The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue (16 page)

W
hen you consider that, since the seventeenth century, there has been a large British presence in Sicily, it is surprising that our love of animals hasn’t appeared to rub off on the local people. Many families settled there, occupying themselves in several fields, such as the Sanderson’s essence distillery in Messina and the production of Marsala wine in the town of that name. In his book
Princes Under the Volcano
, Raleigh Trevelyan traces the Marsala story from the time when Benjamin Ingham first left Yorkshire to travel across Sicily in a
lettiga
, a kind of sedan chair but far less comfortable. He was making for Marsala on the inhospitable west coast – marshy and barren, almost certainly rife with malarial mosquitoes too. One of his countrymen, John Woodhouse, had gone before him and set up a
baglio
, a kind of warehouse where he had occupied
himself with developing the local fortified wine, Marsala. But it was Ingham who refined it to such a state of the art that Lord Nelson ordered gallons to be piped aboard HMS
Victory
. Rivalry was stern between Woodhouse and Ingham, who eventually became extremely rich, allegedly the greatest tycoon England has ever known. Ingham tamed the Sicilian Mafia, became a Sicilian baron and moved in the highest circles of Sicilian society, commanding considerable respect by loaning money to some of the nobility. He also learned to speak fluent Italian with a marked Sicilian accent, tinged with a touch of Yorkshire.

Ingham’s delightful house in Palermo, Palazzo Ingham, became the city’s Grand Hotel des Palmes in 1874. His hugely successful Marsala wine business was eventually nationalised by Mussolini in 1927 and is now owned by the Cinzano Company.

It wasn’t long before Ingham also met an attractive local lady, the Duchess of Rosalia, nearly six years his senior, but whom he adored. The only problem was she possessed a string of sons who were gamblers. The astute Benjamin, aware of the laws of inheritance, refused to marry despite the constant naggings of the Duchess. As the business continued to grow, he decided more of his family should come out from England. He wrote to ask his sister to send a nephew. When the preferred one, William, died of a fever, his terse response was ‘send another’ and so it was the lugubrious Joseph Whitaker soon arrived.

Gradually, a dynasty was created with the wives of the three Whitakers vying as to who could have the most sumptuous palazzo in Palermo. Joseph’s wife Tina swept the
board, entertaining royalty and celebrities from all over the world. Her sisters-in-law made their mark in various ways, such as Effie, who walked about the city with a parrot on her shoulder and was a great tennis player; also Maud, who wore vaporous tea gowns.

It was Tina who ordered the arrangement of the splendid Villa Malfitana in Palermo, while her husband Pip preferred to bird watch on the nearby island of Motya or else disappear into town to visit one of his amours.

On a visit to Palermo I had the chance to visit the Villa Malfitana myself. It is almost as it was in the 1950s at the end of Tina’s life. Music by Tosti lies open on the stands in the ballroom but the grand piano has not been tuned for a decade perhaps. The polar bear skin rugs are still on the floor. As you enter the house from the main portico, your eyes are drawn to two cloisonné elephants originally from the summer palace at Peking and purchased by Pip Whitaker at Christie’s in 1887 for £162 a pair. Nearby, are two 2.4-metre (8-foot) bronze cranes, also Chinese, holding lamps in their beaks and standing on tortoises symbolising the four elements of earth, air, fire and water. It is cool and dim in that grand central corridor and absolutely quiet. The great Gobelin tapestries from the Palazzo Colonna are still the prize treasures of the house but only a palace such as Malfitana could house them. Novelist and poet Hamilton Aide’s watercolours, his bequest to Tina, hang in the silent, rather sad and dusty billiard room. In the Louis Seize room, there are one or two fine examples of Trapani coral work and signed photographs of Queen Mary and Princess Marie, Prince Oskar and King Victor Emmanuel I.

My companion somewhat bitchily remarked that the pearls around the British queen’s neck were not nearly as big as those of the Italian princess. She had obviously been here several times and was impatient to be gone; I only had a tantalising glimpse. I should love to have spent hours there soaking up the atmosphere, wandering round the garden, with its host of rare plants.

We paused to stare at the enormous
Ficus magnolioides
, a fig tree planted by Pip Whitaker. It has a span of 41 metres (135 feet) and is reputed to be able to shelter 3,000 people. Sadly, then it was time to leave.

E
arlier in this book I mentioned Florence Trevelyan, the animal and garden lover who left her mark on Sicily. I couldn't help but think how much Taormina has changed since this, her description of it:

Florence loved Isola Bella. She used to take her terrier and greyhound there to bathe and would climb to the top of the island to meditate. In 1890, she bought the place for 5,700 lire. She cultivated her husband's land, planting olives, cypress and exotic trees, and constructed the little pavilions where she would retire to paint even when it rained. She collected parrots, canaries, tortoises and many other birds. Florence was to suffer terribly when, having conceived at thirty-eight, her first and only son died within minutes of being born. It was a blow that changed her whole attitude to life. From then on she dedicated herself to her adored husband and to helping the poor in Taormina. She was also godmother to eighty-seven young women, to whom she gave presents on their wedding days.

The cause of her death reminded me of the extraordinary Italian fear of draughts. They go to great lengths to protect themselves from the
colpa d'aria
, literally translated as ‘hit by air'. This can strike in the eye, ear, head or any part of their abdomen.

You will see a man or woman swaddled in scarves even though a spring day may be sunny and indeed quite warm. Children play in parks looking like little Michelin men in their padded coats. Until at least April, they must never go out without wearing a woollen vest, known as a
maglia della salute
(a ‘shirt of health').

Florence died from pneumonia, which seems to have been caused by her inordinate love of fresh air and cold baths. She appears to have scoffed at any idea of being ‘struck by air'. Barrels of seawater would be carried to the couple's mountaintop villa, the Villa di Mendecino. With the windows wide open and the wind whistling through the house, she would stand in her petticoats while this icy water was poured over her. Her request to be buried in the family tomb on Monte Venere was carried out to the letter. It must have been a most spectacular funeral. People from every walk of life threw flowers as the coffin progressed past them. They recalled her many acts of kindness, the lasting legacy she had left the town. A procession followed the cortège to the lonely spot in the mountains under Monte Venere where Florence had chosen to be laid to rest. Among the mourners was her gardener, carrying an oil lamp to be placed in her tomb, and for years after, until he was too old to make the ascent, he kept the lamp filled and burning.

I
had always said I would never have another cat, not after the loss of my beloved Fluffy. He was the most beautiful feline I had known and, as is often the way with cats, it was he who chose to come and live with me. That November it was dark and dismal and I had reluctantly gone to the supermarket, battling my way through driving rain. As I turned into my road, I heard the sound of plaintive meowing and finally traced where it was coming from. Sheltering under a parked car was a beautiful brown tabby with a ruff of fur and fluffy ‘boots’ and tail. His amber eyes gazed at me beseechingly. He made no attempt to struggle when I picked him up and carried him inside.

I opened a tin of pilchards and he wolfed them down. The next day he was still with me. It wasn’t until several days later that I discovered he belonged to a woman who lived across the road. Instead of being annoyed with me for this
catnapping, she asked me to come and talk to her. Fluffy, she told me, was about two years old. She’d had him from a kitten and he had been a family pet. Lately, he had spent a lot of his time hiding or sitting on a high shelf. Then he refused to come into the house. This stressed behaviour had begun ever since she acquired a dog.

‘I’ve been leaving food out on the doorstep,’ the woman said, ‘but it’s not a happy situation.’

By then I had fallen in love with Fluffy and I think he was quite partial to me too. The solution, we agreed, was that he moved over to my house.

It is no exaggeration to say that I worshipped that cat and grew very close to him. He was a little monkey about coming in at night and my voice could be heard, echoing through the night, as I called and called him. But once I’d coaxed him in, he slept on my bed close to me.

Over the four years I shared my life with him, he used up several of his nine lives. About a year later, as I sat tapping away on my computer, Fluffy rushed in and sat quite still on the back of a chair. Sensing something was wrong, I examined him and found he had an eye injury. I rushed him to the vet and for a while it was touch and go as to whether he would lose the sight. I don’t know how it came about but suspect it was someone with an air rifle. It took a lot of care and treatment before the injury was healed.

It took a while longer for Andrew to fall under Fluffy’s spell. Unlike me, he had not been brought up with many cats. But soon he was as captivated as me. In the summer, we used to sit in the garden under an umbrella and there the cat would come striding up the garden in his ‘boots’ and demand that
one of the chairs be vacated for him. Of course, I jumped to attention. In winter, he loved to lie close by the coal fire. I can see him now, my little lion with his fine tawny coat.

‘He’s like your child,’ a friend once said. And I couldn’t have loved him anymore if he was.

The second alarm came when once again I was working and Fluffy came silently into the room. I happened to glance round and was horrified to see that he lay on the carpet bleeding profusely from his back leg. We raced him to the emergency vet, where stitches were put in his deep cut and plaster cast. I still remember the joy when I picked him up the following morning and brought him home. It was just before Christmas and I abandoned all plans in order to stay in with him. I brought a mattress into the sitting room and slept beside him for several nights, the risky bond of affection forged ever more strongly between us.

Four years after I found Fluffy under that car, I was on the point of leaving for a holiday in Greece when I realised there was something very wrong with him. The vet said he could feel an obstruction and at first thought it must be a fur ball. Medicine was prescribed but he seemed floppy and lethargic. My sister Susan said she would look after him but I was in tears as I arrived at Gatwick. On the beautiful island of Kefalonia, I walked on the beach with Andrew but my mind was constantly on my beloved cat. When, two days into the holiday, my sister phoned and told me Fluffy was probably suffering from cancer, I made up my mind to return to England. The holiday turned into a nightmare. After a day trying to contact the rep who was nowhere to be found, we decided to take matters into our own hands. I packed my case
and we went to the airport where we tried to find a flight. I was reduced to tears but Andrew was determined. Finally, when all attempts to get to Gatwick had failed, he managed to buy the last ticket for a flight to the West Midlands and literally pushed me through check-in. From there it was a three-train journey back home, during which the wheels on my suitcase broke. I was able to spend Fluffy’s last two weeks with him before he collapsed and, in spite of all attempts to save him, died. Unless one has experienced the loss of an animal, especially in such traumatic circumstances, it is difficult to understand its effect on me.

I finished up with a nervous collapse.

‘No more cats,’ I said, the day we buried him in the garden. ‘I will never go through this again.’

Seven years later, in 2006, Sheba came into my life.

‘I have three rescued cats in my shed,’ Susan, my sister, told me. ‘Why don’t you come up and have a look at them?’

Their story was an awful one. A man in Worthing had, for unknown reasons, sheds of cats and dogs on his premises. Several of them were black. What was his reason we will never know, although there is evidence that people use black cats in demonic rites and Halloween was fast approaching. Susan and some friends had taken the cats away.

Sheba chose me without a doubt: she climbed on my lap, settled there and began to purr. As I gazed into her beautiful emerald-green eyes, I was hooked. I don’t know what had happened to her in that time with the man. Her tail hung in a strange way and she constantly coughed and sneezed streams of mucus. She wouldn’t come out of the bed I’d bought her and so we nicknamed her the ‘Igloo Girl’.

‘We might have to amputate her tail,’ my vet concluded. ‘And she will have to be on antibiotics for the rest of her life.’

So I took her away. I treated her with homeopathic remedies and watched her thrive. She stopped sneezing and started to go out in the garden. The tail improved, although, to this day, it still has a slightly odd curve. Love was the magic wand and animals respond to it so well, but there would be other hurdles to cross in the years to come.

Fluffy’s personality was very different to Sheba’s. He was a neutered tom so the search for a mate was not the reason why he liked to wander. At the end of my road is a railway station and once I found he had strayed as far as the little railway garden tended by neighbours. The back garden and those backing onto it are Sheba’s territory. If she manages to get round to the front she usually panics and meows to be let in. Fluffy and Sheba were not related, but Toby and Richard, two of my sister’s cats, were brothers. The contrast in nature couldn’t have been more defined. Richard, a tabby, was afraid of his own shadow. He was never happier than when curled up on my sister’s lap. Black Toby, with his aristocratic nose, was a very confident cat and a hunter. Yet they were born of the same mother and, presumably, had an identical kittenhood.

So what is the reason for this? Is it Nature or Nurture? As always, genetics are one of the driving forces. Their influence can be seen most clearly in pure breed cats. Generally speaking, Maine Coon cats are very laid back. They are not overly dependent on their human family either. Instead of pestering you for attention, they will remain close by for companionship. I always thought Fluffy, with his ruff and ‘boots’, had a touch of Maine Coon about him.

Typically, this relaxed breed develops slowly, until maturing around the ages of three or four. Ageing does not eliminate their playful, kitten-like temperament and reputation as ‘gentle giants’ of the feline world. There’s no denying the popularity of the Maine Coon. Even those who know very little about cats know this breed by name.

Siamese cats are very different and have a certain similarity to dogs. While many people see cats as very stand-offish, the Siamese is very friendly and loves to be part of the family. You can even walk a Siamese on a lead, if you want.

In ancient times, the Siamese cats were often used as guard cats. Their very loud cries were more than enough to alert everyone in the household to intruders. And, friendly and affectionate as they are with family, your Siamese will be much more stand-offish with strangers.

From my experience of my own cats, I know that, even if their beginnings were far from ideal, they both responded to love and attention. I have seen a remarkable change in Sheba over the years. Her response to human beings, even those she has only met for the first time, is outgoing and affectionate. When, two years ago, she underwent extensive surgery for cancer in her ear, the staff were amazed by her first reaction on coming out of the anaesthetic: wanting to be stroked. She will do anything to get attention, rubbing her head against visitors’ legs and, when that doesn’t work, lying sprawled on her back. This is a far cry from the nervous cat who for weeks stayed in her ‘igloo’ when she first arrived. It has proved to me that cats, far from being aloof as so many people think, respond to us not only because we feed them.