If I had thought, however, that things had changed – that with just me and the two cats at the cottage my image was going to subside into one of quiet, cat-companied sobriety – I soon discovered my mistake. I had far more to do now that I was on my own – weeding the borders, weeding the paths, pruning the fruit trees, cutting the lawn-edges – and, to make the best of my time, I hit on the idea of doing such jobs while I was out with the cats. It worked. It is amazing how many weeds one can pull out of a section of path, or leaders one can cut off an apple tree with long-handled pruners, in five minutes while keeping an eye on a kitten. The snag was, it usually was only five minutes. Tani I had no need to worry about. She never went outside the garden, and if ever I lost sight of her I only had to blow Charles's scout whistle and she would reappear, streaking at the speed of light for the cat-run and into the cat-house where she considered that Nobody, not even Kidnappers, could get her.
Saphra, growing up now and not so inclined to tag at her heels, was a different proposition. One minute he'd be on the front path with her, peering down a mousehole while I pulled out some weeds. Next moment he'd have upped and offed to the top border to dig a hole and I'd be up there with him, discreetly cutting a piece of lawn-edge. As soon as he'd finished that (and hole-digging was an art in itself as far as Saphra was concerned: he'd excavate down to his elbows before the hole was deep enough, sit on it, flood it to overflowing and turn round to examine it, his very own contribution of that most interesting substance, water, in wondering detail before covering it over with a long-distance paw as if such things were nothing to do with him)... as soon as he'd finished that, tail up, feeling a New Man, he'd belt up the steps by the garage, round the corner and along the drive, and I'd be after him, cat-crook in hand, to stop him going out under the gate.
The cat-crook was home-produced. Years before, cutting down undergrowth in the wood opposite the cottage, I'd bent down a tall hazel rod that was too thick to cut with shears and was impeding my way. Some two years later I came across it one day when I was again clearing the ground up there. The rod was now about an inch and a half thick and some six feet long, with a hook where I'd bent it over at the top. A natural shepherd's crook, I decided, and sawed it off at the base, brought it back to the cottage, trimmed it, dried it out and varnished it. A fine support stick it make for rambling over the hills, and useful protection for a woman on her own, or in the garden for seeing off dogs that threatened the cats through the gate, or for fielding one fast-growing young boy cat with ambitions to be an explorer. It fitted exactly round his neck and, extended from behind, reached him across distances which I, with just my hands, couldn't have spanned.
He knew when he'd been foiled. He'd reverse out of the crook and come back to sit watching for anything that might move in the row of raspberry canes – where I, dropping the crook and picking up the three-pronged fork I kept at the side of the garage, would weed at top speed for a moment or two until he moved on again.
Logical when one knew the reason for it, and I got through a lot of weeding that way, but it was a source of considerable speculation to casual passers-by. Not so casual eventually. I began to recognise the same faces, gathered two or three together or in Fred Ferry's case on his secretive own with the mysterious knapsack on his shoulder, gazing over the wall in wonder as I darted hither and thither, picking up a tool, scratching the ground with it, then throwing it down and sprinting like mad to some place else, always clutching my shepherd's crook.
'Never keeps at any thin' for long. She's always on the run like that,' was one comment I heard.
'Sad how gets 'em, innit?' was the reply. 'But she always was a bit queer, wun't she?'
'Whass she got thic crook for? Reckon she's goin' in for sheep?' reached my ears on another occasion.
Well, I wasn't. And I hadn't replaced Annabel, either. I'd thought of it, but Louisa reminded me of the winter nights when Annabel had colic and Charles and I had to hold her up between us and lead her up and down the lane by torchlight till she recovered, with her sagging dramatically to the ground at every opportunity.
'You could never do that on your own,' said Louisa, and she was right. Neither could I be sure of getting a donkey that was colic resistant. So I gave up the idea, and the grass in the field beyond the cottage, where I kept the caravan, grew long with nobody to eat it, and I had to keep it cut down with the hover-mower so that I could drive the car in to hitch up when required, and when I found that riders were getting into the field through the gap at the far end, cantering down the mowed section and jumping the pole across the entrance into the lane, I got annoyed. The horses' hooves made deep indentations in the surface that became a quagmire when it rained and, in dry weather, a rocky, pot-holed area that was hard on the car's suspension. When I found the pole broken one day I'd had enough. I put up a notice saying that the land was private property and that riders jumping horses or ponies in it were trespassing and would in future be prosecuted without further notice.
The result was amazing. This was years after the incident of Solomon and the kipper. By this time there were two riding schools in the village and several more, from neighbouring villages, who came over to trek in the forest, and the day after I put up the notice the girl in charge of one party appeared at the cottage door to apologise for the fact that two boys who rode with her had been going regularly into the field and jumping the pole. They'd ignored her instructions not to do it, she said, but now they'd seen the notice they were scared of being prosecuted and she'd come to plead on their behalf.
I wasn't going to prosecute anybody, I told her. The notice was just to keep people off, and I didn't suppose those two were the only ones who'd been doing it. Well, she'd told their mother about it, she said, and she thought I'd be hearing from her. With which, vastly relieved to hear that her riding school wasn't about to appear en masse in a magistrate's court, she departed and the next thing was a call from the boys' mother apologising for their behaviour, saying that she'd stopped their riding for a week, had told them she'd sell their ponies if they did it again, and felt terribly embarrassed about what they'd called me.
'Called me?' I echoed. 'But I've never spoken to them. I don't know your boys – and I'm sure they aren't the only ones who've been jumping in there.'
Their riding teacher had told her that they'd sworn at me, she insisted. Had actually repeated what they'd said, and she wasn't having them use that sort of language to anybody. She was sending them to apologise in person, and would I please tick them off thoroughly when they came.
That evening two small boys appeared, each clutching a shop-wrapped sheaf of flowers which I guessed had come out of their pocket money. Eyes down, avoiding looking directly at me or they'd have realised I wasn't the person they'd sworn at, they apologised, said they'd never do it again, and shot off up the hill, obviously glad to get away without being clapped in jail.
I never did find out who it was they'd sworn at. Probably Miss Wellington, I decided. I could imagine her remonstrating, in her role of protector of the valley, with anybody riding rough-shod over my field. What I couldn't understand was her not telling me about it. Always ready with what she'd said to people and what they'd said to her was Miss W. Always keen to be seen upholding the right. I can only imagine the language they used was such that, being a lady, she couldn't repeat it. I've always longed to know what it was.