I had finished my breakfast and had washed the dishes. Was that to be the highlight of the day, I wondered? I looked out of the front room window. A huge P and O liner had docked across the Tyne. Black smoke was belching from its funnel. I peered through my dad’s old telescope. I could read ‘The Pride of York’ on the bow. The ship was painted royal blue and looked rather smart. I wondered why she was there. It certainly couldn’t have been to pick up customers – not in Hebburn anyway. I presumed something must have gone wrong with the generator sets, the bilge pumps, the asdic equipment or some such, which had meant her having to be brought alongside for repair. I wandered down the garden to take a closer look and perhaps a digital photograph, though this would be doomed to failure on account of the distance between the ship and I and the inconvenience of the scaffolder’s yard, piled high with skips and scaffolding, that would fill the foreground of the picture.
To get the best view from the bottom of the garden, I had to pass the old summer-house, which my dad had built from scratch. It hadn’t been entered for months, and I noticed the door ajar, probably blown open by the gale-force winds that have been experienced hereabouts recently. I decided to go in and have a look. It was when I stood at the entrance to the door that I saw the cat. It was reclining lazily on an old leather executive chair, the type that swivels round on a circular dais. The cat regarded me coolly. I saw that it must have been there some time, because it had left its calling-card on the mat and there were the remains of a deceased blackbird over in the corner, under some gossamer-thin cobwebs. It was a black cat with a white bib. It didn’t look much older than a kitten. It was a pretty little thing. It had no collar. I took a step forward. The cat went berserk. It moved like greased lightning, but not towards the door. My dad had built shelves at both ends of the summer-house, and on these shelves were a number of artefacts that he had bought over the years, mainly in boxes of detritus for which he had bid at Featonby’s auction-house, none of which ever cost him more than two pounds. There were also some precious family photographs in frames. The cat scattered the whole lot and in one fell swoop they fell to the floor to be smashed to pieces.
I took another step forward and the cat changed direction and leapt from the floor onto the shelf on the other wall. My dad had been in the Royal Navy, and had placed upon that shelf a large model sailing ship. Against the window he had mounted some tiny lights connected by wires, which gave a pleasing latticed effect across the whole window, very pleasant when switched on at night. He had also lashed a ship’s steering wheel, a present from my sister, to the window-frame. The cat made for the model ship first, and got itself caught in the rigging. By some miracle, it managed to disengage itself from the ship without snapping the thread from which the rigging was manufactured. It then stupidly decided to try and get out of the window, which was closed. It hurled itself at the window-pane, and, of course, became hopelessly entangled in wiring for the latticed lights. The more it struggled, the tighter it was bound around the forelimbs and shoulders. I feared it was going to hang itself. I took another step forward and the wretched beast set up such a hissing and screeching that I went no further. I did notice that its struggles were starting to have an effect on the ship’s steering-wheel, which had started to wobble on its precarious perch.
The next act happened almost in slow motion. The steering wheel, a great heavy thing made of wood and iron, slipped off its mounting and crashed down on the model ship and then onto my foot, causing me to hop about in paroxysms of pain. The wheel had also pulled the latticed lights down from the window, and the cat with it. This violent movement had been sufficient to allow it to break free from its bonds and escape through the open door out into the sanctity of the garden and beyond.
It took me two hours to clear up the mess and glue together the bits of the model ship that had been dislodged when the steering wheel gave it a glancing blow on its way down. When I rigged up the lights again and switched them on, they didn’t work.
I saw the cat later, licking its lips and looking very pleased with itself. I went down the garden and made sure the summer-house door was double-locked. One can never be too careful.
To get the best view from the bottom of the garden, I had to pass the old summer-house, which my dad had built from scratch. It hadn’t been entered for months, and I noticed the door ajar, probably blown open by the gale-force winds that have been experienced hereabouts recently. I decided to go in and have a look. It was when I stood at the entrance to the door that I saw the cat. It was reclining lazily on an old leather executive chair, the type that swivels round on a circular dais. The cat regarded me coolly. I saw that it must have been there some time, because it had left its calling-card on the mat and there were the remains of a deceased blackbird over in the corner, under some gossamer-thin cobwebs. It was a black cat with a white bib. It didn’t look much older than a kitten. It was a pretty little thing. It had no collar. I took a step forward. The cat went berserk. It moved like greased lightning, but not towards the door. My dad had built shelves at both ends of the summer-house, and on these shelves were a number of artefacts that he had bought over the years, mainly in boxes of detritus for which he had bid at Featonby’s auction-house, none of which ever cost him more than two pounds. There were also some precious family photographs in frames. The cat scattered the whole lot and in one fell swoop they fell to the floor to be smashed to pieces.
I took another step forward and the cat changed direction and leapt from the floor onto the shelf on the other wall. My dad had been in the Royal Navy, and had placed upon that shelf a large model sailing ship. Against the window he had mounted some tiny lights connected by wires, which gave a pleasing latticed effect across the whole window, very pleasant when switched on at night. He had also lashed a ship’s steering wheel, a present from my sister, to the window-frame. The cat made for the model ship first, and got itself caught in the rigging. By some miracle, it managed to disengage itself from the ship without snapping the thread from which the rigging was manufactured. It then stupidly decided to try and get out of the window, which was closed. It hurled itself at the window-pane, and, of course, became hopelessly entangled in wiring for the latticed lights. The more it struggled, the tighter it was bound around the forelimbs and shoulders. I feared it was going to hang itself. I took another step forward and the wretched beast set up such a hissing and screeching that I went no further. I did notice that its struggles were starting to have an effect on the ship’s steering-wheel, which had started to wobble on its precarious perch.
The next act happened almost in slow motion. The steering wheel, a great heavy thing made of wood and iron, slipped off its mounting and crashed down on the model ship and then onto my foot, causing me to hop about in paroxysms of pain. The wheel had also pulled the latticed lights down from the window, and the cat with it. This violent movement had been sufficient to allow it to break free from its bonds and escape through the open door out into the sanctity of the garden and beyond.
It took me two hours to clear up the mess and glue together the bits of the model ship that had been dislodged when the steering wheel gave it a glancing blow on its way down. When I rigged up the lights again and switched them on, they didn’t work.
I saw the cat later, licking its lips and looking very pleased with itself. I went down the garden and made sure the summer-house door was double-locked. One can never be too careful.
