A Grass Bank Beyond by Fionna Carothers

Author:Fionna Carothers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Birlinn

CHAPTER TEN

Nicholas understood Grandpop’s concern for him when the weather was wild, but he resented being kept indoors at night. His whiskers bristled and his tail waved in a none too subtle display of the feral side of his character. He was well known throughout the neighbourhood and was sometimes away for nights at a time, even weeks. But he would eventually return, often to be found in the company of Corrie, nestling contentedly on her shoulder, or he slipped into the engine house when the generator was off. He enjoyed the residual heat, and the warmth of the old red hospital blanket that Grandpop thoughtfully left for his comfort. But whenever possible, he came into the house during the day. He curled up on the little square stool in the morning-room, to sleep soundly after a night spent hunting – or out on the tiles.

It has to be admitted that Puddy had very little success with crops despite all the effort she put into cultivating them, and the Big Park, with its pale grass, yielded a very sparse crop of hay. The little stack we produced with so much effort had to be supplemented so Puddy ordered a ton of hay in preparation for each winter. The hay arrived on a lorry but the twenty bales, each weighing a hundredweight, had to be manhandled into the barn, an arduous task, because the lorry could not be brought close to the entrance of the barn. But help was at hand. Puddy struck lucky at a local displenishing sale where a job lot of farm implements included a solid iron porter’s trolley on two wheels. It proved to be invaluable for carting all manner of heavy goods, from bales of hay to refrigerators, and I have it to this day. We called it ‘the trundler’ and it made short work of moving the hay into the barn where we stacked it neatly ready for the winter. The hay filled one wall of the barn and chinks between the bales made a cosy home for the progeny of Nicholas, whose mothers instinctively knew what was best for their young. We would climb to the top of the stack and, sitting in silence, our patience would be rewarded as each kitten tentatively emerged, blinking, into the subdued light of the barn. We watched their antics with delight as they played their games, learning to hover and pounce, chase and catch. One day these skills would stand them in good stead when their need to hunt became serious. Cute though they were, these kittens would never find their way into the house or by the hearth so they must learn to feed themselves. Although we discouraged them, each season a number collected at the back of the house, scrounging for scraps. They became known as ‘the window-sill cats’, dancing on the ledge outside the kitchen window. We sometimes took pity on them, but generally tried to avoid attracting them – at one point we counted twenty-seven – which Nicholas himself acknowledged was too much of a good thing.

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