied.

It was nearing seven o’clock, and Qwilleran had talked to everyone but the Bethunes. He found them in the foyer, admiring a long narrow console table. Proudly he told them it was handcrafted, custom ordered by Fran Brodie, and remarkable for the hand-carved dovetailing in the drawers.