I spent the remainder of the day with the little one on my knee, on top of the pillow, seated beside the heater, feeding warm milk through the rubber teat on the toy bottle whenever the catling awoke. I could see the change happening before my eyes.
First, she, I presumed it was a female although I really did not know for sure, moved to lie on one side which allowed her to curl up and conserve heat. Next, she gave a kind of shake or shiver, that began near her head and ended at her stub of a tail. I was afraid it was a seizure announcing her imminent demise, but my logical mind asserted itself, and I realized she was trying a natural action that was common to cats. Ramses often did it to set his fur back into place after cleaning. I took this as a good sign, and also thought I should stroke her very gently so as to mimic a mother cat’s tongue cleaning attentions.
I managed to grab some food from the backpack, lying on the floor beside me. I had intended the sandwich to provide my lunch, on a day that had now stretched into what seemed like a year. My desire for a hot drink must be postponed indefinitely.
When I grew sleepy, I realized I must nap on the same time frame as the catling, but sitting on a chair was not the best place for that. Step by step, I moved the centre of operations upstairs. The fan heater was installed by my bed, I propped myself up on pillows with, in my lap, the original pillow from the window, now covered in a towel to absorb the tiny amounts of urine that the catling expelled on a regular basis. Supplies lay nearby on the bedside table. I found a vacuum flask in a kitchen cupboard to keep the milk warm for overnight feedings.
It was not the most comfortable night I ever spent, but as each hour passed and the catling was still surviving, I was imbued with such a feeling of triumph that something had been saved from the awful scene by the riverside, that it made up for the lack of deep sleep.
How long I could continue with this routine, was a matter of some concern.
I had never been a mother. Now I was beginning to understand what that must be like.
A helpless creature in your hands that depends on your skill and good will is an awesome responsibility. This was not my same situation, of course, but it made me think differently about my mother, not for the first time in recent days.
Between dozing lightly and administering warm milk, I tried to form a survival plan.
Catling’s survival was predominant.
My survival was secondary, but equally important in this situation.
There were matters I had to attend to. It was an unusual feeling for me, but I must seek help.
I could not rely totally on my own resources this time.
I cast around for a source of help. I owed an explanation to my neighbour who had come to my rescue. I must start there. If she could manage to take over the feeding schedule for a short period, I could go back to the riverside and do what was required to give a decent burial to the remaining batch of kittens.
I also must enquire if there was a veterinary service available in Perranporth.
When daylight finally arrived, I had made the decision to get help, starting with the nearest source.
Splashing water on my face and quickly changing my clothes, I lifted the cushion where the catling was now sleeping for slightly longer spells, changed the towel, and carefully descended the stairs to the ground level.
I dithered for several minutes, reluctant to leave the tiny creature alone, then decided she was my best advocate for help from strangers. I donned my only coat over my shoulders, and cradled the cushion, feeding bottle and catling inside, in the crook of my arm, leaving the other arm to deal with the doors.
Fortunately, the weather was calm and the sun shone. It was around nine o’clock. I could only hope my neighbour was awake and willing to listen to me.
In a few slow and steady footsteps, I reached the front door of Happy Heights, painted a bright yellow. One tentative knock, a second a little louder, and the door was opened by the boy I had seen waving the flag.
I concealed the catling cushion and asked if I could speak to his mother or father.
“My daddy’s working on the boats. Mummy’s here.”
He remained staring at me, waiting for further instructions.
“Would you please ask your mummy to come to the door?”
He turned away to complete this mission and he was replaced by his sister who looked up at me accusingly.
“Why did you take my toys?”
I was saved from a long explanation about this theft, by the arrival of a young woman with a wooden spoon in her hand, clearly interrupted in some kitchen task.
“Please come inside. I am Pauline. Children, your breakfast is on the table.”
I stepped inside and summoned a smile of thanks. I did not delay but pulled my arm out from the shelter of my coat revealing the cushion and its occupant.
She bent forward in amazement.
“So that’s why you needed the toy bottles! Good gracious me, I never saw such a tiny creature. Where did it come from? Have you been feeding it constantly? How have you managed?”
I felt such relief at her friendly reception that I could have cried. I knew, however, there were many tears stored up, and if started now I might not be able to stop.
I launched at once into the entire sorry tale from beginning to end, finishing with a fervent plea for help.
“I can see you have already plenty on your hands, Pauline, but I………….. ”
Before I could continue, she nodded her head and said, “Of course I will help! Just let me explain a few things to the children then we will figure out what’s needed. I believe a cup of hot tea would be a good first step?”
She vanished and I let a tear trickle down my cheek. How kind people could be! How had I feared human contact for so long? This woman, at least, was a giver rather than a taker.
I perched on the edge of a soft armchair and gathered my strength.
For once, I was not alone.
Pauline returned with a cup of tea which she pressed into my free hand. She relieved me of the cushion and sat in a nearby chair with the children next to her knees while she told them my rescue story, minus the horrid details. Obviously, she had cautioned the children about the vulnerability of the catling. They stood silently watching with huge eyes, while their mother dripped the milk into the tiny mouth.
“Could I try?” whispered the girl.
“Yes, but not right away. We must be very gentle and careful, and very quiet too. Think of it as a baby just born. We can help our neighbour, but we must be her very special Kitten Sitters.”
This drew a chuckle from the boy. His sister hushed him.
How had I found such a perfect mother as Pauline? Shame covered me that I had neglected common courtesy and never taken the time to introduce myself to her family.
I drank down the sweetened tea and felt energy returning. The catling was safe in these hands. I must see now what I could discover about the crime scene.
A few more words to Pauline and I ran back home to fetch my phone and a trowel. I ran most of the way uphill to the river site and found the black bag exactly where I left it.
I photographed the bag, particularly the letters now showing on the drier side and then dug out a hollow in the soft ground under the tree with the trowel. I stopped to count the tiny bodies. There were seven. I then placed the entire bundle deep into the hole so no predators would find it. I searched the riverbank for a stone large enough to cover the hole and then I washed the dirt off my hands in the river.
I thought I should say a few words over the burial, but my anger had returned and I was not in a frame of mind for kind words.
My return trip downhill was fast. I had some evidence and I meant to pursue whoever was responsible for this crime.
I had no idea where this pursuit would lead me.