Danny gets a Cat (or vice versa).
It was a warm summer Sunday morning in '56; our little RC chapel (served from Louth) was packed with holidaymakers for the (one) Mass of the week at Mablethorpe. There was no point in asking for a volunteer server for Fr.McEnery. In my boyhood town of Liverpool, I would have been deluged with offers: every Catholic man would have served his stint as as altar-boy. Not to know how to do this was a badge of shame. But here, in the wilds of Lincolnshire.....things were different.
If you want a job doing.....I was in full kit, cottar and soutane; coming to the end of the Sermon I saw it. The doors at the end of the church were open for coolness: through them strolled the Cat. Casting disdainful glances to left and right it strolled slowly and majestically up the aisle.
The congregation reacted in true British style: they closed their eyes in prayer or buried their heads in their Missals and tried to pretend it wasn't happening. Not one of them had the gumption to get up, grab the cat and throw it out (my wife didn't see it until it almost reached the altar rails). The Credo was reaching the end, the cat was getting near to them with the obvious intent of strolling between the pillars and joining us on the altar steps.
This could not be. I abandoned my post, leaving the celebrant to sort out his own water and wine, opened the altar gate and scooped up the intruder. The Cat made no attempt to struggle or object, but reclined passively in my arms and looked at me in a sort of quizzical enqiry. I took it out into the garden outside and bade it begone. Tail erect in contempt, it stalked off. I closed the church doors and returned to duty.
When we came out after Mass the Cat was still there. It was a glossy young tabby, obviously in peak condition, and (I suppose it must have caught my scent) came over to greet me as an old friend. When we walked back home round the corner, it trotted along with us like a pet dog. We opened our front door, it hopped in ahead of us and started a careful inspection of the house. Finally it decided that the place would pass muster, it sat down on the hearthrug and carefully preened its fur. Then it looked up enquiringly: "What about my elevenses ?" "Poor thing must be hungry", said Mrs D. A saucer of milk was graciously accepted.
Local enquiries turned up no reports of any lost cat; the Police were not interested. We had, it seemed, got a Cat (or was it the other way round ?) First thing, the animal had to have a name. A cursory inspection revealed that we had a tom. With his ecclesiastical provenence, "Peter" seemed apt. Full grown, he would probably become as truculent as the "Tiddles" of Geriaviator's Khormaksar story, but still kittenish, he made an affectionate and amusing pet. He seemed house-trained, and not unduly destructive. As a scratching post he picked a kitchen table leg; I bound it round with hessian and left him to it.
As to rations, he was very picky when it came to canned cat food, but there was stuff on the market called "Felix" (in a yellow and black bag). These were hard and dry lumps, perhaps a sort of pemmican of various offals. It looked most unappetising tack, but Peter couldn't get it down fast enough - and it was cheaper than the tins.
Generally he was well behaved, but every few weeks he would go 'doolally', rather like the musth which periodically afflicts male Indian elephants (but without the aggression). On these occasions he would dash round the house like a (misguided) missile, seemingly unaffected by gravity as he could fly round all four walls of a room without touching ground (much like the m/bike "Wall of Death" riders at the Fairs of those days). The surprising thing was that he never knocked anything over, or dislodged a picture, during these paroxysms.
At the end of the summer I was detached back to Shawbury for the month long GCA Course at RAF Sleap. We went together to Shrewsbury, having found a little flatlet in Porthill. Poor Peter could not be left behind in Mablethorpe to starve, could he ? (in fact I'm sure he was completely streetwise and well able to look after himself). A little elastic collar was prepared for him with our Porthill address. We duly set out.
Sleap is a few miles north of Shawbury, the MPN-1 radar, on which we would be trained, stayed out there. For us to practise on, Marshalls supplied civilian pilots flying RAF Chipmunks from Shawbury.
Much more about MPN-1 next time.
Goodnight, Danny42C
Do not look a gift Cat in the mouth.