The Shape of Snakes (16 page)

Mrs. M. Ranelagh
12 Greenhough Lane
Pokfulam

February 14, 1980

Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

Thank you for your letter of July 3. I'm sorry you feel that a follow-up visit would be of no benefit, particularly as your reference to "a new calm" suggested that our previous conversation had been valuable. However, as you so rightly point out, there is no compulsion on you to attend further sessions.

I have pondered deeply on the question you posed toward the end of our session. Why should your husband escape punishment for raping you? And I pass on some wisdom I received as a child in Auschwitz concentration camp when I asked a rabbi if the Germans would ever be forgiven for what they were doing to the Jews. "They will never forgive themselves," he said. That is their future and also their punishment.

Should you not have asked, however, whether it was right for Sam to escape your punishment? And are you so free of guilt yourself, Mrs. Ranelagh, that you feel comfortable standing in judgment on your husband?

With best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
J. Elias
Dr. J. Elias
 

Letter from Betty Hepinstall in answer to a request
for information about animal cruelty in the UK-dated 1999

THE CHESHIRE CAT HOSPITAL
CHEADLE HULME, CHESHIRE, UK

Mrs. M. Ranelagh
Jacaranda Hightor Road
Cape Town
South Africa

December 3, 1998

Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

In response to your detailed inquiry about the ill treatment of cats in the UK, I enclose a copy of a leaflet we produced last year to boost interest in a fund-raising drive. As you will see, it makes grim reading, but I make no apology for the contents. The work we do is costly and time-consuming and would be entirely unnecessary were it not for the terrible cruelty that is regularly inflicted on defenseless animals.

I have no difficulty in believing that someone would put superglue in a cat's mouth and tape its muzzle with Elastoplast or parcel tape to stop it from eating or crying. In the past, we have seen cats with their paws dipped in quick-drying cement to prevent them walking; cats with their back legs paralyzed by broken spines; cats with their claws and teeth pulled out by pliers; cats blinded with red-hot pokers; and cats with rubber bands wound so tightly round their muzzles that the flesh of their mouths had closed over the band. And all, apparently, to the same purpose: to stop them from catching birds and mice.

I would like to be able to tell you that a person who pursues this sort of vendetta against cats is easily identifiable, but I'm afraid I can't. There is considerable evidence-largely through behavioral-science studies in the U.S. and the UK-to indicate that cruelty to animals in childhood leads to sociopathic behavior in adulthood. However, cruelty is far more common in adults than it is in children, and such cruelty is usually the result of an obsessional dislike of certain animals or an uncontrollable temper-often drink-related-which lashes out at anything it finds irritating.

Sadly, I cannot say with any certainty that because Miss Butts treated her own cats with kindness she would not have inflicted cruelty on strays intruding into her house. I can only draw parallels with people, and people are notoriously unwilling to show the same charity to foreigners as they show to their family and friends.

Yours sincerely,
Betty Hepinstall
Betty Hepinstall

*10*

The following day I drove my mother to Kimmeridge Bay on the Isle of Purbeck. It was a beautiful summer morning with puffs of white cloud dotted across the sky, and we climbed the cliff path to the Clay Tower on the eastern arm of the bight. Larks sang in the air above us, and the occasional walker passed us by, nodding good day or pausing to look at the bizarre folly behind us that some long-dead person had built as a permanent sentinel to guard the ocean approaches. Mother and I conversed with the strangers but not with each other and, in the silences between, we stared as resolutely across the channel at the tower, unwilling to speak in case we started another argument, locked in mutual ignorance despite the genes and experiences we shared.

In the end I mentioned a vicar's wife I knew who drove to clifftops whenever the pressures of life became too much and screamed her frustrations to the heavens. I suggested my mother had a go. She refused. It wasn't her sort of thing, she told me. Nor could she understand why a vicar's wife would want to do something so common. What sort of woman was she?

"Eccentric," I murmured, as I watched the seagulls float effortlessly over the sea like fragments of tissue paper. "Very thin and gaunt.. . hates being married to a vicar ... likes her booze ... fancies being a lap dancer... looks like a vulture."

"That explains it then," said my mother.

"What?"

'The screaming. Thin people are always more high-strung than fat ones."

It sounded reasonable, but then much of what my mother said sounded reasonable. Whether it was true or not was another matter. I decided she was being snide because
she
was plump and
I
was thin but, for once, I chose to ignore the bait. "I've been wondering if it works," I said idly. "My screams are always silent ones that circle 'round my head for days until they run out of steam and die naturally."

"It's pure affectation to scream at all. You should learn to deal with your problems quietly instead of making a song and dance about them." I gave a weary sigh as I thought to myself that that was precisely what I had done, and she cast me a suspicious glance. "I suppose that's why you brought me here? So you can scream at me?"

"Not at
you
," I corrected her. "At the wind."

"You'll only embarrass yourself," she said. "Someone's bound to appear up the path at the wrong moment."

"Perhaps that's the point," I murmured reflectively. "A double whammy. Physical and mental adrenaline all in one shot." I watched a dinghy, full of divers in wetsuits, motor out of the bay and head toward the southwest. "Would it embarrass you?"

"Not in the least." She perched her behind on the edge of a rock. "If I wasn't embarrassed twenty years ago when you were behaving like a madwoman then I'm hardly likely to start now."

She has a short memory
, I thought, as I lowered myself to the ground to sit cross-legged in front of her. Her embarrassment had been colossal. I concentrated my attention on a clump of pink thrift that had rooted itself tenaciously in a crevice. "I wasn't mad, Ma, I was exhausted. We were kept awake night after night by the phone ringing nonstop, and even when we changed our number the calls just kept on coming. If we took the damn thing off the hook, we had mud thrown against our windows or constant hammering on the front door. We were
both
suffering from sleep deprivation,
both
behaving like zombies, yet for some reason you decided that everything Sam told you was true while everything I said was a lie."

She examined the distant horizon where the blue of the sea met the blue of the sky, and I remembered her telling me once that the difference between a woman and a lady was that a woman spoke without thinking while a lady always considered what she was about to say. "You screamed and yelled about rats in your downstairs lavatory," she said at last. "Are you saying
that
wasn't true? You poured gallons of bleach down the loo in order to kill them, then became hysterical because you said they'd moved into the sitting room."

"I'm not denying I said some strange things, but they weren't lies. I kept hearing scratching sounds and I could only think of rats."

"Sam didn't hear them."

"He most certainly did," I contradicted her. "If he told you he didn't, he was lying."

"Why would he want to?"

I thought back. "For a lot of very complicated reasons ... mostly, I imagine, because he didn't like me much at the time and thought that everything was my fault. He said I was making the noises myself to get attention and was damned if he was going to pander to any more of my childishness."

She frowned. "I remember him saying he called in the rat catcher to try to persuade you it was all in your imagination."

I shook my head. "It was me who called in the rat catcher, and for exactly the opposite reason. I wanted proof that there
were
rats."

"And were there?"

"No. The man said there was no evidence of rodent infestation, no nests, no indication that any food had been eaten, and no droppings. He also said that if we had rats then our neighbors would be complaining as well." I ran my finger lightly over the thrift and watched the pink heads shiver. "The next day Sam phoned you to tell you I was going 'round the bend and he wanted a divorce."

She didn't say anything for several moments, and I raised my head to look at her. There was a perplexed expression on her face. "Well, I'm completely lost. If you and Sam both heard it but it wasn't rats and it wasn't you, then what was it?"

"I think it might have been cats," I said.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" she declared crossly. "How could there be cats in your house without your noticing?"

"Not
in
," I said, "
under
. It took me a long time to work it out because I didn't know the first thing about building houses. I couldn't even change a plug when I married, let alone get to grips with the importance of underfloor ventilation."

Her mouth thinned immediately. "I suppose that's a sly dig at me and your father."

"No," I said with an inward sigh, "just a fact."

"What does it have to do with cats?"

"Houses have holes in their walls below ground level to allow a free flow of air under the floorboards. It prevents the wood from becoming rotten. They're usually constructed out of airbricks, but the houses in Graham Road were built in the 1880s and in those days they used wrought-iron grills to make a design feature out of them. Before he left, the rat catcher mentioned that one of ours was missing from the back of the house. It happened all the time, he said, because there was quite a market for them in architectural salvage. It wasn't a problem because someone had wedged a metal bootscraper over the hole, but he suggested we get it replaced at some stage if we didn't want trouble in the future. He kept calling it a ventilation grill, and I assumed he was talking about something that was attached to the extractor fan in the upstairs bathroom because that was the only ventilation I knew about."

I fell silent and she made an impatient gesture with her hand, as if to say, "Get on with it."

"I wasn't very with it at the time-all I wanted was confirmation that rats existed-so it went in one ear and out the other because whatever was missing didn't seem to stop the extractor fan working. Then, one day in Sydney, I watched our neighbor's Jack Russell dig a hole in the flower bed beside our house and vanish through a hole into the crawl space beneath the house, and I realized the rat catcher had probably been talking about underfloor ventilation. He was telling me we had a hole in our back wall at ground level, and probably quite a sizeable one if a wrought-iron grill had been hacked out."

"And because of that you think cats got in?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you say the rat catcher said it wasn't a problem because a boot scraper was wedged over the hole?"

"Yes."

"Then how did they get in?"

"I think someone carried them down the alleyway at the back of our house, pushed them in and covered the hole afterward."

She gave a snort of incredulity. "That's too absurd. The rat catcher would have heard them. They'd have been yowling their heads off. And why cats? Why not dogs? You said it was a Jack Russell that went into your crawl space in Sydney."

"Because Annie's house was full of cats."

"Now you really
are
being ridiculous! The woman had been dead for weeks by that time. They can't possibly have been hers."

"I'm not suggesting they were," I said, "just that cats are more likely than dogs in the circumstances. My guess is they were pushed in under our floorboards to die because there was no convenient cat flap in our back door. If there had been, I think I'd have found them dying in my kitchen. I called out the gas board twice because 1 thought I could smell gas, but each time they said there was nothing wrong. One of the men said it smelled like a dead mouse, but I said it couldn't be because we didn't have any."

I could feel the weight of her disbelief bearing down on my bent head. "You'd have known if something had died. The smell of death is terrible."

"Only when it's warm. This happened in winter-a particularly cold winter-and we had fitted carpets over all the floors."

"But-" She broke off to marshal her thoughts. "Why didn't you hear them? Tomcats make a terrible noise when they yowl."

"It depends what was done to them first." I shook my head. "In any case, I think they must have died of hypothermia very quickly."

Another pause. "What on earth could be done to a cat to stop it crying?"

I hunched my shoulders as I thought of the chilling research I'd done on the subject. "At a guess, they had superglue pumped into their mouths and eyes and Elastoplast wrapped tightly 'round their faces so they couldn't see, eat, drink or cry. Then they were pushed under our house to try to scratch their way out with the only things left to them ... their claws."