Stories

I wrote this story for my granddaughters

Madelyn and Charlotte and the Talking Dog

 

Once upon a time, there were two little girls called Madelyn and Charlotte. They lived in a yellow house with a red door. Behind the house they had a garden where they could play.  One day, they were out in the garden doing somersaults on a blanket their Mummy had laid on the ground for that exact purpose, when they heard a low growly voice, coming from behind the garden shed.

“Did you hear that?” said Madelyn.

Charlotte nodded. “What was it?” she wondered.

“It sounded like someone talking but I can’t see anyone, can you?” said Madelyn.

“Nope,” said Charlotte. “Let’s play tag, and you’re it.” She took off across the grass, with her ponytail flying behind her. Madelyn, who was older, ran after her and had almost caught her when Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks, and Madelyn bumped into her.

“What…?” began Madelyn, and then she stared. Charlotte was looking at something black and white and furry sitting patiently behind the shed, yawning.

“It’s a dog,” said Charlotte.

“I can see that,” said Madelyn. It’s very cute isn’t it? Look at it’s ears – it’s got one going up and one flopping down.”

“I wonder what it’s doing here?” said Charlotte.

“Maybe it’s lost,” said Madelyn.

“If you want to know, why don’t you ask me?” said the dog.

Madelyn and Charlotte took a step backwards. They looked at each other. They looked at the dog.

“Are you talking to us?” said Charlotte.

“Well, who else is around?” said the dog.

“Great Scot,” said Madelyn. She had picked up this expression from her grandma, who was a little weird, in a nice way.

“Well,” began Charlotte, rather bravely. She was a bit frightened, but she knew her Mummy wasn’t far away. If anything awful happened, they would shout and she’d be out of the house in a flash. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for somewhere to live,” said the dog, and began to scratch itself behind one ear.

“You mean you’re looking for your house,” said Madelyn. She always liked to get things straight, and wanted to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood. She hadn’t talked to any dogs before. Well, that’s to say, she’d talked to dogs, of course, but they’d never spoken back.

“No,” said the dog, sounding a bit irritable. “I haven’t got a home. My family moved away and I didn’t want to go, so I ran away when they were packing the moving van. Anyway, I didn’t really like them,” he added. “They only had grown up children, and they’re no fun.”

“Can we pet you?” asked Charlotte. She loved dogs, and she knew she should always ask before petting one, in case it was grouchy.

“Sure,” said the dog. “I don’t bite.” Charlotte bent down to pet the dog’s head. The fur was lovely and soft. Madelyn was stroking his back. The dog seemed to be enjoying it.

Charlotte nudged Madelyn in the ribs. Madelyn, who was taller, bent her head down to hear what Charlotte was whispering.

“Can we keep it? He’s very nice,” whispered Charlotte.

“We’ll have to ask Mummy,” whispered Madelyn. Suddenly, she thought of something. “Are you hungry?” she asked the dog.

At this, the dog perked right up.

“Yes I am,” he said. “Absolutely starving. Have you got anything I can eat?”

Madelyn looked in the pockets of her shorts. All she found was a rubber band and a paper clip. Charlotte had no pockets. She was wearing a skirt.

“We’ll go inside and get you something,” said Charlotte. “Will you promise not to go anywhere? We’ll be right back.”

OK, I’ll wait” said the dog, as he lay down again and put his head on his paws.

The girls were back in a few minutes. All they had managed to find were some cheese crackers, because they hadn’t told their mum that it was for a dog. And Mummy said they could only have a few crackers because it would be suppertime soon. They put the crackers down on the grass in front of the dog. They were gone in a trice.

“Got anything else?” he said.

“We could bring you something later, I expect,” said Madelyn, wondering how they would manage to smuggle food out of the house.

“Later? But you don’t expect me to live out here, do you?” The dog put his head on one side, and tried to look pathetic. “Can’t I come in the house?”

“Do let’s ask Mummy if we can keep him,” said Charlotte. “He’s awfully cute, and he can talk! She’s bound to say yes.”

Madelyn wasn’t quite so sure. She and Charlotte had been asking for a dog for ages, but Mummy kept saying that it wasn’t the right time for one.

I suppose we could ask her, she said. Turning to the dog, she asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Of course.” said the dog.  “It’s Dougal.”

“How do you spell that?”  said Madelyn. She was learning how to read and write.

“I have no idea,” said Dougal truthfully. “I’m a dog, silly. I can talk but I can’t read and write.”

“Never mind,” said Charlotte. “Maybe we can teach you.” She liked playing school with Madelyn, even though she often wished she could be the teacher instead of the pupil every time.

“We’re going to have to ask Mummy first,” said Madelyn. “If we go first, will you follow us?”

“Sure,” said Dougal, “I know how to walk to heel.” He got to his feet and stretched. First his front legs, then his back ones.

“Let’s go,” he said, beginning to pant with excitement.

They trooped over to the back door.

“I’d better go in and explain it to Mummy,” said Madelyn. “You two wait here.”

Charlotte and Dougal could hear Madelyn and Mummy talking in the kitchen, but it was hard to hear what they were saying.

Suddenly they heard very clearly. “Absolutely not!” said Mummy’s voice. Oh dear. That was much too clear. They heard footsteps coming towards the door. There stood Mummy. She was wearing her yellow rubber gloves and holding the brush that she used when she was doing the dishes. She was looking down at Dougal with a rather cross expression.

“I’m sorry Charlotte,” she said, “but we absolutely can’t have a dog.”

“But, Mummy,” said Charlotte. “He hasn’t got anywhere to live.”

“That’s right,” said Dougal. “I really need a nice family to live with.”

“Why is he barking?” asked Mummy.

Madelyn and Charlotte exchanged looks. “He’s talking, Mummy,” said Madelyn.

“Yes, he can talk,” said Charlotte. “Isn’t it exciting?”

“Nonsense,” said their mother. “He’s just barking.”

“She can’t understand me,” said Dougal. “I think you’re the first people that have ever understood what I’m saying.”

“I do wish he’d stop barking,” said Mummy. So Dougal stopped.

“That’s better,” said Mummy. She bent down to stroke his head. Dougal looked up at her as if she was the most wonderful person he'd ever met. “Well, I suppose he can come in while we try and find out who he belongs to.”

“Hooray!” said the girls.

“Hooray!” said Dougal. There was a moment’s silence. “What does hooray mean?” asked Dougal.

“Hooray means great! Wow! Fantastic!” said Madelyn and Charlotte.

“I know that,” said Mummy, frowning in a puzzled sort of way.

“We were telling Dougal,” said Charlotte.

Mummy wasn’t listening. She was already on the phone to the local police station, asking if anyone had lost a dog.

The girls found a clean bowl and gave Dougal some water. When he’d finished he said, “Thanks. That was just what I needed.” He looked around.

“Where do I sleep?” he said.

“In our room,” said Madelyn. She turned to Charlotte. “Let’s take him upstairs and show him.”

Dougal followed them to their bedroom, his nails clicking on the wooden stairs. When he got there, he looked around. “It’s awfully pink, isn’t it?” he said.

“Well, we like it this way,” said Madelyn.

“OK, then. Which is my bed?” Dougal was sniffing around the room, and looking over the two matching pink beds that stood side by side.

“You can share with me,” said Charlotte.

“No, me,” said Madelyn.

“I could take it in turns,” said Dougal trying to be helpful.

“Mine first,” said Madelyn. “No, mine,” said Charlotte.

Dougal didn’t want the girls to argue when he’d only just arrived.

“I ‘m going to sleep right here,” he said. In between the beds he had found a fluffy pink rug. He sniffed at it, walked around it, and then plopped down in the middle, put his head on his paws, and fell fast asleep.

 

Farewell, Finally

Winner, Connecticut Muse Contest 2008

http://connecticutmuse.com/Documents/ctmuse_SUMMER_2008.pdf

 

Raffles, the gentleman thief, had been fairly unobtrusive until he started breaking into our home, unannounced, in the early hours of the morning. He would come stealing through the cat-flap and head straight for our dog Dougal’s bowl. Apparently approving of the contents he would finish them, then sashay over to the cat’s bowl and eat that food, too. The birdseed stored in the mudroom was just dessert.

We were no fools. We knew how to deal with raccoons like Raffles. We battened down the hatches, shut the cat flap, closed the garage doors, and prepared to repel all boarders. For awhile, Raffles was discouraged. But evidently he pined for Dougal’s premium dog food. So he started spying on us, waiting for his chance.

For our part, we did what all guards are apt to do when things are quiet – we became careless. It was the little slips that Raffles was waiting for. Perhaps a garage door not checked before sleep. Possibly a cat flap left open in a moment of recklessness. And so, one evening, we returned to our darkened house from a delightful dinner at a local hostelry to find Raffles, staring at us insolently from the breakfast nook at the far side of the kitchen. The kitchen had sliding doors that led out to the deck. My better half was determined to get the best of this opponent. Wielding a sturdy broom, he advanced upon Raffles, and adroitly opened the sliding door while attempting to sweep our visitor through it and onto the deck. But Raffles was not to be ordered about. Ignoring the open door, he made a dash for the relative safety of the pots of bougainvillea and lavender, which were overwintering inside. Finding no sanctuary there, Raffles made a super-raccoon effort, pulled himself  together, and ran between our legs to make it out through the cat-flap unscathed.

We needed new tactics. Friends suggested we leave the garage lights on and play loud music to scare Raffles away. Personally, I think he actually liked the Classic Rock station. A few days later, Better Half cracked, when, only moments after leaving the house for work, he staggered in from the garage trailing the contents of yesterday’s garbage bag, and with an oath, swore that either Raffles went, or he did.

I telephoned a man in Litchfield County, who promised to bring over a Have-A-Heart trap, which would catch Raffles without hurting him. Litchfield Man arrived a couple of days later, and set up the trap in the garage, next to the garbage cans. He baited it with Gourmet Raccoon Food.

“Irresistible to discerning raccoons,” he assured me. He covered the cage with black plastic, so as to disguise it from the marauder, and set it carefully down next to the garbage cans.

“Call me when you catch it,” were his parting words.

I called him the next day. The garbage collector had taken the trap away with the garbage.

Litchfield Man returned two days later with another trap. His smile was a trifle strained I thought, but he set up the new trap, identical to the last one, except that, this time, I added a large label to the top: Do Not Remove!

Feeling that I had done all I could reasonably be expected to do, I left town for a few days to visit my mother. On my return, Younger Son looked at me accusingly as he told me that the trap had worked. I was intrigued. The cage looked different somehow, but I couldn’t see anything inside.

“It was the cat that got trapped,” he explained. “I let it out this morning.”

I apologized to the cat. This was all too much trouble. Raffles seemed to intuit my craven thoughts. And next morning our garbage was strewn all over the garage again.

We were having a party at our house the next day. I couldn’t let Raffles spoil that. But I didn’t have nerve to summon LM again. So I reset the trap myself. It was easy, really, once I had found out how to get my arm back when it got trapped. I removed the dried-up remains of Gourmet Raccoon Food, and decided that perhaps Raffles might enjoy something less Gourmet Raccoon, and more Working Raccoon in taste, like peanut butter. I covered the trap with a black garbage bag, went back inside, and waited.

It worked.

I called Litchfield Man immediately, and with pride in my voice, recounted at some length how I had reset the trap and caught Raffles on my first try with peanut butter. What should I do now? A short pause ensued.

“Litchfield Man is away for the weekend, this is the answering service. I’ll have him call you.”

I must say that LM was very nice about it when he called back from somewhere in New England. He sympathized with the fact that I didn’t really want Raffles ricocheting around the garage in his humane trap all night. When I told him that Raffles had eaten the black plastic covering, LM suggested I take an old towel, cover the cage, and carry it into the garden. Putting on Better Half’s thickest working gloves (I felt he ought to contribute to this project somehow), I did as instructed. I left Raffles, resentful but resigned, to sleep peacefully until the next day. A couple of hours later I thought I’d check on him just to make sure he was OK.

He’d eaten the towel.

Litchfield Man came on Monday and drove Raffles away, and, though I was relieved to see him go, I felt a bit sad, too. Until I heard LM’s parting words.

“Call me when his friends come over,” he said cheerily.

I don’t think I will. Instead, I’m simply going to leave a pot of peanut butter outside the garage every night. That’ll take care of Raffles’ friends.

THE END

Making Peace

published Rio Grande Review Fall 2008

It was a lovely day for a walk, and Alice was trying to enjoy it. She wished Arthur could be here to enjoy it with her; he’d always looked forward to the spring, but he’d been gone these twelve years and more. She missed the way he used to call her Alice Blue. He’d called her that because she’d always liked the song. She still hummed it sometimes: “In my sweet little Alice blue gown...”

Alice had become used to living alone. Mostly, she quite liked it, although sometimes the house seemed too quiet. Still, at the age of eighty-three, she knew that each day was a blessing, and she tried to be grateful for every minute. Some days were easier than others. Today, even putting on her wool coat took a real effort; Alice wasn’t sure why, exactly. But she had worn that coat for years, no matter what the weather. The coat would see her out, she was sure.

Right now, she was focusing on the way ahead of her, making sure she didn’t trip on an uneven paving stone. Her heart seemed to be beating rather harder than usual, and she was starting to perspire. Take it easy, old dear, she told herself, and stopped for a minute, to get her breath back. A light breeze blew some of the cherry blossom off the trees toward her, and cooled her faded cheeks as she continued her slow but resolute steps. She was making her way to the new postbox on the corner of Clarence Road. Why they’d moved it from Acacia Avenue, she had no idea. All she knew was that it was further away from her house now.

Walking didn’t come as easily as it once had. When she and Arthur had been courting, they’d thought nothing of climbing Shooter’s Hill with a picnic, which they would eat at the top, while they surveyed the London skyline. Alice recalled the smooth flat rock where she and Arthur had been sitting, looking at the view, when he’d first kissed her cheek. She blinked a tear away, remembering.

She hadn’t expected him to die when he did. She had taken for granted, when they were young, that they’d both live forever. That was before the war, of course, and the bombs that fell during the Blitz. Arthur had joined the navy, and had spent much of the war on the convoys that escorted the bigger ships across the Atlantic and through the North Sea. He didn’t talk about it much, but he’d survived, that was the main thing.

Alice had always said that she’d follow him to the ends of the earth. Not that they’d traveled far, when it came right down to it. After he came back from the war, Arthur said he’d seen as much of foreign lands as anyone could want to see. So, for twenty-odd years, they’d taken their summer holidays on the south coast, and sometimes in the Lake District, until Arthur had fallen ill.

Even then, Alice had decided that if she didn’t live forever, she’d still live for a long time in good health. After all, her parents had lived well into their eighties. And she was still healthy, really, she supposed, apart from the old ticker, which acted up a bit every so often. The doctors wouldn’t operate, because of her advanced age. They told her to keep taking the pills, but mostly, she didn’t bother. Anyway, she still had time for what she needed to do.

She wanted to tie up loose ends. She didn’t like leaving things undone. So, a couple of weeks ago, she’d made a special visit to her daughter, Mandy, taking the bus all the way to Ashford and back by herself. She wanted Mandy to know that she was doing a fine job of raising her children. Alice hadn’t been sure, to start with, what sort of a mother Mandy would make. She’d always been so flighty when she was young. But her kids, Terry and Sheila, had turned out great, though Alice didn’t see much of them anymore. After all, teenagers always had so many other things to do. But they’d been at home the day she’d visited, and even sat down to have a cup of tea and piece of cake with her and Mandy. Alice felt a warm feeling in her chest as she thought about that day.

Today, it was warmer out than she’d expected. Alice paused for a minute to catch her breath again. A greengrocer’s van drove by, trailing a cloud of exhaust fumes. “Australian apples – good on ya”, it said on the side of the van. Alice wasn’t sure what “good on ya” meant, but she thought Ruby would know.

Her old school friend Ruby had moved to Australia a long time ago, but they’d kept up. Ruby wrote regularly, still inviting Alice to visit, as she had for the last forty years. Only last week, Alice had written back again to explain that it was still too far to come, though she would always treasure the oldest friend she had. And she had written to her wartime friend, Maggie, who was Canadian. They had met in the ATS, driving ambulances around London after the bombing. Maggie had come all the way from Canada, to help the war effort. Five boys, Maggie had, all grown up, now. How on earth had she managed with five?

Alice had barely coped with her one boy. He’d been a lovely little lad, John, always smiling, always trying to please his mum. And then he’d gone away to college, which was only right, because he was brainy. He’d studied rocks – geology they called it. The family used to tease him about being a know-it-all. But he really did know a lot, thought Alice. Still, it had never been the same after college. He’d met that stuck-up girl, Isabella. Alice had always known that it was the girl who’d been ambitious. It was obvious to Alice from the first that she was out to snare John. And she’d succeeded. Alice had tried to warn John that Isabella wasn’t right for him, but it made no difference, of course. Perhaps she should have kept her own counsel, because that’s when John had really started to become a stranger. Alice had never liked Isabella, and thought she was a bit of a gold-digger. Well, diamond-digger really. She smiled wryly at her own joke. That was what John did for a living. He was paid to look for diamonds for the largest diamond company in Africa. It was an awfully long way to go, so far from his home and family. If it hadn’t been for Isabella, he might have taken that job he was offered with the oil company in Scotland. That was far enough, Alice thought, but not as far as Africa. Still, Isabella had decided that diamonds sounded more posh than oil, and so they’d gone to live abroad, instead of staying close to his roots.  He’s never asked me to visit, Alice reflected. Probably because of Isabella.

And now she’d written one last letter. After sealing the envelope, she had hidden it carefully in a side pocket of her ancient black handbag, so as not to mislay it. It was addressed to a post office box in Africa, and Alice wondered, as she stopped again to lean against the carefully clipped hedge of Mrs. Wilkins’ garden, whether they had the same sort of post offices in Africa as here. She thought they probably did. And maybe they had boxes on a post at the end of the drive, like those American ones she’d seen in the pictures.

 

She worried too much, that’s what Arthur had always said, when she wondered why John didn’t write. Arthur kept saying that youngsters today had no idea how to write any more, and it wasn’t that John didn’t love her. Alice wasn’t so sure. And she wondered why this letter of hers had been so hard to write. It wasn’t as though she was upset with John, or even Isabella, come to that. Well, not any more. Not after all these years. He was her son, when all was said and done. It would be silly to hold a grudge for so long. It was simply that…

She paused again for one more rest before she reached the corner. She used to make this walk in five minutes. Funny, how slow she’d become. A bench stood nearby, one the local council had failed to remove when they instituted the big clean up of the neighborhood. That’s when they’d moved the pillar box, too, from Acacia Avenue to Clarence Road. She sank gratefully onto the bench, and gripped her handbag a little harder, pulling it in towards her chest, making sure she still had the letter.

It was time to make amends now – to say she was sorry for everything she’d said. The letter was here in her bag. She was going to post it today.

Alice closed her eyes, letting the spring sun play on her face. Her eyes fluttered open a few minutes later to see a young man walking towards her. It was hard to see his face because the sun was in her eyes. He had red hair, like Arthur’s. She’d always liked a redhead.

“Mind if I sit here?” he said.

“Help yourself, ducks,” Alice murmured. She was feeling a bit drowsy, truth be told.

“Taking a walk then?” the young man asked. His voice sounded oddly familiar.

“Going to post a letter.”

“You look done in. Would you like me to take it? The postbox is just over there.” He pointed to the corner of Acacia Avenue.

Alice frowned. She squinted at the corner, and sure enough, there was the pillar box.

“I thought they’d moved it,” said Alice. Maybe she was getting forgetful.

“So, shall I post it for you?” he said, rising from the bench.

“That would be kind.”

Alice fumbled with her bag, which released a smell of the extra strong peppermints that she favored as she opened it. She took out the letter, and handed it to the young man. She watched him as he walked away, rolling slightly as he did so, like a sailor. He turned as he reached the letter box, before dropping the letter into it. Now he was on his way back. Alice felt a little flutter in her chest. He seemed like a nice young man, but you could never tell these days.

“That’s done,” he said, and sat down on the bench next to her.

Alice closed her eyes again. She felt a cool hand close over her own warm one, but she didn’t feel nervous. Nothing to worry about, now. The letter was safely on its way. And she could be going on hers.

As though he’d heard her thought, the young man spoke again.

“Time to get going, my lovely,” he said, then leaned across and kissed Alice gently on the cheek.

 Alice felt a warm glow on the spot where he’d kissed her.

“I’ll see you soon, Alice Blue.”

Alice’s eyes flew open, but the sun was too bright and everything looked hazy. She closed them again.

“Arthur?” she whispered.

The sun seemed to be glowing, suddenly hot, through her eyelids. Her head fell forward. Her bag dropped to the ground.

 

THE END

Kitten Con Brio

 

My wife, Sandy, had decided that the best time to find homes for the kittens was on Chelsea School’s graduation day, when there would be dozens of proud parents milling around wanting to do nice things for their children. Once the ceremony was over, and I’d finished directing the choir, Sandy figured I’d have time to supervise our fourteen-year-old, Charlotte, as she stood outside the Chelsea General Store with four kittens in a cardboard box. They were an awfully cute quartet, if I do say so myself.  Charlotte had hinted that she’d like to keep them all, but I had already decided that there was no question of the kittens, cute or not, staying with us. We hadn’t planned on becoming a maternity home for cats. In fact, if Alice, our calico barn cat, hadn’t been seduced by that ginger rogue next door, I’d have been spending the afternoon after the ceremonies, swinging gently in a hammock under the maples in the back garden, listening to Scarlatti on my I-Pod. It had been a long school year, and even though there are people, who shall remain nameless, who think a music teacher’s life is a piece of cake compared to staying home and looking after the house and barn, I reckoned I deserved a break. So there was just this one last chore before I could forget about school -- for a few weeks at least.

 

Still, the day had turned out beautiful, and the sun was making its way allegro across the Vermont sky as Charlotte interrogated the prospective owners in front of the store. I stood by in case she needed help, but she was handling things very well. She had let one kitten go to the McTavish family, who lived in New Hampshire, and wanted a second cat to keep their first one company. A few minutes later I heard her telling Jason Netherfield’s mother in a heavy whisper that the kittens probably had fleas. After the Netherfields had walked off in a huff, Charlotte had judged, correctly, that I might require an explanation of this blatant lie. She explained that Jason, one of her classmates, lived too far away.

 

“They live in Massachusetts, and the kitten would have had to travel for hours to get there, and it wouldn’t have liked it, honest, Dad,” she said, with an earnest expression that she knew I would find hard to resist. I happened to know that she didn’t like Jason much, and I suspected that was the real reason she didn’t want him to have one of her kittens. I tried to be firm.

“Honey, if you keep turning people down, we’ll have to take all the kittens home, and you know we can’t do that.”

She sighed. “I know. But it would be nice to keep one or two, wouldn’t it?”

 

I was saved from having to lay down the law by the arrival of a motley group of people, firmly led by Helen Dixon, a graduate of about one hour’s standing. She had only just managed to graduate, after that incident in the school’s organic herb garden. We had made the kids dig up all the marijuana and burn it, which of course had brought its own problems, as they stood around inhaling the smoke as deeply as they could, and giggling. Perhaps, in retrospect, we should have done the burning. I can think of several teachers who would have volunteered. Helen appeared to have about six people in tow, ranging from someone old enough to be her grandmother, to a young woman with a toddler in her arms. Helen was beaming at me and Charlotte, and asking how many kittens she could take home.

 

“Well, that’s not up to us, really. It’s up to your parents, Helen,” I said, trying to decide which of the group were her parents. These days you can never tell.

“Mummy, can we have two kittens, please,” Helen said, startling me by suddenly speaking in a purely British accent.

Her mother, who looked like an older and blonder version of Helen, didn’t seem to notice anything odd about this vocal progression from Vermont to London, and answered in the same accent.

“I don’t think so, Helenka. The most we could manage would be one.” The mother was looking a little frazzled. Maybe it was something to do with the older lady who was elbowing her out of the way to give the kittens a quelling look.

 

“You don’t want a cat, Jean, definitely not,” contributed the old lady, sounding like the Queen of England. “They’re just a nuisance – something else to look after, as though you didn’t have enough to do already.”

This was addressed to Helen’s mother, whose jaw line suddenly tightened, as she bit her lip. Meanwhile, the younger mother was leaning over the toddler, who was prodding the kittens with an inquisitive finger.

“Remember, Freddie, we’re gentle with all living things,” she said with yet another English accent.

“Quite right, Auntie Susan,” said Helen. Then to the little boy: “This is how you do it, Freddie.”

With that, she reached over and scooped up the feisty little kitten who was trying to climb up the sides of the box. The kitten made a grab for her long brown hair as she hefted him expertly against her shoulder, nestling his head against her. Helen started making some cooing noises at it, which, to my amazement, it seemed to enjoy.

 

“Actually, that particular one is rather a good-looking kitten,” said the grandmother, peering over her spectacles at it. She looked me straight in the eye.“It could almost be Polish.”

I was beginning to lose the thread of this conversation, if that’s what it was. Helen came to my rescue.

“My grandfather was Polish,” she said, “So Grandma’s got a bit of a soft spot for them.”

At this moment the only man in the group chimed in.

“Darling,” he said, “You do realize that we don’t actually need a cat, don’t you?”

 

I gave him a sympathetic look. I could tell the poor stiff was up against it. Four Englishwomen against one American? And which one was the “darling” he was talking to?

A chorus of voices answered this comment.

“That’s just what I said,” offered the Queen.

 “Freddie, don’t poke the kittens,” said Auntie Susan.

 “But, Dad, he’s so cute. I’ll look after him, honest.” Helen begged.

“Jean,” began Helen’s mother.

 

“Everyone needs a cat.” This from Charlotte, who, I was amazed to see, had evidently decided to let at least one more go. Maybe we would manage to give all the kittens away this afternoon.

“Tell you what,” said Dad, loosening his tie, as though he were being choked by it. “How about a cup of tea? They have things to eat and drink in the store here, don’t they? We could talk it over.” He ran a harassed hand through his hair.

 

I recognized delaying tactics when I heard them. 

“Why don’t you do that?” I said. “I expect we’ll still be here when you come out.”

Twenty minutes later, the party emerged from the store. The toddler’s face was covered in chocolate, which its mother was trying to wipe off with a handkerchief. Helen was making a beeline for us, with a determined expression on her face. Her parents and grandmother brought up the rear, treading carefully down the steps to the street.

 

“Still here, then?” said the dad. I could tell he was hopelessly outclassed.

He looked down into the box. There were two kittens left, and one of them was the kitten Helen had picked up.

“We’d like that one, please, wouldn’t we, Dad?”

Dad looked at me. He didn’t need to explain.

“You never know when you might need a cat,” he explained.

“Right,” I said. “Mice and so forth.”

“In honor of you Mr. Stern, we have thought of a musical name.” said Helen, smiling down at the kitten. “We’re going to call it Chopin.”

“Perfect for a Polish cat,” Helen’s grandmother was consistent with her leitmotif, at least.

“Great,” said Charlotte, happily fishing the last kitten out of the box. “So how about we call ours Scarlatti, Dad?”

Helen’s Dad grinned at me. I gave him a shrug of the shoulders. It was only three o’clock, and the hammock beckoned. I knew when I was beaten.

“Great idea, honey,” I said.

 

THE END