Being told that I’d been moved out of the Special Care unit would normally have plunged me into a deep depression as I would have been separated from my beloved Tony. But as he had abandoned me without a backward glance to explore distant exotic shores, (well, Birmingham) I was pleased not to have to work where there were constant reminders of him. No longer would I have to walk past Tony’s old caravan, which was now occupied by Big Denise.
Yes, working in the cattery would suit me fine.
I love cats. I love their individuality and their general snootiness. I’ve had cats as pets since, but I’ve always felt that they owned me, not vice versa. I hadn’t realised how many different shapes, colours, sizes and personalities of domestic cat existed in the world until I worked in the cattery at the animal sanctuary.
The cattery was made up of a long line of pens. Each outdoor part had structures to climb, or hide in, and a basket for its occupant to snooze in the sun. A little doorway led to an indoor compartment with more snug beds and different levels to climb. It was pussycat paradise, but not freedom.
Kittens were usually re-homed very quickly. The more mature feline residents had to wait until they were noticed, although the sanctuary did its best to make their lives pleasant.
Each cat had a story, and many were found as strays, like Hamworthy.
“Why is he called Hamworthy?” I asked Big Denise who was showing me the ropes.
“He was found trying to stow away in the First Class compartment of a train on the London Waterloo line. The stationmaster discovered him at Hamworthy junction.”
Hamworthy rubbed his ginger cheek on my leg and purred. I scratched him behind the ear and his eyes glazed in pleasure.
“And Seafore? I guess he was found on the beach or something?”
“Nope. It should be ‘C for’ really. C for cat. We’d run out of name ideas when he came in.”
“Oh. And Carpenter?”
“Ah, poor old Carpy isn’t very bright. He has never really been properly house-trained. I expect somebody dumped him because of that. We call him Carpenter because he’s always doing little jobs around the place.”
“Jobs?”
“Yes, smelly ones.”
“Oh.”
Work in the cattery was very simple. I had to go from pen to pen, cleaning them out and replacing the cat litter. I made sure the drinking water was fresh and clean, and filled the food bowls morning and evening. Any spare time I had, I could spend stroking and playing with the inmates.
Some of the cats were so shy that they’d vanish into their indoor sleeping quarters as soon as I appeared. Others didn’t flee, but watched me with one wary eye cracked open. If I attempted to stroke them, they were gone.
Some of the cat pens were empty with the doors propped open. The cats living in these pens were there on a Dinner, Bed and Breakfast basis. They were very tame and allowed to roam freely around the sanctuary during the day, returning to be fed and shut in at night.
A few cats in the closed pens were friendly, almost tripping me up as they wound themselves around my ankles as I tried to carry out my chores. The cat I remember most clearly, and with huge guilt, was a little tabby cat called Blossom.
Blossom lived in a closed pen with three much shyer kitties. As soon as I arrived, she twisted figures of eight around my ankles, clamouring for attention. I rubbed under her chin, which she loved, and behind her ears. If I had time, I would sit with her awhile and she’d climb into my lap, purring like an industrial lawnmower.
“Why don’t we allow Blossom out of her pen during the day?” I asked Big Denise, who had recently been promoted to Assistant Manager. “She’s so friendly and affectionate. I’m sure she’d love the extra interaction with the staff and visitors. She might even find someone to adopt her.”
“I’m not sure,” said Denise. “There must be a reason for her being kept in a closed pen.”
Over the next few days I brought up the subject whenever I could.
“I think it’s unfair,” I declared. “Poor Blossom.”
“If you are sure she’s so tame,” said Denise, a little doubtfully, “perhaps we could let her out on trial and see what happens.”
“Fantastic! Now?”
“Yes, why not?”
Together we walked to Blossom’s pen. As usual, her three shy roommates streaked away into their indoor quarters, while Blossom came forward to greet her admirers.
“You’re a lovely little cat, aren’t you?” crooned Denise, stroking Blossom until she purred like a pneumatic drill. “Would you like a taste of freedom?”
“You see how tame she is?” I said.
“Yup. She knows you, why don’t you pick her up and take her outside, see how she likes it?”
I picked Blossom up and cuddled her. She purred even louder. I walked out through the door, closing it behind me with my foot to prevent her roommates from escaping.
The purring stopped abruptly. I felt Blossom stiffen. Then she exploded out of my arms and hit the ground running. Denise and I watched in horror as she streaked across the field and disappeared into a hedge.
“Oh no,” we said, staring in disbelief, first at each other, then at the distant hedge.
“Blossom! Blossom! Here, kitty, kitty!”
But no amount of searching, calling, or coaxing flushed Blossom out of her hiding place.
We mentioned the incident in the staffroom.
“Blossom?” asked one of the old-timers, mid-sandwich. “Little tabby cat, very friendly?”
We nodded.
“Oh, she’s agoraphobic. Doubt you’ll ever see her again.”
Denise and I were horrified, but although we never gave up searching, nobody ever saw Blossom again.
Racked with guilt, I vowed that in future I would never again interfere. Never would I assume that I knew better. However, I’m afraid, looking back on my life, I acknowledge that I’ve often meddled in affairs that were none of my business. I should have learned my lesson from what befell little Blossom.
In spite of the loss of little Blossom, I had found my niche working in the cattery. I loved them all, but of course I had my favourites.
I loved Marmite, the sneaky, handsome, coal-black cat who liked to jump out at me from behind corners, then wind himself around my ankles in apology. I loved Frosty, the deaf white cat with no ears, a skin cancer victim who still lived life to the full in spite of her misfortune. She loved to doze in sun puddles and rolled luxuriously onto her back to have her tummy rubbed whenever I approached. But most of all, I loved Nig-Nog.
Poor Nig-Nog would never win a prize at a cat show because he was not a handsome cat. He was a huge boy, probably from a mixed heritage because his colouring ranged from splotches of white on his face, to hectic ginger stripes up two legs and brown patches over his back. It was as though his designer couldn’t decide what colour he should be, and experimented with all of them. Even Nig-Nog’s eyes were eccentric as he had one green and one yellow. But what Nig-Nog lacked in beauty, he made up for in personality, and he was one of the most endearing, comical cats I have ever met.
Nig-Nog didn’t live in the cattery. He was his own boss, and chose to roam the sanctuary by day and sleep in the stables with the goats at night. I don’t know how he knew the difference between weekdays and weekends, but every Saturday and Sunday morning he’d be waiting for the staff minibus to arrive. As soon as the driver applied the handbrake, Nig-Nog shot forward and circled the bus, looking for me. He would stand on his hind legs with his front paws on the side of the vehicle, his head tilted back as he stared through the windows searching for me.
When I jumped off the bus and called him, he would gallop forward to greet me, his head butting me in welcome. My fellow staff members rolled their eyes in amusement. Nig-Nog didn’t like to be picked up, so I leaned down to stroke his head and talk to him. And that was another of Nig-Nog’s endearing traits: he talked.
“Hello, Nig-Nog, how are you this morning?” I asked.
“Meowwww-purrp.”
“Oh good. I hope you’ve been keeping those goats in order.”
“Meoooow-meowwww.”
“Right, and have you been sorting out the mice?”
“Purrrp-mew-meooow…”
And so on. Nig-Nog and I chatted all day, and wherever I was, he was only a scamper behind.
As I worked my way along the cattery pens, Nig-Nog would wait for me, not at the gates of the pens, but on the chicken-wire roof. His weight caused the roof to sag and it can’t have been comfortable for him, but that was his chosen position, the place where he could keep a green or yellow eye on me.
Nig-Nog didn’t know he was a cat. I’m not sure what he thought he was, but if I threw a little stick, he would dash to chase it and fetch it back. So perhaps he thought he was a dog.
At lunch times, I would often choose not to sit in the staffroom with the other workers. Instead, I would stretch out in the long grass at the edge of the pasture, staring up at the Dorset sky, sharing my sandwiches with Nig-Nog and telling him all my troubles.
“Can you believe that Tony could be such a rat, Nig-Nog?”
“Meooowww-purrp-meow.”
“If he was really a rat you’d catch him for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Purrrp-meoeeew.”
“Thank you, I knew you would.”
“Purrrp.”
* * *
During the school holidays I worked full-time at the animal sanctuary, and during term time, I just worked weekends. I should have been studying, but I set aside very little time for that. So when the offer of an additional part-time job came along, I seriously considered it.
“They were talking in Cullens,” said my mother. “There’s a waitress job going on the quay. It might suit you better than the animal sanctuary, it’s much closer.”
“I don’t want to give up my job there,” I said, “but perhaps I could do both?”
“Ach, what about your studying? You want to get into that Teacher Training College, you know.”
I did know, but I didn’t really care. At least when I was working, I didn’t have time to think about Tony and the way his long hair curled over his shoulders, or brood over how horrible men were.
Wareham is an ancient, historic town situated on the River Frome which leads out to Poole Harbour. (The smaller River Piddle, whose name still makes me giggle, also flows past Wareham.) Excavations have produced axe heads and flint workings, evidence of settlements dated around 9000 BC. Up until the 12th or 13th century, Wareham had been quite a major port, but as the river began to silt up, most of the foreign trade transferred to Poole.
Although, as a youngster, I may not have appreciated it, I was aware that Wareham quay was extremely picturesque. Steeped in ancient Saxon and Roman history as it is, Wareham is a place that tourists flock to, and the quay is seldom quiet. A white arched bridge spans the Frome and the scene, with its little boats, historic buildings and water reflections has been reproduced on postcards countless times. My book-jacket designer, Nick Saltmer, chose to paint Wareham quay as the cover to this book.
There were, and still are, two pubs on the quay, The Quay Inn and The Old Granary. The job vacancy was for a waitress at The Old Granary, a lovely old building right beside the water. I already had a little experience waitressing, and therefore got the job, but I was never a good waitress.
The Old Granary offered a delicious menu which attracted a mixed clientele; some locals, some regulars and numerous tourists. Most of the customers were utterly polite and charming, particularly the Americans who gazed around wide-eyed, drinking in the history we Brits so take for granted.
However, I remember an instance with customers who were so rude, I never forgot them.