“Hi there! I’m Marmie, Marmie Moggyinsky. Prrr! Prrr! Surprised to meet a talking cat? Well, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Tail up, back arched, Marmie casts a long dark shadow across the moonlit lawn. He strolls lazily, breathing in the smells and sounds of a clear spring night.
Marmie Moggyinsky
“Now I’m betting that you’d like to know more about Pluckerslea Hall and the strange community that lives here,” purrs the cat with a flick of his tail. “Well for a start, sorry to disappoint but the local furless folk, that’s what we call the towering, two-legged variety around here, have got it all wrong. This stately home isn’t haunted at all; never was. We cats know a thing or two about spirits and spooks, and I can assure you it’s just one of Lord Perry’s publicity rumours to get the punters in; a load of old… cod and chips. Any haunting round here is done by us, just as it was in the days of the old Pluckers-Moggs; it’s a kind of family tradition and it certainly keeps the furless folk away.” With a friendly “Prrr! Prrr!” Marmie pauses to pat a long, wet worm wriggling through the damp grass.
“So what is it we cats do that can’t possibly involve furless folk? Unlike us they’ve no imagination, and what’s so secret that it can only be done at night? Well, to find out, follow me, but remember… once inside the house you’ll have to mind your head, flatten your ears, pull in your whiskers and watch your tail doesn’t get caught in the doors… Ah-meow! But of course, you haven’t got a tail have you? Anyway, some places are quite narrow and a bit of a squeeze for people your size – no offence intended. I’ll chat as we go along, it’ll save time.
“Pluckerslea Hall, big isn’t it? As you can see, or you would if the sun was up, we’re surrounded by acres of gardens, fields and woods. Marvellous for mousing if you’re so inclined, and we have the lake and a stream teeming with fish. But we cats have no time for fishing and mice are strictly off the menu. No, every one of our nine lives is totally dedicated to our art, that of the ballet. Oh yes, don’t laugh! You heard correctly… the ballet!
“As I said before, I’m Marmie Moggyinsky and I’m the great, great, well an awful lot of ‘greats’, grandson of little Pusska Petinsky, who came here a long, long time ago when old Lord Marmaduke married Nadia, the Russian ballerina.
“Dame Pusska, as we cats know her, parked her pussy pillow alongside that of handsome Bobby Moggs and before you could say ‘three little pussies and a big fish pie’ there were three little Pussy Moggyinskys. That was the start of the Moggyinsky dynasty. The rest, as they say, is history.
“My job here at the Hall sounds rather grand, but I’m a bit of a dogsbody if truth were told. Anyway, my job is that of Director of the Pusska Moggyinsky Ballet Company, which was founded by my late, great grandmother, Dame Pusska after she caught the ‘ballet bug’ from Nadia all those years ago.
“Sounds weird? A load of cats dancing?” Marmie gives a purring chuckle, a sudden spring into the air, a high capriole, a grand jeté and an even broader grin, before trotting off across the dewy grass. Pirouetting through the primroses, he gives a deep and satisfied “Me-wow!Wonderful isn’t it… spring?” Then, posing ghostly in the moonlight, he bounces bourréeing down mossy steps, arabesques beneath an arch, glissades through a gateway, tip-toes through some early tulips, round the herb beds and over to a stout wooden door leading to the kitchens of the great house.
“Still don’t believe me?” Marmie gives a low growl. “Don’t worry, you soon will. Our personal entrance,” he announces and with a low bow pushes through a swinging cat flap and jumps up to pull on a light switch. “Now if we turn right we’re in the kitchens, but we won’t do that; we’re going left down these steps and through the wine cellar.”
On reaching the bottom of the steep stone flight, Marmie pads ahead along a narrow unlit passage then stops, turning slowly beneath a low brick arch. The big cat’s green eyes glow softly in the gloom.
“Boo! Ha ha! Not scared are you?” Marmie chuckles. “Yes I know, it’s a bit spooky but you’ll soon get accustomed to the dark. Now, watch this!”
Standing on tip-paw he reaches up, tugging on a cobwebby wine bottle at the end of a row stacked high against the wall. As if by magic, the bricks of the wall begin to move. Grinding and billowing brick dust, they roll slowly back to reveal a small oak door studded with brass. Above it there is a sign. It says – TOP SECRET.
“Bet you didn’t expect that!” purrs Marmie, while grasping a shiny door knocker in the shape of an outstretched paw and giving it a sharp rat-a-tat-tat.
“Behind this door is the H.Q. of the Pusska Moggyinsky Ballet Company; a secret underground complex built into tunnels stretching from the cellars of Pluckerslea Hall, to the crumbly ruins of St. Bee’s Abbey overlooking Pluckerslea Lake.
“Oh yes! We have it all here,” Marmie explains, “dance studios for the dancers, music rooms for the musicians of the Moggyinsky Musical Ensemble: offices, stores, wardrobe department, scenery and props, Doc Doberman’s medical room and small hospital ward, physio, canteen, games room, laundry. Then there are dormitories for the kittens of Miss Marina Beaupoint’s Ballet School, and dorms and apartments for those of us who live in. As well as all that, there’s our pride and joy, the magnificent Crypt Theatre, built among ancient arches and pillars of a long forgotten crypt beneath the Abbey ruins.”
Marmie gives another sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door. A short pause, then light thumps, like someone bouncing along on a pogo stick. The handle rattles, the door swings wide and there stands a small round wallaby, swathed in an over-sized apron made from an Australian flag. With a wooden spoon clutched tightly in one paw and a dollop of pastry on her soft brown nose, she gives a broad grin.
“G’day Marmie! Brought a mate have yer?”
Willamena Wallaby
“Hi Willamena!” says Marmie. “When not at Pets’ Corner hopping about entertaining the youngsters, Willamena Wallaby runs the canteen, and I must say old fruit, your fishtail soup and creamy purrpuss pud are to die for.”
“Gee, thanks Marmie,” replies the wallaby, a shy blush colouring her ears.
“You also play the didgeridoo in the Musical Ensemble don’t you?”
“Not much call for me didgeridoo in them old-fashioned ballet pieces, Tchaikovsky and the likes,” Willamena grumbles, picking the pastry from her nose. “But the Maestro, he’s a real bonza dog. He promised to write a special Aussie piece just for me and me didge. ‘Windy up a Gum Tree’ or something, he calls it.”
“Sounds cool.” Marmie gives a low growl. “Now Willamena, we’ve come to look round.”
“No worries, help yerselves.” With a wave of her wooden spoon, the small wallaby hops quickly off down the corridor. “See yer mates,” she calls back over her shoulder, “I’m off back to me cookhouse. Got dirty dishes up to the flamin’ ceiling to clear before that starvin’ mob stampedes in from rehearse-owes.”
“Bye Willamena, see you later. Now where were we? Oh yes, hang on a mo…” And with that, Marmie disappears through a door marked ‘Changing Room’. Two minutes later he reappears, walking upright, dressed in blue jeans, a bomber jacket with the letters P.M.B.Co. on the back, and with wooden clogs on his hind paws. Well! There’s obviously more to this mysterious changing room than meets the eye!
Leading the way into a wide hallway, Marmie, the now upright and fully clothed black cat, stops at the first of a long row of framed pictures.