On windy nights it was scary inside the caravan. It rocked and trembled, and the sycamore trees flung broken twigs and branches down onto the roof. It was so alarming that I felt the need to find a refuge somewhere outside; a dry safe hole where Jessica and I could go, even in the night. So I spent long hours exploring on my own.
I walked up and down the lane that ran past the campsite. I made friends with people who walked along it, especially a girl with long dark hair. She told me her name was Karenza, and she always stopped to stroke me. One day she picked me up and we had a real bonding session, touching noses and rubbing each other’s faces. Sometimes I followed Karenza home and peeped at her cottage, which was a long way down the lane. She had cats. They were always on the wall or round the cottage door, or sometimes sitting in the window looking fat and contented. Lucky cats. Karenza’s cottage was top of my list of refuges.
One moonlit night I climbed over the hedge and into the sycamore copse. I wanted to explore the deep dark holes I’d seen, and find out who lived in them. First I climbed several different trees, some of them quite high, and established comfortable perches – places I could run to quickly if necessary. I had a mad half hour there on my own and practised some high-speed manoeuvres up and down my chosen trees, my paws dashing through the dry sycamore leaves with a spectacular rustling.
Then I heard something moving, sensed it, smelled it. From the safety of my tree, I watched black and white creatures come shuffling out of the holes. They had pointed faces with a white stripe that shone in the moonlight. They were quiet, snuffly animals with wise black eyes and a cloud of fur like thistledown. Badgers.
Carefully I slid down from the tree. I wanted to meet a badger. I wanted to see inside one of those big holes. I wanted to know if a cat like me would be welcome to shelter there in an emergency.
At first the badgers were snorty and aggressive with me and I had to keep jumping into trees to get out of their way. It took weeks of patient hanging around, purring and pretending to be asleep before I gained the privilege of a nose-to-nose hello with the oldest and wisest badger. I wasn’t allowed into their holes, but one night the old badger led me along the base of the stone hedge and showed me a hole which they had made and abandoned. It was perfect. Lined with moss and cosy dry grass, facing south, and big enough for two cats to curl up and sleep.
That winter night I was glad I’d found a refuge. As I trotted home through the sycamore copse I heard an old familiar sound coming from the caravan.
Shouting and screaming.
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GOING TO THE VET
The caravan door crashed open and Jessica came flying out. Ellen was screaming at Joe.
‘Don’t hurt Jessica! If you touch her I’ll …’
‘You’ll what?’
Joe loomed in the doorway like a thunderstorm, his car keys jingling in his hand. Jessica had dived into the hedge, a huge chicken leg in her mouth. A plate came whizzing out after her, with peas and potatoes bouncing onto the grass. I loved roast potatoes, so I made a note of where they landed as I watched from one of my safe perches.
‘If you’d come in for your supper when I called you, it wouldn’t have happened, Joe,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s natural for a cat to want to grab food they like the look of. And you should know that. I’m not cooking for you if you’re too busy drinking to turn up.’
‘Lecture, lecture, lecture!’ Joe mocked. ‘That’s all you ever do now.’
‘And look how you’ve wasted that food, Joe. We can’t AFFORD decent food very often.’ Ellen couldn’t seem to stop yelling. She was close to tears. ‘Chucking good food away is an abuse of the whole of creation.’
‘Oh, so that’s why you sat there and let the cat nick my supper. Or is that my fault as well? Blame Joe. That’s what you always do. I’m going to the pub to get a pasty, where I’m going to sit and eat it without some cow nagging me.’
‘But you can’t drive, Joe. You’ve been drinking.’
‘Just watch me.’ Joe got in the car and revved it. A cloud of stinking smoke came out of the exhaust. ‘And who cares if I don’t come back? Some home this is.’
‘It’s your fault we lost our lovely house,’ cried Ellen and she bent over, clutching her stomach as Joe drove off. ‘That place was special to me. It was my mum’s home. She planted the cherry tree and I played under it when I was a child. I miss it all so much.’ Then she crept into the caravan as if the pain of her words was breaking her in half.