NO LOVE FOR KITTENS

The Fergusons, worried by forecasts of bad weather, had decided to make a weekend visit to their cottage. They had not been down since the summer holiday, during which they had discovered a crack in the chimney, and they wanted to see if it had got any worse. Usually when they came down in the winter they notified Mr. Trim so that he could order milk and warm the place up by lighting the kitchen stove. But this time the decision had been taken on the spur of the moment. Within an hour or two of forming the plan they were driving south over roads still slippery with frost.

They arrived, to the accompaniment of blasts of the horn, just as Mr. Trim was sitting down to his favourite meal. `I'll keep it hot, Dad,' his daughter-in-law said soothingly as the old man rose, grumbling fiercely.

`You do that, girl, you do that.' Mr. Trim smacked on his old cloth cap, took the key off the dresser and stumped out. Neither of the Fergusons apologized for arriving without warning. It was not their way. Mrs. Ferguson was a tall blonde woman with a loud voice and sharp manner. Mr. Ferguson was small, quiet and kindly. They were a happy couple and took a real interest in the countryside, especially in bird-life. Their garden was a little sanctuary. In the branches of the apple trees hung nest boxes, feeding tables, coconut shells and various containers for food. One of Mr. Trim's duties was to keep the containers filled with peanuts, crushed corn, sunflower seeds and other delicacies, of which a plentiful supply was stored in the cottage and much appreciated by colonies of mice.

Barely had Mr. Trim exchanged a word of greeting with Mr. Ferguson, when he was assailed by Mrs. Ferguson from the front garden.

'You've cut back the elder bushes. I've told you more than once never to cut elder. The berries provide essential food for the birds.'

Following her into the cottage he was further attacked when she saw a strip of peeling wallpaper.

`Look at that! I expect you to attend to matters of this kind without being told. There's plenty of paste in the cupboard.'

Mr. Trim's stomach was rumbling with emptiness and his feelings were hurt. He had made two attempts to stick down that strip of paper but the wall was too wet to hold it. Resisting the temptation to 'let fly' at her he pursed up his mouth, threw the door key down on the kitchen table and was in the act of making a dignified exit when the voice sounded again, this time from upstairs. Mrs. Ferguson had made a shocking discovery.

'There's a cat on my bed!' Had it been a deadly viper the words could not have expressed more horror. 'Whose is it, and what is it doing here?'

Mr. Trim, halted in mid-flight on the doorstep, shouted back, 'What like of a cat?'

'Tabby-coloured. White feet.'

'Ain't nobody's. That's a stray, that is.'

Mrs. Ferguson came downstairs shooing the kitten before her. Ears flat, very frightened, it shot out of the front door between Mr. Trim's legs and vanished through a gap in the hedge.

'You know perfectly well I won't have stray cats about the place killing my birds. If a home can't be found for it, you must destroy it. The kindest thing you can do for a homeless cat is to kill it.'

'I don't see fer why. A cat's not like a dog. 'Twill fend for itself.'

'Precisely. And take every bird within range, especially half tame birds like these. You have a gun, I suppose?' Mr. Trim nodded.

'Then use it.'

'I don't hold wi' shooting cats.'

Seeing the mutinous set of the old man's jaw, Mrs. Ferguson used a softer tone. She knew her man, or thought she did.

'Now look here. There's a way of settling this to everyone's satisfaction. I'll give you a pound and your bus fare to catch that cat and take it into town to the RSPCA people who will put it painlessly to sleep.' Without waiting for a reply she thrust a note - into his hand, gave him a gentle push and shut the door behind him.

Mr. Trim went thoughtfully down the path, tuck­ing the note into his trouser pocket. He did not mention the matter to his daughter-in-law while eating his belated dinner. This thing required proper thinking out. He devoted the best part of the after­noon to it while feeding syrup to his bees.

There were three choices. He could carry out the order and keep the money. He could keep the money and ignore the order. Or he could hand the money to Ted Mostyn in the certainty that Mrs. Ferguson's wishes would be obeyed. Ted would quietly knock the little cat on the head and drown it. Born of generations of countrymen he was not squeamish in such matters. He knew that an animal living wild is often worse off than a tame one with a bad master. There is no master so harsh as nature.

It was Mostyn who did away with some of the endless litters of kittens at the farm. It was not because of any lack of confidence in him that Mr. Trim decided not to delegate the task to Ted. Nor was it due to pity for the animal concerned, for the fact was that Mr. Trim had no love for stray cats and would sooner have seen the kitten dead than alive. It was not even due to his natural reluctance to part with money. The reason that made him choose the second course was simply this: that although they had owned their cottage for a dozen years the Fergusons were still regarded as invaders. Foreigners, that's what they were, and Mr. Trim wouldn't be put upon by the like of them, not he. What he was actually going to do could be summed up in a single word. Nothing.

The Fergusons did not linger at the cottage after assuring themselves that the condition of the chimney was no worse. They left the same afternoon for the comfort of their house in Bath. Mr. Trim was hoeing his vegetable patch when they came to say good-bye and to return the key.

`Remember now,' Mrs. Ferguson said, `I'm counting on you.'

`More fool you then,' muttered Mr. Trim as they drove off .

LOCKED OUT 

The kitten returned to the cottage at dusk that evening, tried all the windows, standing on its hind legs to paw at the glass, then sniffed under the front door. The smell of mice coming through the gap below the weatherboarding was mouth-watering. Eventually it gave up trying to get in and returned to the occupied cottages.

It was not yet noticeably thinner, for Mrs. Reece filled the pie dish with bread and milk and her child­ren added scraps, which they saved from their school lunches.

Jinny said to her mother at supper on Sunday even­ing, `Why can't we have the kitten, Mum?'

`Because I say so, that's why.'

It was not often that Amy Reece snapped at her elder daughter whom she dearly loved, but she had had a trying day. She had discovered she was going to have another baby and she did not want another.

The house was too crowded already and she had a job to manage on Bert's wages as it was, with food so dear. And half a pailful of soot had fallen down the kitchen chimney and made a dreadful mess that had taken hours to clean up. Not a minute all day had she been able to put her feet up. And now Jinny had started on again about that dratted cat. She couldn't have chosen a worse moment.

`It's only small, Mum. It won't eat much.'

`Won't always be small, will it? Talk sense. Costs a lot now to feed a cat. Them tinned foods are dear. Anyway, ten to one it isn't house trained. I've got enough to do without cleaning up cat mess."

‘I’ll clean it up, Mum.'

'Will you stop it, Jinny? I've said no and there's an end of it.' Her flare of anger was extinguished when she saw the child's eyes misting with tears. It took a lot to make Jinny cry. `There's nothing to stop you finding a home for it,' she said more gently. `You could pass the word around at school. Like as not there'll be someone who knows someone as wants a cat.'

A SMALL GIRL’S PLAN