I AM VERY much looking forward to my first Christmas in Gloucestershire, but wish it would stop raining. An even worse dampener has been put on the proceedings by the prolonged disappearance of the pub cat, which Leo my husband brought down from London on the excuse that it was an early Christmas present. Fazed, no doubt, by the thought of spending Christmas with four neutered toms, she bolted through the cat-door her second morning and went AWOL.
Wednesday
Endlessly comb the surrounding woods and fields looking for cat.
‘A fox will have her head off,’ says the gardener knowingly, then, seeing my face, hastily adds, ‘But don’t worry, she’ll come back.’
Just hunting desperately for Christmas decorations, which also have gone AWOL in the move, when Stan (the male half of the couple who have come to live with us) gives a shout that the cat’s back. Foolishly shrieking with joy, we converge on the hall. ‘Terrified by the din, the cat bolts out into the night. Determined to lure her back, we open the cat-door, and leave large plate of chicken beside it.
Thursday
Gratified that the chicken has been eaten – but suspect junior dog is responsible.
Friday
Pub cat, now known as the Lochness Mouser, is sighted near the shed. Rain continues to sweep in great curtains across the valley – I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas.
Saturday
Junior dog rushes in, crackling. Outside we find badgers have raided our dustbins and scattered tins and chicken bones all over the lawn. Clearing it up, Leo sees large rat strolling past. It gives him an old-fashioned look and trips over a Guinness can.
Sunday
Mouse appears on terrace. Leo is so enchanted he fetches it a piece of Brie. I point senior dog’s head mouse wards, but she looks everywhere except at the offending rodent.
Tuesday
Return from Christmas shopping in London to be greeted by Viv, who says that last night all the water went off, including loos; that the pump is on its last legs; that the washing machine blew her across the room; that the small mouse Leo gave Brie to on the terrace is actually a baby rat and growing fast; and that a hundred rats have moved in under the terrace.
Wednesday
Deeply disappointed by performance of indoor hyacinth bulbs. Their nasty white beaks sticking a quarter inch above the bulb fibre show signs of being nibbled. Try not to contemplate by whom.
Thursday
Gloomily listening to ever-continuing downpour when I hear commotion outside. Find Viv and our two dogs standing on kitchen table, our four cats calmly eating turkey-flavoured Whiskas, as a huge rat saunters across the floor. Join Viv and dogs on table, and give stern pep talk to cats. At this moment two carol singers appear and sheepishly sing ‘Silent Night’. Tell them this is singularly inappropriate carol for this house, and overtip.
Following Wednesday
Rats still in evidence. Our gardener tells me the place is infested because all the rats have been flooded out of their holes by the rain. Perhaps they should build a gnawer’s ark.
Stay up very late doing Christmas cards. Jump out of my skin at sound of squeaking, but realise it is junior dog having a nightmare.
Go downstairs to lock up, wearing thigh boots, to find our two black tom cats in the hall, saying’ After you, Claude, no, after you, Cecil’. Lying between them is a gigantic twitching rat. Cling on to banisters for support but feel I must put it out of its misery. Box file too light, eventually finish it off with Collins English Dictionary, which defines rat as a long-tailed murine rodent.
To think we left London to get away from the rat-race.
Thursday
Council of war at breakfast: no more food to be put out, cat-door to be boarded up. I ring the Council who refer me grandiosely to the Rodent Operative, who promises to come tomorrow. Ring Leo in London, who refuses to take the whole thing seriously, and suggests we put an ad in the village shop for a pied piper.
Sleepless night, listening to rats scurrying, foxes barking, presumably after pub cat, and worrying about the forty-six presents I have yet to buy and whether the turkey will fit into the Aga.
Friday
Temperature dropping fast. Return from village to find Rodent Operative has arrived. A good-looking, winning young man, he refuses all offers of a Christmas drink – perhaps he doesn’t want to be a pie-eyed piper – but systematically goes round putting down poison, while Stan boards up all the holes. The Rodent Operative also says we may later need rat deodorant. As it’s Christmas why not after-shave as well?
Saturday
Hear foxes barking again all night. Milkman says it is going to snow. Feel I must decorate house and ask gardener why our holly tree doesn’t have any berries. As he is explaining it is a male tree which doesn’t produce any, we both suddenly see several berries on a top branch and look away hastily.
Just having grisly vision of grinning foxes sitting in the wood warming their ginger paws in front of the fire, while the corpse of the little cat rotates on a spit, when suddenly I hear a bloodcurdling scream. Rush downstairs to find Viv in the kitchen, with mascara running down her face.
‘What’s happened?’ I whisper.
‘She’s come home,’ she sobs.
And there was the little cat, terribly thin, raging with temperature but still managing to purr like a jumbo jet in Stan’s arms. So it was fatted calves all round. The prodigal cat had returned and for her there was to be no more abiding in the fields. For the first time in ages we all slept like logs.
’Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a rat. And a very merry Christmas from me and the pub cat.