It all began when the black cat strolled into Number 32, Tŷ Mynydd Close. The Bevin family were eating tea when the cat ambled through the back door, past the kitchen table, and curled up on the living-room rug.
Mrs Bevin sat open-mouthed at the cheek of it. Mr Bevin wiped up the last of his gravy with some bread and butter and didn’t notice. Grace-Ella felt bubbles of excitement fizzing in her tummy.
Pulling herself together, Mrs Bevin scurried after the black cat. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ she shouted, flapping like a crazed chicken.
The black cat peered lazily at Mrs Bevin, yawned and snuggled back down on the rug. Following her mother into the living room, Grace-Ella began to giggle.
‘This is not a laughing matter,’ snapped Mrs Bevin. ‘This is not a cattery. Who does he think he is waltzing in here like it’s a cat hotel?’
(You see, Iona Bevin was very particular. Ever since her husband had traced her family tree and found out that she was descended from a twelfth-century prince, she thought herself rather important.)
‘Now that I know I’m royalty, Bevin is a far too ordinary name, don’t you think?’ she’d said to her husband. Mrs Bevin had decided that she would no longer be plain old Iona Bevin, but by drawing out the last vowel, had become the rather grander-sounding Mrs Iona Bevan.)
Grace-Ella knelt to stroke the cat. He purred.
‘That’s not helping,’ barked Mrs Bevin, becoming increasingly hot and bothered. ‘Selwyn, will you come in here and get rid of this cat!’
Mr Bevin liked a quiet life. Having decided that being a History teacher wasn’t the job for him, he now owned a small bookshop in the seaside town of Aberbetws and spent his days happily reading and straightening the books on the shelves. Mr Bevin’s bookshop was always bustling during the summer. Aberbetws attracted many tourists with its sandy beach and hidden coves, and visitors were always interested in old tales of local smugglers.
Despite being a bit of a historian himself, Mr Bevin didn’t really like to be bothered by too many questions, and he would usually tell people to try the internet to find their answers.
He wasn’t particularly bothered by a black cat on the living-room rug either.
‘Selwyn!’ shrieked Mrs Bevin. ‘Don’t just stand there. Do something.’
‘You can’t throw him out,’ Grace-Ella pleaded. ‘He might not have a home. Or he might be lost. He won’t be able to find his way in the dark. Can we let him stay, just for tonight? Please?’
Mrs Bevin looked at Mr Bevin. Mr Bevin shrugged. Mrs Bevin sighed in that way of hers.
‘One night,’ she said, ‘then tomorrow we’ll put a poster in the shop window and his rightful owner can come and get him.’
Mrs Bevin stalked back into the kitchen.
Mr Bevin smiled at his daughter, picked up his newspaper and turned on the television.
‘I’m going to call you Mr Whiskins,’ Grace-Ella whispered to the cat.
The following morning, Mr Bevin left for work with strict instructions to place a ‘Lost Cat’ poster in the bookshop window.
‘Under no circumstance will that cat stay another night,’ said Mrs Bevin as he climbed into his car.
Grace-Ella spent the day dreading the phone ringing or a knock at the door. She was already quite attached to Mr Whiskins. They were happily snuggled up on the sofa when there came a sudden shriek from the kitchen.
‘Dead body!’
Grace-Ella raced down the hallway already suspecting that one of the neighbours would be reporting a murder. She found her mother standing on a chair pointing at a mouse – a very dead looking mouse. Oh dear, she thought. It was beginning to look like Mr Whiskins wasn’t going to get on very well with her mother.
Following the immediate disposal of the dead mouse, peace was once again restored at Number 32 and the rest of the day passed uneventfully. Mr Bevin returned from work and told his wife that yes he had remembered to put the poster in the shop window.
‘Well, no one has called,’ she snapped. ‘I shall have to phone the police.’
Mr Bevin was about to say that this wasn’t really a matter for the police, but thought better of it.
Mrs Bevin picked up the phone and dialled 999.
‘Police, please. I need assistance with getting rid of a cat…Yes, a cat… Bury it in the back garden? No, no, the cat’s not dead. It’s curled up in front of the fire… Pardon? No, this is not a hoax call and I’m certainly not wasting your time. My name is Iona Bevan and I need you to get rid… Hello? Hello?’
She stared at the phone then banged it against the table.
‘Hello?’ she shouted once more. ‘Can you believe it? They’ve hung up on me. Here we are, law-abiding people who pay all our taxes, and in our hour of need they put the phone down on us. Well, I shall be writing to the Prime Minister about this.’
Mr Bevin was about to say that perhaps the police had a real emergency to sort out, but thought better of it.
‘Maybe someone will call tomorrow,’ Grace-Ella suggested, her fingers crossed tightly behind her back.
But much to her delight, no one called the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. A whole week passed and not one person asked about the cat. By now, Grace-Ella had fallen in love with Mr Whiskins. And it was pretty clear that Mr Whiskins was smitten with her too.
Mr Bevin had also become fond of the cat. He liked the way it sat at his feet purring quietly as he watched the television. Of course, he would never admit that to his wife.
That Saturday evening, when they were settling down to watch a DVD, bowls of popcorn on their laps, Grace-Ella felt it was the perfect time to raise the issue.
‘Mam, Dad,’ she began, then took a deep breath so that she could finish what she had to say before her mother interrupted her. ‘I’ve always wanted a pet and Mr Whiskins would be perfect. He’d be no bother. I’ll take care of him. And a cat’s far less trouble than a dog, but far more fun than a goldfish and you’ll barely notice he’s here and he’s been ever such a good cat since the dead mouse and as no one has come to claim him, I was wondering if I could keep him?’
Mrs Bevin looked at Mr Bevin. Mr Bevin shrugged. Mrs Bevin sighed in that way of hers.
‘Well, all right … but any mess, any more dead bodies and he will be zooming off to the RSPCA shelter quicker than he can say puss puss!’
Grace-Ella leapt onto her mother, giving her a ginormous hug, sending a shower of popcorn to the floor. Mr Bevin stretched down to pat the purring cat, with a rather silly grin on his face.
Later that night, with the cat curled up at the foot of her bed, Grace-Ella couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Mr Whiskins, we’re going to have the best fun together,’ she said.
Grace-Ella had no idea just how much fun it was going to be.
