Cat Among the Pumpkins (2 page)

Hettie refilled her pipe and Tilly – sensing that a good conversation was about to be had – added more coal to the fire and put a pan of milk on. She noticed that a considerable amount of gravy had attached itself to the front of her cardigan; it would have to be sponged down in the morning, so while the milk came to the boil she struggled out of her day clothes into her pyjamas, returning to the fire with two steaming mugs of cocoa and Hettie’s dressing gown, which she draped across the arm of her chair. Hettie kicked off her at-home slacks and jumper, and – wrapped warmly in her dressing gown – returned to her catnip.

Tilly had never been able to get on with catnip, which was a shame because the numbing properties would have helped her arthritic paws; on the rare occasions when she had taken a puff from Hettie’s pipe, it just made her cough or feel sick. Hettie, on the other hand, thrived on the possibilities brought about by the mind-expanding qualities of her evening pipe, a habit gained from time on the road with her band in that almost-famous life. Her folk country-rock treatment of
traditional music had left her fans spellbound, although it had to be said that most of them indulged in an evening pipe – or in some cases an all-day one – and none of her keenest followers would have considered listening to Hettie’s music without the added bonus of blowing some smoke first.

The cats sipped their cocoa thoughtfully and it was Hettie who broke the silence. ‘What I find odd is that everyone assumes Milky Myers murdered his own family and just disappeared, never to be seen again except as a ghost on Halloween or by a stray kitten who happened to glance up at the window of an empty house. And Irene Peggledrip has lived in that old house for as long as I can remember – she doesn’t seem too worried about its history, in spite of her weird parties. And what about this cat from Much-Purring? That’s a strange village at the best of times, full of halfwits with their trousers tied up with string. He had the opportunity to kill the whole of the Myers family and still be home in time for a big lunch. Maybe he killed Milky as well and no one has found the body, or even bothered to look for it.’

‘Do you think he ate a scotch egg for lunch?’ asked Tilly, trying to keep pace. ‘That would liven the evidence up a bit.’ They laughed at the ridiculous turn the story was taking, and the clock on the staff sideboard ticked towards midnight, the magical hour on Halloween when the dead rose from their graves
and purveyors of dark arts stepped into the light. If there was any truth in the legend, Milky Myers would be having a very busy night.

Tilly banked up the fire, ate the last warlock tart and settled down on the fireside rug, pulling her blanket over her to keep the draught out. Hettie knocked her pipe out on the hearth, then settled back in her arm chair to watch the flames dance in the grate and cast their shadows round the room. All was well in the confines of their cosy world, and within minutes the only sound to break the silence was the contented snoring of two warm and well-fed tabby cats.

Tilly always awoke to the roar of the Butters’ bread ovens, grateful for the warmth which they brought to the small back room. The baking day began at four in the morning, and the twin ovens worked hard to produce Betty and Beryl’s famous breads, pies and pastries. The sisters had learnt their craft at their mother’s kitchen table in Lancashire and had headed south with the small legacy she left them, investing in a run-down shop which was now the jewel in the crown of the town’s high street. Being from the north, they had a keen work ethic, a no-nonsense approach to business, and an unpatronising kindness to those
less fortunate than themselves. For obvious reasons, Hettie had been a long-standing customer of theirs, and when money was short they had always ‘seen her right’ with an extra pie here and there. When the great storm took her shed, the Butter sisters cleaned their back store room out and offered it to her as a bolthole; later, when fate brought Tilly to Hettie’s door, the bolthole was miraculously transformed into a comfortable home, a safe haven in which to weather the storms that life chucked at them.

Tilly loved those first waking moments of each day and the security that her new life had brought her. The past had dealt some bitter blows: cruel, friendless winters; extreme hunger; and, at times, a worthless existence which could have made it so easy to give up altogether. A few kind cats had taken her in for a couple of nights or left food on their doorsteps, but until now there had been no reason to welcome a new day and what it may bring. Living with Hettie, every day was different, and they faced whatever came their way together.

It should be said, though, that no day started with both cats pulling in the same direction. Tilly knew that Hettie would never consider opening one eye, let alone two, until a cup of milky tea had been placed on the arm of her chair, and even then there was no guarantee that full consciousness could be achieved until a round of toast with a cheese triangle spread generously across
it was proffered. But this morning was different: the familiar noise of the bread ovens had been replaced by an odd sort of tapping noise, and it was quite some time before Tilly realised that it was coming from the window which looked out onto the backyard. It was still very early, and as the tapping became more persistent, Tilly crept from her blanket and tugged at Hettie’s right ear, the only part of her that was visible amid swathes of dressing gown and blanket.

‘Wake up!’ she whispered without any success. Thinking fast she tried again, this time more urgently. ‘Wake up! There’s a sausage and bacon roll for breakfast.’ As if by magic, Hettie sat bolt upright, making a circuit of the room with her eyes and sniffing the air as if she had been snapped out of a trance by a hypnotist.

Satisfied that she had her full attention, Tilly continued. ‘There’s something tapping at our window – listen.’

Cross and disappointed at a no-show breakfast, Hettie grudgingly pricked up her ears, but the only obvious sound was the rumbling of her stomach. ‘I can’t hear anything. What are you doing up at this time anyway? If you can’t sleep, read one of your library books. You early risers are a menace to society.’ She continued to grumble as she pulled the blanket back over her head, and her words were lost in a tangle of bed clothes. Tilly looked at the belligerent heap of bad tempered cat, satisfied herself that the window had
ceased to tap and returned to the comfort of her own blanket just as the first of the bread ovens sprang into life. Awake and alert, she reached for Marmite Sprat’s interpretation of the Milky Myers case, eventually drifting back to sleep to circle the Peggledrip house in a dream. A few minutes later, she was rudely awoken again, this time by a knock at the door and the unmistakeable sound of Beryl Butter’s voice.

‘Wakey, wakey you two! You’ve got a gentleman caller. Poor lad looks a bit rough, but he’s askin’ for Hettie and finishin’ a pie off in the yard.’

Tilly sprang from her blanket and pulled Hettie’s off her chair, hoping that the shock of cold air would do the trick. This time, Hettie yawned and stretched, promising a more positive approach to the day.

‘Come on! We’ve got to get dressed and tidy up. We’ve got a visitor,’ Tilly explained as she folded blankets and shoved them into the staff sideboard. ‘It might be a new case to work on. There’s a cat in the yard asking for you. Oh, do hurry up! I’m dying to see who he is, and that explains the tapping in the night – it must be urgent if he came that early.’ Tilly threw Hettie’s clothes at her, crunched her way across to the table through last night’s popcorn and proceeded to bring some sort of normality to the aftermath of their scary night in.

Hettie was less enthusiastic at the prospect of an unseen client in the backyard. Deep down, she hated meeting people and would have lived in a very small
bubble if she’d had any choice, but good cases that paid well were hard to come by and their coffers were running low; a boost from the backyard was just what they needed. She pulled on her clothes, pushed her armchair back from the fire and riddled the coals into life, adding some kindling to cheer things up. Then, in a rare moment of domesticity, she filled the kettle at the sink, switched it on and rinsed their cocoa mugs, adding what they called their clients’ cup to the tea tray. By this time, Tilly had completed the transformation from bedsit to office and had climbed into a business cardigan and some understated woolly socks, ready to receive their caller. She lifted the blind cautiously on a bright, frosty morning, shivering at the memory of all those winters out in the cold, waiting for the library to open so that she could thaw out on one of the radiators. It was there that she had discovered her love of books and her appetite for detective fiction, always knowing that at the end of each working day she would be turned out to search for a safe place to sleep.

A movement in the corner of the Butters’ yard brought Tilly back from a place she rarely allowed herself to go. ‘I don’t think he’s going to make our fortune,’ she said, a little deflated. ‘Just look at him! Rough isn’t the word for it, and a fighter, too, I’d say.’

The battered old cat had found the only shaft of sunlight to be had in the yard and was making some attempt to clean himself after devouring a Butters’ pie.
Hettie looked closer, then suddenly ran from the room with Tilly in hot pursuit.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Hettie cried in the direction of this skinny bag of bones. ‘I thought you were dead! They told me the storm had done for you.’ She threw her arms round her unexpected visitor, doing a good job of crushing him to death.

‘Hey, leave off! No need fer all that,’ said the old cat, struggling to free himself from Hettie’s welcome. ‘I was in the area and I thought I’d look yer up for old time’s sake. And who’s this pretty ball of fluff?’ The cat turned his attention to Tilly, who was hiding behind Hettie, too shy to take part in the grand reunion.

Hettie responded with full introductions, pulling Tilly out by her cardigan. ‘This is my very best friend, Tilly Jenkins. Tilly, this is an old friend from my shed days, Mr Bruiser Venutius.’

Bruiser took Tilly’s paw and bowed low enough for his substantial whiskers to touch the ground. ‘I’m very pleased to meet yer,’ he said with a wink. ‘Any friend of Hettie’s is a true friend o’ mine.’

Tilly chuckled shyly, delighted with the gentlemanly attentions which contrasted so sharply with the cat’s appearance. Beneath the dirt he was a mostly white cat, his dense short fur distinguished by stripes of black and grey, but it was the battle scars that gave him away: the one and a half ears, the smile that lacked some teeth, the eye swollen and half-closed – all bore
testimony to the fact that he was indeed a fighter and, as his warrior surname implied, a winner too. His skin sagged across his bones, suggesting that a much bigger cat would emerge if he had access to regular meals, and Tilly’s first instinct was to rush back inside and put the toast on whilst trying to remember how many cheese triangles they had left.

With a strange reluctance, Bruiser followed the two cats into the hallway. Once inside, he kept close to the walls, eyeing up the bread ovens with great suspicion as he trailed Hettie and Tilly to their room. The fire won him over instantly: in one agile leap, he positioned himself in front of it with his back to the heat, allowing his old bones a much-needed thaw from the night’s frost.

Hettie moved over to close the door, wanting to block out the noise of the bread ovens; seeing Bruiser become suddenly agitated, she changed her mind. ‘Still can’t stand being shut in then?’ she said as Tilly launched the bread knife into one of Betty’s finest bloomers.

Bruiser nodded in an embarrassed sort of way. ‘Not too keen on four walls and a closed door,’ he admitted. ‘I still needs me freedom – only thing I got that’s mine. But a proper fire, now that’s a reason to come in now and again, specially when the wood’s too wet to build me a fire out under the stars.’

There was now a hive of activity around the toaster,
which in many ways was as independent as Bruiser: it was good at burnt or not cooked at all, but golden brown was a big ask and could only be achieved by constant supervision. Tilly was the self-elected cat for the job and Hettie stood by, pulling the foil off the cheese triangles ready to spread across the toast. To her dismay, the first batch was passed straight to their visitor; to add insult to injury, the second went the same way and the residue from a cheese triangle dribbled tantalisingly from Bruiser’s chin onto the fireside rug. Finally, Hettie managed to elbow her way into the breakfast run, only to discover that the cheese triangles had run out and had been replaced by a very thin scraping of butter.

Tilly looked apologetic as she chewed on an all but dry bit of toast. ‘I’ll have to go to Malkin and Sprinkle later to stock us up, especially as we have a guest to feed.’ She beamed at Bruiser, who settled himself comfortably in Hettie’s armchair.

Hettie could not help the uncharitable thoughts that were running through her head. She’d quite forgotten how Bruiser’s independent lifestyle revolved around the benevolence of others, and how easily he charmed his way from one sympathetic donor to another. But she also knew that he would disappear as quickly as he had arrived, and his company was to be enjoyed while they had it.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ she suggested brightly,
nodding to Tilly to do the honours. ‘That’s if we have any tea bags or milk left.’

Tilly prepared the mugs and jotted down a short grocery list while the kettle boiled. Tuesday was her day for shopping and she combined her trip to Malkin and Sprinkle’s food hall with a call on her friend, Jessie, who ran a charity shop in Cheapcuts Lane. Most of Tilly’s wardrobe came from there, as well as any tasty bits of town gossip that Jessie had collected since her last visit.

Within minutes of finishing his tea, Bruiser fell into a deep sleep. Hettie knew that if he intended to stay around for a few days she would have to find him an alternative to her armchair; in any case, they couldn’t keep the door open all night to pander to his claustrophobic tendencies.

‘I think he’d be happier in my shed tonight. I’ll go and clear a space.’

Tilly dived into the staff sideboard and, after much scrabbling and muttering, emerged with a half-finished patchwork quilt that she’d given up on the previous winter when her arthritic paws became too sore to stitch; she had intended it as a Christmas present for Hettie but settled eventually on a new catnip pipe instead.

‘Look, this will keep him warm. He can have my old cushion as well – you know, the one I was sick on after my birthday tea. I sponged it down and put it in the shed for emergencies.’

The two cats left their snoring visitor and made their way down the path to the bottom of the Butters’ garden, past the neatly kept flower and vegetable plots, whose occupants were now suspended in the November frost like icy elves and fairies playing at statues. Preparations for the Butters’ annual bonfire party were underway in the garden, and a giant stack of old boxes and bits of wood stood tall by the compost heap, promising a good time for all. The firework display was one of the biggest in the town and a highlight of the cold autumn days; it was an event marked excitedly on the calendar by those lucky enough to receive an invitation.

Tilly pulled her cardigan closer to her as the cold began to bite, and Hettie fumbled with the shed lock that was unhelpfully frozen; it gave way at last and the friends bustled into the gloom and chaos that housed a lifetime of discarded things which they could never bear to throw away. Tilly located the cushion straight away and – with a cursory sniff – deemed it suitable for further use; after much pulling and tugging, Hettie emerged from a mountain of boxes with a small paraffin stove.

‘This will do for now. I’ll have to get some paraffin from Hambone’s when I go for my lesson with Lazarus, but Bruiser will be fine down here with your cushion and that quilt thing. It’s much better than he’s been used to, by the look of him.’

Tilly’s heart leapt at the mention of Lazarus
Hambone and the realisation that Tuesday was also the day that Hettie had her motorbike and sidecar lesson. They had purchased the bright red machine several weeks ago from Hambone’s, the town’s hardware shop and reclamation yard, where motorbikes went to die or to be reborn at the hands of Meridian Hambone’s gentle giant son, Lazarus. Needing to be mobile as their detective agency took off, Hettie and Tilly had fallen head over heels for Lazarus’s star buy of the week, showing little regard for the fact that neither of them had ever ridden a motorbike. Having achieved a good price and thrown in weekly lessons, Lazarus agreed to store the bike in his yard until Hettie felt confident enough to drive it away; judging by her slow progress, the machine would remain at Hambone’s for some time, but Tilly turned up to as many lessons as possible so that she could ride in the sidecar. It was the most exciting treat of her week, and she’d even gone as far as naming their new set of wheels ‘Miss Scarlet’ after a character in her favourite board game.

‘How old is Bruiser?’ asked Tilly, as Hettie searched for the paraffin can.