The Ghost of Christmas Paws

by Mandy Morton

  As if by magic the waiting-room door was flung open and the grey cat stumbled across the floor with a coal scuttle and a bundle of sticks. ‘I’ll ’ave to get back to me office in case I’m needed, but you can get yerselves a blaze going if you’ve a mind to.’ Their makeshift host set down the scuttle, pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, handed them to Hettie with a grunt, and left them to it.

  Hettie wasted no time in laying the fire, and Tilly added some greaseproof paper from the shopper to give the sticks a better chance of lighting. The coals crackled in the grate as the flames took hold, burning blue with the frost from the chimney. There was very little heat to start with, so Hettie dragged the bench in front of the fireplace and they sat together to warm their paws, their greatcoats pulled close around them to stave off the icy draught at their backs.

  ‘We’ll have to make a plan,’ Hettie said, finally gaining control of teeth that had been chattering away to themselves. ‘I think we should write this one off as a bad job and get the first train home in the morning. It’s cost us nothing, and we’ve still got a few days to put on a proper Christmas.’

  Tilly had kicked off her wellingtons, and she wriggled her feet with joy as the heat of the fire warmed them through. ‘That would be lovely. Betty and Beryl have invited us up to their flat for Christmas dinner, so we should have a wonderful time.’

  Hettie was pleased that Tilly was feeling better. There had been too many sad days in her friend’s early life, and she had made it her business to ensure that Tilly was safe and happy. ‘It’s time for one of Betty’s best pies, I think,’ she said, getting to her feet and wheeling the shopper over to the fire.

  There were plenty of greaseproof parcels left and together they carefully unpacked them until they located the package labelled ‘B. and A. P.’. ‘Here they are,’ said Tilly. ‘Shall we have a bottle of fiery ginger beer with them?’

  ‘Perfect. I think we’ll go for another packet of crisps as well – let’s have the Marmite ones this time.’

  The Butters’ beef and ale pies had never tasted so good and the fiery ginger beer completed the thaw by warming the two cats from the inside. The fire was now roaring up the chimney as if it, too, had been saved from the cold, and when the meal was over they settled down to doze and wait for the morning and the first train back to civilisation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There are many types of civilisation, depending on what you’re used to. Less than an hour later, Hettie and Tilly’s warm cocoon was shattered by the arrival of Absalom Tweek, landlord of Jam Makers Inn. ‘You’re fetched!’ he shouted, flinging open the waiting-room door.

  Startled, Hettie nearly slipped from the bench and Tilly hid behind her, afraid that they were about to be murdered. Hettie stared at the tall, gangly cat, cloaked from head to foot against the weather, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his craggy face. One steely blue eye surveyed the room like a Cyclops; the other was obscured by a patch and played no part in the inspection.

  Hettie stood up, leaving Tilly to gather herself, and their visitor spoke again. ‘You’re fetched to Jam Makers Inn. The ’orse’ll freeze if we don’t get on.’ Leaving Hettie to translate what had just been said, the cat picked up their suitcase and strode out into the night.

  With no opportunity for discussion, Hettie grabbed Tilly – who was trying to put her wellingtons back on – and the tartan shopper, and followed their suitcase out of the waiting room, past the ticket office and on out of the station. There, as if they had been transported back two hundred years, stood a horse and cart. The cart was a rough affair, open to the elements, with a driver’s seat up front and an apology for a passenger bench behind, and the horse looked in need of several good meals; the contours of its ribs stood out, and it was dwarfed by the heavy shafts of the vehicle it pulled.

  By the time Hettie and Tilly emerged from the station, their suitcase had been tossed into the back of the cart and the shopper – prised from Hettie’s paws with one swift movement – quickly joined it. Tilly was lifted off her feet and deposited on the passenger bench as Hettie – trying to keep her dignity – scrambled up after her. Their driver wasted no time in springing into his seat, and with a guttural grunt and an encouraging crack of the whip, the horse obligingly retraced its tracks away from the station and onto the moor.

  Hettie and Tilly huddled together for warmth, grateful that the driver in front shielded them from the icy blast of wind, which was blowing across the snow covered moor. The howling storm was deafening, and was accompanied by the cracking of ice as giant cartwheels cut through a frozen path which seemed to lead nowhere. How long the two friends clung to each other was hard to say; the extreme cold welded them into a united force, determined to hang on as the cart violently lurched from side to side. Their driver cracked his whip again, this time bringing it down on the horse’s back as the animal staggered and slid, giving all its strength to a steep incline. Miraculously, the cart reached the top of the hill and Hettie peered down into the valley to see a sprawl of buildings, black against the snow and as unwelcoming as the worst nightmare.

  Their descent was as perilous as the climb and the driver had to engage the large wooden brake several times before they reached the enclave of buildings. The cart rocked through a rough wooden archway into a yard churned up with mud and snow, and came to a sudden standstill. Above her, Hettie could just make out the words ‘Jam Makers Inn’ on a battered sign which creaked and swung in the wind. She shivered, but this time it was nothing to do with the cold: the bleakness of their situation had come home to her, and the light that glimmered faintly through the window did nothing to assure her that there was a welcome on the other side of the hostelry door. Happily, she was wrong.

  The old oak door burst open to reveal a bespectacled, short, round cat wearing a mop cap tilted to one side and a full-length apron stained with the busyness of life. ‘Bless you, what a night to be out! Come in and warm yourselves. Absalom! Lift ’em down – they look frozen solid. And you better get that poor ’orse into ’er stable. She done well to get you ’ere at all.’

  Absalom Tweek did as he was told and gathered Hettie and Tilly in his arms. He deposited them just inside the inn and turned back to the cart for their luggage before leading the horse and cart away.

  ‘Now my luvvers, Lamorna Tweek at your service – and that out there is my very own Absalom Tweek. I don’t suppose ’e’s introduced ’imself as ’e’s a cat of few words and most of them don’t make much sense to many. Welcome to Jam Makers Inn. Let’s ’ave your coats and come through to the fire. I got a nice blaze goin’ in the smuggle.’

  Hettie and Tilly were completely bewildered. It was as if they had taken the wrong turn at the theatre and ended up on stage in the middle of a pantomime whose narrative nodded to Mother Goose and Treasure Island with more than a hint of Dracula. The friends followed Lamorna Tweek through to what she had described as the ‘smuggle’ – a dark, low-beamed room lit only by an open fire blazing in a vast grate which took up the whole of one wall. It was hard to see what the rest of the room offered, as the woodsmoke from the fire filled the room. There were settles either side of the fireplace, and Hettie and Tilly sat on one of them to thaw out whilst the landlady struggled in with their luggage, leaving it at the base of a loft staircase leading up from the bar.

  As their hostess bustled out through a door at the back of the bar, Hettie took advantage of her absence to assess their new-found situation. ‘What a bloody nightmare!’ she began. ‘How can any of this be happening? I wouldn’t bet against being murdered in our beds if we’re foolish enough to climb Lamorna Tweek’s stairs – and what sort of a name is that anyway?’

  Tilly giggled, more out of nervousness than merriment. ‘I suppose it’s Cornish, but she does seem quite nice.’

  ‘So was Mrs Lovett before she started putting pastry round Sweeney Tab’s customers,’ mumbled Hettie as the big oak door banged, signalling the arrival of Absalom Tweek. Lamorna appeared
instantly and stood on a crate to help him out of his coat, unwinding the scarf from around his neck and finally removing his weather-beaten hat. Without his outdoor clothing, Absalom Tweek was a sinewy cat with grizzly, patchy fur and no shortage of scars around his face and long neck. His paws were swollen and raw, the fine bones distorted by years of heavy work, and he gave the impression of having been constructed from the worst remains of a neglected graveyard. His clothes hung about him, as if he’d inherited them from a much larger cat, but it was his boots that caught Hettie’s and Tilly’s attention: they reached from toe to thigh, obscuring his trousers altogether, and were made of fine leather, worthy of any swashbuckler.

  Absalom slid onto a stool by the bar in a well-rehearsed movement, and Lamorna put her back into the business of taking his boots off and replacing them with a pair of soft, red slippers. ‘There you are, my luvver. Now get them bags up to Damson an’ get yourself to the kitchen for your supper – ’tis waitin’ for you. I’ll see our guests are settled in.’ Absalom rose to his full height and lifted the suitcase high onto his shoulder as if it were a cushion, then bumped the tartan shopper up the old staircase behind him.

  Lamorna gave her guests her full attention. ‘Now, my dears – I got some ’ot soup on my stove and a nice baked loaf with some Cornish Cruncher, and there’s a buttered saffron for afters. You can ’ave a glass or two of Doom Bar to wash it down with, if you’ve a mind.’

  Hettie understood very little of what was on offer, but the thought of hot soup and freshly baked bread made her instantly responsive. ‘That all sounds very nice. Thank you, Mrs Tweek.’

  ‘Oh call me Lamorna. We don’t ’old with fancy titles round ’ere. I’ll bring your food dreckly, then we can get you settled in Damson for the night.’ Lamorna disappeared, leaving Hettie and Tilly in a slightly more positive frame of mind, although Hettie’s remark concerning Mrs Lovett hung a question mark over the contents of the soup.

  It seemed an age before Lamorna returned, but it was worth the wait. She appeared through the door at the back of the bar with a tray laden with two bowls of scalding soup and several large chunks of bread. By the time she reached the fire, her glasses had steamed up, rendering her blind, but Hettie rose quickly from the settle to steer both hostess and tray to safe harbour. Lamorna cleaned her spectacles on her apron and returned to her kitchen, leaving them to tuck in to their supper. Any reservations about the contents of the soup were dismissed by both cats after the first mouthful. ‘This is the best soup I’ve ever had,’ said Tilly, licking the back of her spoon. ‘If it was made with dead sea-cats, I wouldn’t mind. It’s just lovely.’

  Hettie had to agree as she wedged a large piece of bread in her mouth, plastered with butter. They had hardly put their spoons down when Lamorna returned with another tray, this time piled high with cheese and what looked like bright yellow currant buns. ‘Try some of our Cornish Cruncher,’ she said, pointing to the cheese. ‘That’ll blow your ’ead off, it’s so strong – proper cheese, that is. And them’s saffron, if you was wondering – buns from Cornish ’eaven. Now, what about a glass of Doom Bar? Best ale in the ’ouse. Good for settling you down on a night like this.’

  The very name Doom Bar was enough to put Hettie off, but the delights of Jam Makers Inn had so far proved to be worthy of any first-class ‘Pub with Grub’, as Tilly liked to call it, and to refuse the ale of the house might have seemed unfriendly. ‘That would be lovely, Lamorna, but two small glasses for us to try might be best, as Tilly and I aren’t really drinkers.’

  Lamorna sucked in air through her teeth and lifted her apron above her head in shock. ‘Not drinkers! And spending the night at Jam Makers? Whatever next!’

  Hettie was confused by the unexpected outburst and watched as she bustled round behind the bar and drew off two half-pint mugs of beer from one of the casks lined up on the ledge at the back. Bringing them down with some force on the table by the fire, she pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘This ’ere inn ’as secrets that go back ’undreds of years, an’ these ’ere walls ’as seen trouble you could only dream of in your worst nightmares – an’ the scaaaars remain.’ A wide-eyed Tilly sat forward on her settle as Lamorna continued. ‘When Absalom and me came ’ere, the place was full of bad, bad cats – murderers, cut-throats, an’ even worse.’

  Hettie took a large bite from the wedge of cheese she’d cut for herself. As it hit her tongue, she reached for her first sip of Doom Bar to quell the burning sensation, finding time to wonder what could be worse than murderers and cut-throats. She was about to find out, as Lamorna pushed on with her story. ‘Long ago, the plague came to the moor an’ the folk ’ere protected themselves by shooting any cat that wasn’t known to them – in case they got infected, see. Trouble was, they got used to killing strangers, so in the end all that was left was murderers an’ ghosts.’

  This time it was Tilly who took a sip of Doom Bar, followed by a healthy bite from her saffron bun to take the taste away. Surprisingly, the combination was pleasing and she noticed that even Hettie was making progress with her glass, too. ‘Now, killing strangers is no sort of reputation for a wayside inn to ’ave, so no one came ’ere any more except the bad’uns looking for drink an’ sport. Fighting to the death, they were, an’ these flagstones ’as seen more blood than ale.’ Suddenly Lamorna stood and waved her paw to draw their attention to various points of interest. ‘Over ’ere, on this very spot, Captain Ludo Stump was cutlassed to the floor an’ sliced in four bits. An’ Evergreen Flinch breathed ’er laaaast over there by that window, as ’er ’ead was severed from ’er body an’ boiled in a pan over that fire you’re sitting by. Lankin Tresowes was landlord then, an ’e was ’anged at Truro for stealing sheep an’ the murdering of a family up at a big ’ouse Dozeymary Pool way – but ’e came back ’ere to ’aunt the place even though ’e was drawn an’ quartered. ’E wanders the moor mostly, but we ’ave seen ’im in the smuggle once or twice round Christmastime. Then there’s that beam above your ’ead – cats was chained to that an’ roasted by the fire for less than owing a penny or two for beer.’

  Lamorna’s guided tour was interrupted by the return of her husband, who drew himself a tankard of Doom Bar and made his way over to them. Instantly, she abandoned her lurid tales and dragged a large high-backed carver chair to the fire. Absalom sat down with a grunt of appreciation and proceeded to fill a clay pipe with tobacco. Hettie and Tilly looked on as the landlord settled to his pipe, blowing the finest smoke rings they had ever seen.

  Having made sure that Absalom was comfortable, Lamorna turned her attention to settling her guests in for the night. ‘If you would care to come with me, I’ll get you set up in Damson. It’s one of my best rooms, as it ’as a nice view of the moor an’ less of a disturbance in the night.’

  Tilly and Hettie drained their glasses and stood to follow Lamorna up the stairs, both noticing how light-headed and unsteady they felt, and more than a little fearful of what the night might have in store for them. There were several rooms leading off the landing at the top of the stairs and Damson was straight ahead of them. The others, Hettie noticed, all had one thing in common: jams. The signs on the doors announced a complete set of preserves, from Blackberry and Strawberry to Greengage and Raspberry. Lamorna flung open the door to reveal a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by one oil lamp placed in the window. There were two beds side by side, an old rough oak chest, and a battered basket chair which had seen much better days. The grate in the small fireplace was empty, but the room was pleasantly warm; Hettie could feel the heat rising through cracked and splintered floorboards from the smuggle below. ‘I’ve put you both in ’ere as it’s the warmest place to be, and there’s more trouble if two rooms is used,’ the landlady explained, before adding enigmatically: ‘They can’t decide which room to ’aunt first, then there’s the bangin’ and moanin’ – goes on all night sometimes.’

  ‘Are you saying that this room is haunted?’ asked Hettie, slumping down heavily on one of the beds.r />
  ‘Why, of course,’ Lamorna said, moving towards the door. ‘This ’ole place is full of dead cats. You just ’ave to get used to ’em. They go about their business, and if you don’t try to interfere with them, then we all rub along nicely together. No need to lock your doors round ’ere, either – they come through the walls. Breakfast is in the smuggle any time after nine. You got a long way to go in the morning, that’s if the weather don’t come in worse overnight.’

  With that as her parting shot, Lamorna Tweek left the room, latching the door behind her. Hettie rose from her bed and bolted it. ‘This must be the bleakest place on earth,’ she said, as the footsteps faded away. ‘How do they stick it out here? They belong in a different century, so what in hell’s name are we going to find if we ever reach Crabstock Manor? And is there a connection between Eloise Twinge and the Tweeks?’

  ‘Singe!’ said Tilly, before collapsing on the other bed in a Doom-Bar-fuelled fit of uncontrollable giggling.

  The laughter was infectious and Hettie made matters worse by attempting to remove her wellingtons by kicking her legs in the air and bouncing on her bed. Both cats had lost control, and, after a long day fraught with problems and the prospect of a spectre-filled night at Jam Makers Inn, they collapsed exhausted into a deep sleep. Not even the headless spirit of Evergreen Flinch could wake them as she searched through their luggage in the early dawn, scattering the tartan shopper’s remaining greaseproof parcels all over their floor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tilly woke first. She pulled a blanket from her bed and wrapped it around herself before padding across the boards to the window. It was hard to see beyond the glass, as the snow lay thickly across the small panes. She lifted the catch and, with a push, the window swung open, letting in an icy blast. After the smoky rooms at the Inn, the fresh, cold air was a real tonic and Tilly lifted her face to it, breathing in the complete whiteout of the landscape that stretched before her. In the far distance, she noticed a contrasting band of dark grey, and her heart leapt as she realised that it was the sea.