The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter

by C H Hemington

Chapter 7 - Neighbourhood Watch

  I meet all sorts of people during the course of my work, and I’m not just talking about clients. Being a cat-sitter has the sometime dubious fringe benefits of bringing me into contact with my clients’ neighbours, and inevitably, their cats.

  When I first started cat-sitting I used to agree to look after cats whose care was to be shared between me and a neighbour. Not only did this mean that the cats might have to put up with some inconsistencies in their care whilst their owners were away, but it often proved very confusing for the people involved too, although when I say ‘people’ I mainly mean me. An example of this was when I looked after Chaka and Khan, a pair of brother and sister Bengals. Their owners had gone away for an early spring break and I was to share the cat-sitting with Darren, a young lad who lived down the road and who was on his half-term break. He was to feed them in the mornings and I would do the afternoon visits.

  The trouble was I could never tell if Darren had actually been. There was a cat flap which meant that the cats came and went as they pleased and always toileted outside. No dry food was left out for them and they were fed wet food twice daily, which they always gobbled up in one sitting. Their wet-only diet also meant that they never touched the water left for them indoors, but chose to drink instead from an outside water feature. Darren would never leave me any kind of update note, and the food bowls were always exactly as I’d left them, washed and dried and on the worktop by the boiler. It was a puzzle and I wasn’t sure how to approach it. I didn’t want to appear untrusting but I also didn’t want Chaka and Khan to be going without their breakfast every day.

  With this state of affairs continuing into the fourth day of visits I finally decided to take action. My plan was to make up an excuse to text Darren, to see if I could wheedle some information out of him that would prove he’d actually been making his visits, and I knew exactly what to base my trickery on. When Chaka and Khan ate their food, Khan had a habit of opening his mouth as wide as possible to take in as much of the food as he could in one go. Then after he’d swallowed it he’d always jerk his head back, open his mouth, and make a noise that sounded like the whole lot was going to come straight back up again. This happened at the start of every dinner I gave him, and I could only assume he did the same thing at breakfast. To have the best chance of getting a reply back from Darren I needed to compose a message that would speak to him on his level. I therefore decided that ‘teenage text-speak’ was the way to go:

  ‘Hi Dazzer. Hope UROK. OMG, hav U watchD Khan eating? It's CreslE funny! LOL.’ Translation: Hello Darren. I hope you are well. Have you watched Khan eating? It’s seriously funny. Laugh out loud, smiley face.

  I have to say I was very proud of my first attempt at getting down with the youth, and it wasn’t long before Darren replied. ‘Not really sure what you’re on about but if you’re referring to Khan practically retching his food back up, I’m not sure it’s something we should be laughing at. And please don’t call me Dazzer.’

  The response told me two things. Never underestimate teenagers and never attempt to be something I’m not. Moreover, it also confirmed that Darren had indeed been visiting the cats.

  “Oh I should have explained,” their owner Kay said to me when she and her husband Alan returned home. “He’s an exceptionally conscientious boy and takes his responsibilities for Chaka and Khan very seriously, and he’s also fastidiously clean,” a statement which seemed not only to be a contradiction in terms, given that we were talking about a teenager, but it also left me wondering whether my standards of cat care had come up to his.

  That job-share experience and others which I undertook in the early days eventually made me decide that it was probably best if I only undertook jobs where I was the sole carer. This meant that as far as neighbours were concerned, I could have as little or as much to do with them as I wanted. Usually, that is.

  Eighty four year old Marjorie was a neighbour that I got to know well whilst looking after Mistress Sadie, Camilla and Gordon’s cat. During the summer months she seemed to spend most of her time in her front garden pruning her huge array of rosebushes, her elderly cat Christopher always by her side. She loved nothing more than a good old gossip, and would wait until I was leaving the house, when she’d bustle over to me and start regaling me with the latest neighbourhood tittle tattle. From the types of things she told me, it was clear that she was extremely vigilant or, more likely, just incredibly nosey.

  “Did you know that Madeleine from Number 3 is a practising medium?” she said in hushed tones. “She swears blind she saw her granddad sitting at her breakfast table the other morning, eating kippers. She said it was the awful smell that brought her downstairs, but I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the smell of her granddad or the smell of the kippers,” she said perfectly seriously.

  “And Ernest from Number 8, you know he’s a batchelor, well I just happened to see a very attractive lady knocking at his door in the middle of the morning and she didn’t leave until 5pm! He must be at least seventy; you’d have thought he’d be passed that sort of behaviour!”

  I couldn’t help but think that if she knew Camilla and Gordon’s little secret, she’d have a field day.

  What was very sweet was that during our chit-chats, Christopher would always sit in-between us, his head tilting from side to side as he listened to Marjorie’s tall stories and my ‘ooh!’ and ‘ah!’ responses.

  One afternoon, and unusually when I was on my way in to see Mistress Sadie, I saw Marjorie walking purposefully towards me, and dragging a man with her, whilst Christopher trotted behind them. Marjorie’s husband had died several years previously and I wondered whether she was looking to show-off a new male companion. It was difficult to imagine Marjorie as a ‘cougar’ but this man did look a few years younger than her, albeit that he was somewhat podgy, balding and the strands of hair that were left had a grey tinge. I estimated that he was a young-looking seventy-something. It turned out that he was an old-looking forty something, as Marjorie indiscreetly revealed.

  “This is my son Bernard. Would you believe it, he’s forty nine and still a batchelor!” Poor old Bernard, or not-so-old as it turns out, went as red as the cherry brandy punch my parents always made at Christmas, and feeling terribly sorry for him I enthusiastically shook his hand and said how pleased I was to meet him. Marjorie beamed with delight. “He’s done ever-so well for himself, got himself a good job with the local council and owns his own flat!” I half expected her to let me know that he’d still got all his own teeth. Nevertheless, it was nice that she was so proud of her son, although I couldn’t help wonder why she hadn’t mentioned him during any of our previous chats.

  Before Marjorie could extol the virtues of Bernard any further, I politely mentioned that I’d better go and see how Mistress Sadie was. “Oh yes, of course!” she said before adding “Strange name for a cat, don’t you think?”

  It was all I could do to not let my face reveal any hint of the dark goings-on inside Camilla and Gordon’s house, and by way of throwing Marjorie off the scent, I inadvertently found myself saying “No doubt I’ll see you again on the way out!” What had I done? As much as I enjoyed Marjorie sharing the odd bit of gossip with me from time to time, on this occasion I really didn’t feel comfortable with the whole Bernard thing.

  So when it came time for me to leave Mistress Sadie’s house, I knew I’d need to have a plan in place to try and avoid being caught by Marjorie. I could either simply race to my car and speed off, or do my best secret agent impersonation, and move swiftly and silently from porch to drive to car, making use of all available cover. Deciding that the first option put me in danger of running down a neighbouring cat, I chose option number two, and found myself peeking through the curtains of Camilla and Gordon’s living room window in an attempt to check Marjorie’s current whereabouts. My luck was in. Marjorie and Bernard were nowhere to be seen and had obviously taken themselves inside. Christopher however, was in the
front garden looking unusually alert for such an old chap. It was now or never, so I hastened out of the front door and shut it as quietly as I could. However, trying to get the key into the lock to secure the door was problematical. This particular key had always been a bit fiddly and on this occasion was about to completely ruin my strategy. I’d spent such a long time at the door that I’d clearly attracted someone’s attention. A loud wailing noise, not unlike an air raid siren suddenly filled the air, and it appeared to be coming from Christopher’s direction. Looking across I could see him staring back at me, howling vociferously in the way that elderly cats sometimes do when they get a bit confused and disorientated. However, I’m not sure there was any confusion involved in this act, which of course brought Marjorie out as fast as her old legs could carry her.

  It was my firm belief that she’d put Christopher on sentry duty, and he was to alert her the moment he saw me leave the house.

  “Katherine!” she called, completely ignoring Christopher who’d now fallen silent, further confirming my theory. “Bernard and I would love you to come over for a cup of tea and some home-made carrot cake, if you’ve got the time!” All my senses told me that this wasn’t a good idea and that I should make an excuse. All but one sense that is. Marjorie’s mention of home-made carrot cake at a moment when my tummy was already rumbling sent my taste buds into overdrive, and I found myself acquiescing.

  I’d never seen inside Marjorie’s house and it was as gloriously chintzy as I had imagined it, down to the rose-patterned matching sofa, curtains and wallpaper. A tray had been set out on a large pouffe upon which were arranged two delicate china cups and saucers with identical side-plates, and a larger plate on which sat the carrot cake. Bernard had taken up residence on the two-seater sofa, already scoffing cake and slurping tea, crumbs gathering at the edges of his mouth. “Manners Bernard!” Marjorie reprimanded as she took her place on one of the two armchairs. The other, unfortunately had already been taken by Christopher who had scampered in behind us and who, I noticed, had his own saucer of tea. That left me to share the sofa with Marjorie’s ample son.

  During the next fifteen minutes it became clear that Marjorie was desperate to get her son married-off and it seemed that she had her eye on me as a future daughter-in-law. “Look at you two on the sofa!” she said. “You make ever such a handsome couple!” To my horror, crumb-faced Bernard turned and looked at me and nodded vigorously. Finding it hard to swallow the lump of carrot-cake that had suddenly become wedged at the back of my throat, I took a huge gulp of tea and wondered why she’d say such a thing. I couldn’t believe that someone as nosey as Marjorie wouldn’t notice something as obvious as a wedding ring on my finger.

  “That’s kind,” I heard myself say “and were it not for the fact that I was already married I’d find Bernard very...” I struggled to find the right word “erm, appealing,” I said in a tone of strained light-heartedness.

  “Married?” said Marjorie, not making any attempt to hide her disappointment. “You’ve never mentioned a husband.” Given that any conversations I’d had with Marjorie had always been very one-sided, I hadn’t been able to tell her anything much about myself, so I simply nodded with an ‘oh well!’ expression. How Marjorie responded next, took me completely aback. “Well good grief, we shouldn’t let something like that get in the way, after all it’s clear that you two were made for each other!”

  I hurried out as fast as I could, leaving Marjorie to her fantasies, Bernard still stuffing cake in his mouth and Christopher fast asleep with his head resting in his saucer of tea.

  “That’s hilarious!” Elliot said when I recounted the afternoon’s drama. The fact that Marjorie was inciting me to commit bigamy didn’t appear to worry him in the least. However, I didn’t want a repeat of the incident, and felt I needed to some take drastic action to make Marjorie understand that not only was I married, but that I was happily so, at least most of the time.

  “You’re coming with me tomorrow” I told Elliot, whose smirk immediately disappeared. I’d already checked his diary and knew he had no commitments for the following day, so he could make no excuses.

  The next afternoon I turned up at Greta and Mark’s house with a very grumpy husband in tow.

  Damn it! Marjorie was nowhere to be seen, so I hopefully suggested to Elliot that he hang around outside, just in case she returned. “You must be joking!” he said. “I don’t want some deranged women accosting me...” I was going to point out that he’d seemed quite happy for me to be lured into Marjorie’s chintzy den on the pretence of afternoon tea and cake, but not wanting to have a slanging match with him in the street, and thereby give the neighbours something else to talk about, we headed indoors. Once inside I instructed Elliot to sit on the chair by the window in full view of meddling Marjorie, should she happen to pass by.

  Groucho was, as usual, sitting in Marx’s bed, a woeful look on her face. That is until she spotted Elliot. As he walked across the room to his allocated chair I noticed her watching him intently.

  “Sit on the floor, sit on the floor!” I commanded, hoping that this would make him appear a bit less threatening to her.

  “What about the chair and the window thing?” he asked.

  “Sod the chair!” I hissed. My determination not to upset Groucho superseded my desire for Elliot to be seen through the living room window. He dutifully sat on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him. What happened next took me aback. In a flagrant act of infidelity to her ‘out of town’ doggie boyfriend, she trotted over to Elliot and plumped herself down on his lap, pushing her head around his hand as he tickled her cheeks. Was she flirting with him? Just wait until I saw Marx!

  When we left I saw Marjorie’s cat Christopher sitting in their garden, presumably on sentry duties, because as soon as he saw me he once again put into operation his strident alarm call; Marjorie had trained him well! However, this time I silently thanked him as I saw Marjorie come scurrying out.

  “Oh!” Seeing me accompanied by a tall and handsome-ish man stopped her in her tracks.

  "Afternoon Marjorie!” I called out to her as she continued to make her way towards us. “This is my husband Elliot” I said rather unsubtly. With what can only be described as a feigned smile, and without uttering a word she formally shook his hand. It was clear she understood the point I was making.

  “Bernard not with you today?” I asked.

  “No, he had to get home; he’s off on holiday to Thailand tomorrow. He goes there every year!

  These words left me in no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before Marjorie found herself with the daughter-in-law she so desperately craved, albeit not a home-grown one.

  However, there were neighbours who had no ulterior motive for getting to know me. Take Petronella, an outgoing lady of larger proportions who lived next door to Greta and Mark and who would always salute me if she happened to be outside when I turned up. I was at a loss to understand the significance of this odd behaviour, so simply filed it away under the category of ‘weird neighbour syndrome.’ However it wasn’t long after I’d started visiting Greta and Mark’s cat Groucho, that Petronella came across to introduce herself to me and only then did all become clear.

  Petronella told me that she was in the Army Reserves and it was obvious that she took her military duties incredibly seriously. She even had a miniature assault course set up in her back garden consisting of six car tyres lined up in pairs, and a piece of camouflage netting covering a large area of the lawn. She had a booming voice not unlike that of a tyrannical sergeant major, and I’d often hear her shouting:

  “Knees up! Knees up!” which told me that she was carrying out her daily exercise regime, something that was confirmed when I looked out of Greta and Mark’s upstairs window and saw her stepping energetically in and out of the tyres, before diving under the camouflage netting like she was playing the lead role in Rambo. Sometimes I even saw her sporting a thick black stripe which
ran from one side of her face to the other.

  Petronella lived with four cats, Bear, Grylls, Ranulph and Fiennes who ranged in ages from two to fifteen, and apart from Fiennes the eldest, who quite rightly kept himself mostly to himself, the others were as energetic and friendly as their human mum, and would come to me for cat treats whenever they saw me.

  Bear and Grylls were brother and sister and the youngest of the posse. They were mischievous little imps and were always getting themselves into trouble. “Fell through a gap in a manhole cover when he was a kitten,” Petronella bellowed at me one day, referring to Bear. “Little fella got himself well and truly stuck.”

  “Oh my goodness, what did you do?” I gasped?

  “Just got hold of a crow bar, jimmied off the drain cover, stuck my arm down there, got him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out.”

  “Any injuries?” I asked, deciding to adopt her habit of talking in staccato sentences.

  “No, all a bit of a fuss about nothing,” she said in a way that was rather too matter of fact for my liking.

  However, it was clear that underneath Petronella’s tough exterior was a woman who thought the world of her cats, and would do anything for them, and this was born out by the way they all responded to her. If I heard her arrive home whilst I was at Greta and Mark’s, I would deliberately stop what I was doing to watch the wonderful way in which the cats greeted her. As soon as they heard the car, they would align themselves at the spot where they knew she would be opening the driver’s door, and barely allowed her to exit before smothering her with body rubs and headbutts. For her part, Petronella would have a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking, before planting a kiss on each of their heads. The cats were so devoted to Petronella that I imagined she’d easily be able to get them to fall into line each evening, and miaow their names, followed by ‘Sir!’ before allowing them dinner.

  Late one autumn afternoon I was just about to leave Greta and Mark’s house when I heard the sound of a cat miaowing. Over the years I’d got to know the difference between cats’ miaows, and this one sounded to me like a cry for help. Believing the sound to be coming from next door, I instinctively trotted into Greta and Mark’s garden so I could peer over the fence and see what was going on. The light was just starting to fade, but not enough for me to not be able to make out the unmistakeable silhouette of a cat in the oak tree in Petronella’s garden. In a move that impressed even me, I hurdled the fence, and on closer inspection could see that the pitiful sound was coming from Grylls, who’d made the classic mistake of thinking that just because she could climb up a tree, that she could get down again. She was perched half way up and had come to rest on one of the sturdier looking branches. Not knowing when Petronella would be back, and being unwilling to leave Grylls, I decided to attempt the rescue mission myself. I felt sure that it would be easy enough to get her down, as long as there was a lightweight portable aluminium ladder to hand. There wasn’t. The garages to both houses were locked and I assumed I’d have noticed if Greta and Mark kept a ladder indoors.

  Years of cat-sitting meant I had finely-honed my capacity for resourcefulness, and I looked around to see what I could use to help me get onto the first branch of the tree. The tyres, of course! Piled up they’d make a great platform. I ran over to where they lay and attempted to drag the nearest one over to the tree. From my viewing point upstairs at Greta and Mark’s I hadn’t appreciated how large the tyres were, and accordingly how heavy. They’d clearly been taken off a Monster Truck rather than a Mini, and even though I’d heaved the tyre just a few yards it was clear that this strategy had its flaws and I was going to be forced to reconsider my plan.

  Looking back up at the helpless little Grylls motivated me to get a move on, and I quickly started to formulate another idea. If I could just hook a bit of the camouflage netting over the end of one of the branches, I could climb up it and rescue Grylls. I was imagining myself as the leading lady in one those made-in-Hollywood comedy films about a petite and not obviously attractive girl, who joins the army only to be ridiculed by the bully-boy officer in charge, as well as by her fellow Privates. Ultimately not only does she turn into something of a beauty, but she always goes on to prove them wrong, and would end up being awarded the congressional medal of honour for acts of outstanding bravery in the face of adversity. Spurred into action by these imaginings, I grabbed the netting, which unlike the tyres was relatively light, and began to drag it towards the tree. It hadn’t occurred to me that any of the cats would think the netting had been placed on the lawn for their own particular camouflage requirements, but clearly Ranulph did.

  Ranulph was the middle of Petronella’s cats, and always seemed to me to be a bit cerebrally challenged. So if any of the cats was going to fall asleep on top of the camouflage netting, it was going to be Ranulph. Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting him to be there, and he wasn’t expecting his large bed to be whipped away from under him, mid-slumber. The poor thing leapt up like a crazy cartoon cat and ran off, no doubt to seek another equally inappropriate place to rest his head.

  Sleeping cat incident over, I continued my feline liberation attempts. Standing slightly away from the tree trunk, I was able to toss the netting up, but it took exactly twelve attempts before I was able to get the thing to catch on a branch that I believed would take my weight. Meanwhile, little Grylls, aghast at seeing a huge holey monster repeatedly flying towards her, had climbed a little higher, and she wasn’t the only one that was anxious. Once I’d got the netting firmly in place and with my heart in my mouth, I gingerly started to climb up it, all thoughts of heroic female film stars gone from my head. I had puny arms and trying to haul myself up what was in effect a huge wobbly rope ladder was more challenging than I could have possibly imagined. However, using my thighs to propel myself up meant that I soon found myself at the branch that the netting had hooked onto. By way of taking a rest, I folded myself over the branch, my feet still wobbling madly in one of the netting’s holes, and craned my head backwards and upwards to see if I could see Grylls. She wasn’t that far above me, but still out of reach. It was then that I remembered the Dreamies cat treats which were in the front pocket of my hoody. Honestly, it took me longer to get them out with one hand than it did for me to climb up the tree. However, all the treat packet-rustling had clearly proved incentive enough for Grylls to attempt a precarious descent and eventually she was near enough for me to lob a Dreamie up at her in the ridiculous hope that she’d catch it and move further down the tree for more. Goodness knows where the treat landed, but even without it Grylls continued to pick her way down towards me. Just when she was within arm’s reach she did what I thought to be the cleverest thing. She managed to leap from the branch she was standing on, and onto my shoulders, from where she made her own way into my hood. She’d found the perfect way to be transported back down the tree, assuming of course that her lift didn’t lose her footing and fall off the netting. However, going down was far and easier, and before long I was standing on terra firma, and my hood, having served its purpose was quickly abandoned by the little cat who didn’t even utter so much as a thank you.

  At that moment, Petronella’s car swung into the drive and I realised why Grylls had dashed off so quickly. ‘Perfect timing,’ I said to myself ironically, whilst making my own way around to the front of the house to let Petronella know why one of her carefully positioned tyres was out of place, and her camouflage netting was hanging from her tree. As she listened to my story, I could see an expression form on her face that looked very much like admiration, mixed with the teensiest bit of jealousy.

  When I took off my sweatshirt later that that night, and saw Dreamie crumbs fall out of the hood, I realised why it had been so attractive to Grylls. As for the camouflage netting, it remained hooked to the tree and I would regularly see Petronella heaving herself up it, the sounds of “One two!” “One two!” booming down the street.

  It wasn’t just the cats that I loo
ked after who appeared to eagerly anticipate my visits. It seemed that everywhere I went I was viewed as the cat equivalent of Santa Claus by all the other felines residing in the neighbourhood. Word would get round that the human with the stash of catnip and valerian drugs, as well as cat treats for their drug-induced ‘munchies’ was doing her rounds. When I arrived at a client’s house they would all appear from their various hiding places, and collectively ambush me, and when I left they’d be waiting outside the door of my client’s house, and refuse to let me get into my car until I’d distributed some loose-leaved catnip, a couple of valerian teabags and a scattering of cat treats. I often felt like a reverse Pied Piper who, instead of luring away mice and rats, was in fact luring away their predator with my magic cat bag. I often imagined a series of rodent parties taking place up and down the street, celebrating the fact that the cats were too stoned to be able to chase them.

  One place where this would often happen was Buttercup Close in which were located a small huddle of bungalows, each with their own feline residents. Amongst them were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum who lived at No. 6. They were svelte Siamese brothers who hadn’t quite grown into their ears. When Tweedle Dum (affectionately known as ‘Dum Dum’) was around I didn’t dare open my car door, he always had such a thing about clambering inside, having a good sniff around, before parking himself on the ledge behind the back seats with a self-satisfied look on his face that said ‘I ain’t movin’. Tweedle Dee was more sensitive than his brother and would loiter from a distance, hoping that I’d toss a treat in his direction. I dreaded to think why Bimbo at No. 11 had been so-called, but could only hope that she’d been neutered. Mr and Mrs Spratt at No. 2 had a houseful of cats, the majority of whom had some form of disability. They included Treacle who was a wonderfully friendly deaf white cat, who I loved to bits; Marmite a young and audacious little thing, and incredibly agile for a cat with only three legs. I would often watch with admiration whilst he saw off the other cats with ease. Benny at No. 4 was the soppiest bundle of fluff I’d ever come across, and I worried that his friendly and trusting approach would at some point get him into trouble. He, like Tweedle Dum, loved my car and I lost count of the number of times I had to pluck him from its roof before I could leave. In fact getting out of the Close in my car was always a fraught affair, and it sometimes took a good ten minutes of slow manoeuvring around a number of non street-savvy cats before I could get under way.

  One cold winter’s day when I arrived in the Close it was only Benny who appeared to say hello. I wasn’t surprised; it was fair to assume that the likes of the Tweedles with their very short fur and the Spratt’s’ physically challenged troupe would have been indoors, curled up in their cat igloos, or stretched out on their radiator hammocks. However Benny had the benefit of a long, thick coat, but even if he hadn’t have been so well attired for winter, I was sure that he wouldn’t have been able to resist a cuddle. Unusually for a cat, giving Benny a cuddle was compulsory, and he would always make a point of using the brick wall next to the front path of my client’s house as a launching pad from which to jump up onto my shoulder, and push his cold wet nose into my face. On this occasion, despite the fact that he was doing a grand job of keeping me warm, I’d have preferred him to be sensibly tucked up indoors like the others. Nevertheless, I needed to go in and tend to my charge, so all cuddles had to cease. I carefully extracted Benny’s paws from my scarf and placed him on the ground, throwing a couple of treats down the path so as to be able to gain entry into the house without him following me in.

  When I came back out I fully expected him to be waiting by the door, his crystal blue eyes staring up at me, pleading for another snuggle session, however, there was no sign of him, so I took my leave. It had been my final visit of the morning and I decided to drop into my local convenience store to get some bananas and crumpets. The car park was quite full for a Tuesday morning, but having a little car meant I was lucky enough to be able to squeeze it into a very narrow space that presumably no one else could use. However, it also meant that I had to a) open my door very carefully to avoid hitting the passenger door of the car next to me and b) perform a quasi Harry Houdini routine to extricate myself, something I eventually managed to do with some satisfaction. I slammed the door shut, and that was when I saw a silvery object disappear underneath it. Slightly perplexed, I started to make my way around to the other side of the car, whilst at the same time a large furry object jumped onto the bonnet.

  “Benny? What on earth...?” I said not quite believing my eyes. In the meantime a purring Benny had put his paws on my chest, ready to launch himself up. The wiley cat must have somehow snuck into the warm car as I was loading my cat sitting paraphernalia into it. “Well, at least you’re not difficult to catch!” I said to him as I tried to carefully open the car door, the manoeuvre being made much more difficult with Benny in my arms. No sooner had I said the words than Benny wriggled out of my clutches and jumped onto the ground. It seemed he was eager to explore his new surroundings and no amount of calling and patting my knees would entice him to return to me. My major concern was that he’d run into the road, currently busy with a never-ending flow of four by four vehicles being driven by harassed-looking mums doing the school run.

  However, it became clear that it wasn’t the road that Benny was interested in, but the shop itself. In he went through the sliding doors, as if on a mission to get hold of the cat milk and pouches of his favourite salmon flavoured meaty treat sticks that his owners had clearly forgotten to include in the weekly grocery shop.

  I sped after him, shouting out “he’s with me!” to an astonished checkout assistant, a greasy-haired shelf-stacking youth and numerous customers, many of whom had got out their mobile phones and had started filming the goings on. This was not so much a game of cat and mouse, but one of evasive cat and flustered cat-sitter.

  After a few circuits of the aisles, during which no-one came to my aid, I found myself grabbing the closest item of food that came to hand, which happened to be a large lump of cheese from the chilled cabinet. I tore open the packaging and wafted it in Benny’s direction. Almost as if in slow motion I saw him stop, turn around, stick his nose in the air and start sniffing. I held my breath as he came closer and finally succumbed to what I later found out was a very expensive slab of cheese from the shop’s ‘finest’ range. So not only had I had to suffer the indignity of being filmed chasing a cat around a mini-mart, but I’d had to shell out £6.20 for the pleasure. By this time the greasy-haired youth had finished his shelf-stacking, and I asked if he would mind accompanying me to the car so that I could get in with Benny, whilst he held the door open. “Oh yes of course Madam!” he said in a rather refined tone that took me somewhat aback.

  It was with great relief that I drove back into Buttercup Close and deposited Benny back in his own front garden, having forgotten all about my bananas and crumpets. As I was returning to the car one of the neighbours came out of her bungalow. “Has Benny been for a little outing with you?” she chuckled.

  “You could say that” I replied, before entertaining her further with tales of mine and Benny’s shopping expedition.

  “That’s nothing, I once arrived at my Aunt’s house in Brighton to find him fast asleep under my coat on the back seat!” she said. Clearly Benny was a seasoned traveller.

  Benny’s owners were two ageing identical twin sisters called Kitty and Meg, and it was easy to understand why Benny had such a gentle and trusting temperament. Whenever I happened across them in the Close, they would give me a cheery wave and we’d exchange a few pleasantries. This surprised me somewhat, not because they weren’t lovely charming ladies, but because if I was them, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to attract my attention. The reason for this was that every now and again, when I was looking after Hill the cat at No. 5, one of the ladies would knock at the door, clearly the worse for wear with drink. Now I like a tipple as much as the next man, but generally keep it to social occasions and the o
dd glass of wine with my evening meal. However, my little visits from either Kitty or Meg could happen in the morning as well as in the evening and what’s more, they were always only wearing a dressing gown. I say ‘they’, because as identical twins wearing identical clothing, I was never completely sure if it was Kitty or Meg, or if they were both fond of a Sherry in their towelling-wear.

  I would open the door to find either one or the other standing in front of me, dressing gown a bit too loosely tied for my liking, telling me how they loved to watch the cats gather round me during my visits. It was always the same conversation. The strange thing is, when I chatted with them in their garden, fully-clothed and clearly in full possession of their senses, they never mentioned these little misdemeanours. However, early one evening, having just arrived in the Close, I happened to glance over to Kitty and Meg’s bungalow. The lights had already been switched on in the living room and there, resplendent in one corner of the room, was a large built-in bar, complete with optics and an ice-bucket. No sooner had I taken in this kitsch scene, than I was subject to a flash of leg as Meg (or was it Kitty?), followed by Kitty (or Meg), came into the living room. This time they had eschewed their towelling robes in favour of what looked like silk alternatives. Not wanting to attract their attention I parked in the nearest available space and waited in the hope that they would close their curtains, thereby covering their modesty and allowing me to walk over to Hill’s house sans embarrassment. I spent the next five minutes fiddling around in my glove box, but it was clear that they weren’t in any particular hurry to avoid being seen, not by only the nosey parkers of the close, but by anyone who happened to be passing. I couldn’t wait, so got out of the car and walked over to Hill’s house in my most nonchalant manner, and trying my hardest not to allow my eyes to be drawn into Kitty and Meg’s living room. However, just as I thought I’d got away without being seen, a loud thumping noise made me look over. Simultaneously one of the twins had walked over to the living room window and seen me. She opened the window...

  “Would you mind coming in?” she said rather breathlessly.

  “I’d love to, but Hill will be waiting for his dinner!” I replied, taken aback by such a direct invitation. At the mention of Hill she started laughing. “We couldn’t believe it when Hill moved into the Close,” she said, “what with our cat being called Benny!” I was already aware of the strange quirk of fate that had brought two cats together in the same Close, collectively called Benny Hill, formerly one of the world’s most popular comedians.

  “It’s just that Kitty and I have got something to show you!” Meg continued. “I promise it’ll only take five minutes!”

  You’d have thought I’d have learned my lesson from the Marjorie mishap, but I’m afraid, once again, curiosity got the better of me, and approximately sixty seconds later I was leaning up against Meg and Kitty’s living room bar with Benny on my shoulder.

  “One, two, and a one two three four...”

  I watched open-mouthed as Meg and Kitty launched themselves into a rigorous dance routine that I immediately identified as the Can-Can, and they were doing it rather well!

  Unfortunately though, it was curtailed by a slipper flying off Meg’s foot and hitting the window, which no doubt accounted for the thud I’d heard earlier. Nevertheless, I found myself shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” whilst giving them rapturous applause, which caused Benny to topple off my shoulder and onto the bar. No wonder they always wore their dressing gowns loose!

  I wanted to discover where they’d acquired their dance skills and so asked if I could pop back after I’d seen to Hill. The twins looked delighted.

  “Of course you can!” they both said in unison, with Kitty then adding “we think you might be surprised by what we tell you!”

  By the time I returned forty-five minutes later, Kitty and Meg had clearly been quenching their thirst with a tipple or two but were, nevertheless, coherent enough to divulge the secrets of their past. They had in fact been dancers at the world famous Moulin-Rouge, and I soon became absorbed in their stories of dance, drink and secret affairs with the troupe’s various directors.

  “We know that people in the Close think we’re a pair of silly old fools who like a drink,” Meg said, “but I suspect we’ve seen more excitement in our lives than all of them put together.” I didn’t doubt the truth of Meg’s comment, and I felt honoured that they had chosen me as their confidante. From that day forward I would look at them in a completely different light; even if I did still wish that they’d put on a bra, vest and knickers when wearing a dressing gown.