Wildcat By The Water

Book summary

Uncle Frank, a painter and modern shaman, discovers he can communicate telepathically with cats. From alley cats to wild hunters, their unique perspectives guide him through England’s countryside to the remote Highlands in search of the elusive Scottish wildcat. A journey of companionship, cruelty, and the beauty of the wild unfolds.

Excerpt from Wildcat By The Water

Chapter One: Sitting Tenants

"The cottage has been shut up for the past year after the estate was sold and I'm afraid it's got a bit rundown," the agent warned me. "Though, truth be told, the owners never spent much on it. That's reflected in the very reasonable rent. The last resident was an unmarried estate woodsman. It'll be home to wasps and spiders now, I shouldn't wonder."

"Sounds fun," I replied. I paid six months' rent in advance and left the office with the keys to the property.

After a tiresome day spent among motorway traffic the peace that surrounded the cottage seemed to me like a force of transformation. The few sounds that disturbed it, like the rustling of leaves in the nearby woods, seemed to acquire a suggestive, almost mystical quality.

Just right for an ancient shaman, I thought with a smile.

There were no wasps' nests, though there were a few dried-up insects that lay on their backs on the window ledges. There weren't many spiders either, most of them were out hunting in the overgrown garden and would not retreat into the cottage until the early frosts of autumn.

The first floor contained two bedrooms devoid of furniture, but with fine views of woodland from the windows. The larger, with excellent light, would be my studio; the smaller room would be used as storage space for finished work.

The only other upstairs room was the bathroom, with immersion heater, a wash-hand basin and a bath but no shower. The bath contained the dried-up remains of several spiders, that had fallen in and been unable to escape. Spiders in baths don't get there through the plughole, as some opinions suppose, they fall from above.

On the ground floor the sitting room and scullery were also empty. There was a walk-in pantry and a kitchen with an ancient electric cooker. All the rooms had quarry-tiled floors laid directly on the bare earth.

Perfect, I thought.

When I stepped into the small back parlour, wondering if I might turn it into a cosy bedroom, with a bright log fire to keep me company in the evenings, I found I was no longer alone.

Two tomcats, one light grey with a white bib, the other tawny with broken black stripes along its back, sat on opposite sides of the parlour's old-fashioned cast-iron grate. Neither moved as I stepped into the room, merely glancing at me with apparent indifference. I stared at them in surprise. The outside door had been locked when I arrived.

"How in the name of eternal mystery did you get in?" I asked.

"It's our home," Stripes replied.

Bib scowled; some cats are excellent scowlers. "We've every right."

"It doesn't concern you that I'm the official tenant, the one who pays the rent?"

"Why should it? Stripes answered defiantly.

"You come from the world of money. It's a very recent world. We come from the ancient Wildwood and were around long before you. Therefore we have automatic seniority." Bib added with incontestable finality: "We have seen worlds you can't possibly imagine."

I was intrigued by this pair of truculent felines and I sensed I had a comparable effect on them. I supposed it was rare for them to encounter a human who understood cats' talk.

"Okay. If you want to stay there has to be a deal."

Their ears twitched and I knew they were listening, even though they were doing their best to feign indifference.

"If you keep the cottage free of rats and mice you can stay here."

"We don't do rats," Stripes replied curtly.

"They might have been poisoned," Bib elaborated. "It's a pointless risk."

They had me on that one, but I didn't want to lose face. Before I could think of a reply Stripes sealed my fate.

"Rats are intelligent. They won't try to get in because they know we're here. We don't need to catch them. Mice are stupid. They'll come inside in spite of us. The only way is to kill them."

"If we move out the rats will get in," Bib warned, staring at me. "Then you'll have a problem – they'll get in the pantry and eat your food!"

I saw a flaw in their argument. "I can visit the world of money and buy poison."

"Then you'll have rats dying all over the place; under the bedroom floorboards, in the drains. Their bodies will start to smell. You'll tear the place apart trying to find them." Stripes cast an omniscient glance at me. "You have to know how rats are and then you can beat them." He yawned, feigning boredom. "Can we talk about something more interesting?"

"Okay," I said, "name your subject."

"The deal," Bib replied. "So far we've only heard your side. Our request is very simple: you give us milk. Then we'll catch mice and frighten the rats away."

"I drink goats' milk," I said. "I'm allergic to dairy products. I also eat goats' cheese."

"That's fine by us," Stripes said, then added: "Just as long as it's full cream."

"None of that watered-down stuff," Bib shot me a warning glare. "And none of that powdered rubbish. But we wouldn't mind a tiny bit of the goats' cheese, if you have any to spare."

"It's a deal," I smiled. "Let's shake on it, metaphorically speaking." A thought occurred to me: "What about your food?"

"That's our business," Stripes stated with finality. "There's just one other thing."

I wondered what was coming next.

"You could make a fire in that little grate," Bib suggested. "It can get chilly in the evenings out here. We used to sit by it when the old woodsman lived here."

"There are logs and kindling in the shed," Stripes said. "The old woodsman kept himself well stocked."

"That's a good idea," I agreed. "I enjoy an evening fire myself."

Things were going well. I looked forward to pleasant evenings by the fireside with my two articulate companions.

My next task was to unload my old camper van. I took my easel, lightweight extending table and painting materials to the larger bedroom, then carried my camp bed and two folding chairs into the parlour. The cats had ignored me, staring impassively into worlds I couldn't see.

"What do you want two chairs for?" Stripes asked. "Are we expecting company?"

Before I could reply Bib leaped on to one of the folding chairs. "He's brought it for us, of course. How thoughtful."

Stripes jumped up beside Bib. "Just enough room for us both. Now all we need is a fire and some milk."

Beginning to feel a little like a servant I fetched logs and dry kindling from the outside store, sprinkled a few drops of turps substitute on the kindling and in minutes a cheerful fire was burning in the grate. The cats, sitting side by side on the folding chair, stared at the fire, their pupils narrowing at the brightness of the flames.

"We'll take a nap now," Bib announced, glancing at me. "It would be nice if you could give us a drink of milk when we wake up."

Not waiting for a reply the cats curled up on the chair and promptly went to sleep.

There was no more conversation to be had, so I left the parlour and busied myself in the kitchen. I plugged in my small portable fridge and put into it cartons of goats' milk and cheese, plus a sealed container of vegetable curry, which I intended to heat up in my microwave for supper.

I rummaged through a box of miscellaneous items and located an earthenware bowl I had intended to use for indoor plants – I'd had in mind to buy a mix of cyclamen to brighten up a windowsill – and put it aside for the cats' milk. It was my first personal sacrifice. I had a feeling it would not be my last.

I went upstairs and swept the two bedroom floors, then I laid out my paints, brushes and cleaning jars on the extending table. I had a box of soft cloths to cover my finished paintings and I put these in the second bedroom.

When I returned to the parlour the cats were sitting side by side on the chair staring at the dying embers of the fire. Bib was scowling.

"You've almost let it go out."

"It's okay. I can save it." I placed the bowl on the floor. "Milk."

The cats leaped off the chair and began to drink, their heads pressed together, as there was hardly room in the bowl for them both to drink at the same time. While they drank I threw kindling on the embers and brought the fire back to life.

"Simple as that. The servant has sorted the problem."

The cats jumped back onto the chair and began washing the last traces of milk from their faces and whiskers. Gratitude, I thought sadly, was not in their mindset.

Stripes stopped washing. "If it makes you feel better, we're both very grateful for your selfless attention."

They had been reading my thoughts – or, perhaps more accurately, picking up the vibe of my disappointment.

"Don't expect us to react like well trained children," Bib said stiffly. "To show gratitude is demeaning. Self-respecting cats don't do demeaning." He was scowling again. "There are a lot of things you need to learn about the nature of cats."

That was evidently true. "Can I ask a personal question?"

"You can ask as many as you like," Stripes replied. "But you have to understand we might choose not to answer them all."

I took the plunge. "Are you related to each other, or did you just meet by chance?"

"We're brothers," Stripes confessed. "Born in the same litter."

Bib elaborated. "There were six of us. All different colours, which is not uncommon."

"Our owner," Stripes began, "that is, the fellow who thought he owned us, was an out-of-work farm labourer from a village in Ireland. He brought us to England to sell us, along with a couple of smelly lurchers."

"But we escaped." Bib revealed.

"What – all six of you? I asked.

"Just the two of us," Bib clarified. "Because we were the bravest. We seized the first chance we got and ended up here."

"We walked for a long time and had lots of adventures," Stripes admitted, with an undeniable touch of pride.

"We were chased by dogs," Bib said,"which was predictable and boring."

"A gamekeeper tried to shoot us," Stripes added, "because we were raiding his nests."

"What nests?" I interrupted. "I thought gamekeepers raised their birds from chicks and kept the growing birds in netted enclosures?"

"These were wild pheasants' nests, birds that had esaped the guns on shooting days. But the keepers always think of them as theirs," Bib pronounced disapprovingly.

"We fought with a gang of nasty stoats."

"And foxes."

"Foxes?" I asked in surprise, "And you managed to survive?"

"It was a cub, but a big one," Stripes said. "He surprised us when we were raiding. We had no choice but fight back. I gave him a bloody nose with a swipe of my claws."

"And I jumped on his back and bit a piece out of his ear," Bib stated with pride. "Then he yelped and ran away."

A text-book encounter, or perhaps a touch of the blarney? I didn't know if I should believe them. I had seen hunting cats flee from the sight of a fox during an early morning wildlife watch in Devon the previous autumn.

"It doesn't matter if you don't believe us," Stripes said. "All we can tell you is the truth."