“They’re fine.”
“I’m on my way, leaving now.”
Everyone is in the front garden when I pull into the drive. Leah has Daisy on her back, both of them in their school uniforms and both looking up at the wide-spreading oak tree that overhangs the front wall. Their brother is straddling a branch about twelve feet from the ground, legs swinging happily, grinning down at the four of us below him. Jess stands beneath him, hands on her hips. Our son has always been a daredevil and likes climbing, running, jumping off things. He learned to walk early, at nine months, and it wasn’t long before he was swinging from the curtains or jumping down the stairs into cushions piled at the bottom.
Today, he seems to have discovered that the oak tree in our new front garden has great potential as a climbing frame.
“Callum?” I say, walking across the gravel. “Are you stuck?”
He raises his fists to the sky. “I’m the king! Woo-hoo!”
“It’s a bit high, matey. How about I get the ladder and help you get down?”
“It’s fine, Daddy! Don’t need the ladder.”
“Not him,” Jess says, pointing higher up the tree. “Him.”
I follow her finger: ten feet above Callum’s head is our cat, spreadeagled on an almost-vertical branch, his considerable bulk clinging to the bark, ears flat to his head, tail fluffed out in alarm.
“I was trying to reach Steve,” Callum shouts. “He’s the one who’s stuck.”
Steve lets out a low, plaintiveriaoooow, his tail flicking nervously from side to side.
“Daft creature,” I say under my breath. “How long has he been up there?”
Jess whistles to the cat but he doesn’t respond.
“About an hour,” she says. “God knows how he escaped. Callum thought he was trying to reach the bird box. I tried to get him down myself but you know I don’t do heights.”
“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll go.”
I look higher into the spreading branches, shielding my eyes against the afternoon sun, and can just about see an old wooden bird box attached to the trunk above him.
Next to me, Leah bounces her little sister on her back. “We should have called him Tigger, shouldn’t we, Daze? Good at climbing up trees but rubbish at getting down again.”
“Heisorange like Tigger,” Daisy agrees.
“We could just wait until he gets hungry?” I say. “Or until it gets dark.”
“Don’t be mean, Dad,” Leah says.
I hand my jacket to Jess, fetch the ladder from the garage, and lean it up against the branch next to Callum.
“Fire brigade game,” I say, putting a hand under his arm and helping him onto the rungs. “I’m the fireman and you’re being rescued.”
When he’s safely back on the front lawn, I move the ladder across and extend it, leaning it up against the branch where Steve lies flattened against the bark. He lets out another long, sadmeowas if he can’t believe someone has stranded him in the tree. Leah offers to get his cat carrier but I learned long ago that when rescuing him from high places, trying to put him in the box was like trying to put an octopus into a string bag. He disliked being confined at the best of times, let alone when he was suffering the indignity of being rescued.
Instead, I climb up to him and give him a minute to edge nervously down toward me. The earthy, rich smell of the oak is stronger up here. The bird box is just above us but it looks old and unused, the wood darkened and split with age.Nothing for you there, Steve.When the cat is close enough, I pick him up with both hands and bring him to my chest. His claws, having been embedded in the tree bark, now go straight through my polo shirt like needles as he climbs up and around my neck, draping himself across my shoulders like an angry ginger shawl.
By the time we’re back on solid ground, the skin on my back is stinging and raw where it’s been punctured by his claws. He leaps off and runs around the side of the house without a backward glance.
“Ouch,” Jess says, looking at the back of my neck. “Shall I get the Savlon?”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Think I might take that bird box down, though. It’s falling apart anyway, and he’s only going to go up after it again.”
“Be careful.”
I go inside to change into clothes more appropriate for tree climbing. I’m lacing up my trainers in the bedroom when the sound of a vacuum cleaner starting up reaches me from across the landing. Which is curious, to say the least—because Jess and the kids are all still outside.
