‘Oh, Tuffy! You’re so lovely.’
‘Your fur’s so soft.’
‘And you’re so clever.’
‘I wish we had a cat.’
‘Oh, Ellie! You’re so lucky!’
It just went on and on. I stood it for about a minute or two, and then I reckoned it was time to leave, so I stood up.
Quick as a flash, all three of them reached out to stop me. I was trapped.
‘No, Tuffy! We promised!’
‘Just to keep you safe!’
‘You have to stay!’
I tried to wriggle free. Lucilla shut the door and Lancelot checked the window latch. Ellie could see that I was getting nervous, so, ‘Never mind,’ she soothed. ‘Let’s think of something to play.’
Play? What does she think I am? Some newborn fluff ball? But it is always best to know what’s going on, so I stopped struggling long enough to listen. What was it going to be? Hide and Seek? (I hoped not. Most of the hiding places in this house are mine, mine, mine.) How about Murder in the Dark? (Step on me by mistake, and I will scratch a good chunk out of you!) Perhaps they’d choose Tiddleywinks. (Better take care. Flick just one wink at me, and you are dead.)
Surprise, surprise!
‘Let’s put on a show!’ Lucilla said.
‘Yes!’ Lancelot echoed. ‘Let’s put on a little show!’
Ellie was bouncing up and down, clapping her hands. ‘Oh, goody gumdrops! I love doing special little shows!’
I was embarrassed. (Ellie’s such a drip.) But I did think I might at least be left to sit up on the dresser and sneer. I mean, you can’t train cats to act or dance. No one would even try. You might be able to boss dogs about. But never cats.
So I thought I’d be safe with special little shows.
Well, more fool me.
5: Frog in a wedding dress
SO GUESS WHAT The Three Softies finally decided that they were going to do.
Yes. Just my luck. A show of nursery rhymes that have a cat in them. Is that tattered old book that you grew out of years ago still on your shelf? Shall we run through some of the sweet little baby songs your granny used to warble to you when you were still in nappies?
There’s ‘Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well’, of course. Then there’s that merry old favourite, ‘Hey Diddle Diddle, the Cat and the Fiddle’. After that, there is the tragic tale of ‘Three Little Kittens who Lost their Mittens’. And ‘Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where Have You Been?’
Not to mention the sickly, revolting, soppy and Ellie-ish one I really, really hoped they had forgotten: ‘I Love Little Pussy, Her Coat is So Warm’.
Guess which they started with.
That’s right. The one I hate the most. ‘I Love Little Pussy’.
Ellie was star of this show. The twins started bossing her about. ‘Ellie, sit in front of the tree so all the sparkly decorations twinkle around you.’
‘Be careful not to let Tuffy go. Remember what your dad said.’
‘Tip your head to one side, and smile.’
‘Spread out your skirts. You’ll look like a princess!’
Oh, I don’t think so! Ellie was dressed in that frilly-dilly party frock she grew out of years ago. If you want my opinion, she looked more like an overgrown cream puff than a princess.
The Two Big Dafties kept on rearranging her. ‘Put that arm more closely round Tuffy.’
‘And show your pretty ring. That’s right. Oh, Ellie! Now you look like something out of a fairy tale!’
(She did too. Like a frog in a wedding dress.)
They started in on me.
‘Stop struggling, Tuffy. Try to look happy for the show!’
I didn’t see why I should try to look happy. There I was, held too tight, and stuck under that stupid tree. Pine needles kept falling in my fur, and I was worried that the great fat lump of a Christmas fairy on the top would tumble through the branches on to my head. She’s far too big and heavy for the tree. But Ellie made her, way back in nursery school, so everyone has to pretend she isn’t the same shape as an exploding lavatory roll, and doesn’t have a face that makes her look more like a squashed tomato than a pretty fairy.
6: Screams and tears
ALL RIGHT, ALL right! So spank me! I lost my temper. You would have lost yours too. (Faster than I did, probably.) I was so sick of being petted and fussed over and sung to by Ellie.
The trouble is that Ellie has a voice like one of those corncrake birds that are so famous for singing like two sticks being rubbed together. In fact, if you want my opinion, two sticks being rubbed together would make a much, much nicer noise than Ellie does when she sings.
Folding her arms round me, she began that stupid song for the ninetieth time.
‘I love little pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm.’
Well, she was dead wrong, wasn’t she? Because it was a nasty scratch I gave her. (Mind you, it was not deliberate. I was just putting up a paw to try to stop her stroking me. So how was I supposed to guess that she had just decided her show would be much better if she suddenly leaned down to kiss me on the nose?
Me. A cat! Kissed on the nose! If you ask me, she was pretty well asking for trouble.)
As you can imagine, there were screams and tears. Her mum and dad and Uncle Brian and Aunt Ann rushed in to find out what was going on. And suddenly everyone was peering at this teensy-weensy little bead of blood on Ellie’s arm – you practically had to have a microscope even to see it – and Uncle Brian was running round and round in circles, shouting about rabies.
Rabies! I was a bit put out, I can tell you. For one thing, Ellie’s had her shots. And, for another, it’s mad dogs and bats and things that give you rabies, not a musically gifted cat who’s simply had enough of hearing someone singing like two sticks rubbed together.
I tell you I was so fed up that I walked out. Nobody noticed because they were all still fussing over Ellie. And that’s how I ended up inside a cupboard. All alone in the dark. Just two big staring eyes hiding from everyone, misunderstood as usual, and not at all looking forward to Christmas Day.
In fact, I was hoping that the whole idea of special little nursery rhyme shows would go away forever.
7: Twanging the spider’s web
BUT NO SUCH luck. All that they did was stick a plaster on to Ellie’s arm and move on to a safer nursery rhyme.
‘Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well’.
It wasn’t a real well they planned to put me in, of course. Lucilla and Lancelot made it while Ellie was trying to tempt me out of the cupboard with some of Aunt Ann’s quite delicious bitesized salmon tarts. (She is so posh she calls them ‘canapes’.)
The twins used the box the coffee table came in. The two of them pulled out the staples and flattened it. Then they cut off the top, folded it into a circle and stapled it up again.
After they’d painted grey squares all over it, it looked like a stone well. They carried it into the living room. It seemed that Lancelot was to be the star of this part of the show. He found some red velvet knickerbocker trousers in the dressing-up box and pranced around singing, ‘Who put him in?’ and ‘Who took him out?’ over and over.
They didn’t dare put me inside their stupid well.
‘Wait till we’ve practised the song,’ said Lancelot, giving me a worried look. ‘It might be safer.’
‘Yes,’ Lucilla agreed. ‘Let’s not put Tuffy in there until we’re sure that we’ve got everything right.’
Ellie looked down at the plaster on her arm, and then at me. ‘Yes, Tuffy. You can be in the show later.’
I’d had enough of people telling me where I could or couldn’t go in my own house. I gave a mighty squirm in Lucilla’s arms.
Terrified, she let go.
I jumped straight in their silly well.
They were all thrilled. ‘Oh, Tuffy! You’re a genius!’
I raised my head and yowled.
They were all so excited. ‘Look! Tuffy can act! He can pretend that he’s stuck down our well!’
‘Oh, he’s so clever!’
‘Quick! Sing your song, Lancelot!’
So Lancelot started off again. ‘Ding dong bell. Pussy’s in the well. Who put her in?’ he warbled.