‘No, don’t go,’ said Sam, but she was already inside the cottage.
Blythe quickly returned with a bowl of cat food and Turpin lifted his nose and had a good sniff. ‘Dinner time,’ she said, placing the bowl on the ground by the patio furniture. ‘If you come over to the table, Sam, it’ll be easier for him to jump on that to get down.’
‘And we obviously want to make things easier for the cat,’ he grumbled, but he did do as she suggested.
Turpin hopped onto the table and then to the grass and started to tuck into his meal. Sam straightened out his spine. ‘Ow. That hurt.’
‘Sam, meet Turpin.’
‘We’ve met,’ said Sam. ‘We don’t like each other. But I can see why he’s called Turpin – he assaults unsuspecting people.’ Sam tried to rub at his back where the cat had clawed him.
‘Actually, that’s not why he’s called Turpin. Legend has it that the famous highwayman Dick Turpin used to work the Fosse Way.’ She indicated the nearby ancient Roman road to the east of the village with a wave of her hand. ‘And after a hard day of robbing people he would take shelter at the Highway Inn. When the authorities came looking for him, they would hide his horse in the cellar and Turpin would hide in a nook inside the huge fireplace. And that’s where this cat used to curl up. Phyllis thinks he’s Dick Turpin reincarnated. The pub landlord thinks he’s a pain in the bum because he kept leaving sooty paw prints over everything and everyone. Plus in the winter there’s regularly a lit fire in the fireplace so it wasn’t the safest place for him to hide. For his own good he’s barred from the pub.’ Turpin gave a sad mew as if he understood what she was saying.
‘So he belong to the cottage’s previous owner?’
‘Not exactly. He’s semi-feral and kind of lives in your garden. Murray always fed him and I’ve been carrying on with that since he died. I did leave you a note in the utility,’ she said. ‘Sorry if he was a bit of a shock. I’m sure you’ll get used to each other. Here’s my set of keys.’
Sam pulled a face as he took them. ‘I’m not after a pet. But I can take him to the rescue.’
Blythe couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. In Blythe’s last conversation with Murray she’d promised to take good care of Turpin. Granted the context had been because Murray was going away for a week, as he often did, but as Murray had not come home she’d felt it was down to her to carry on looking after Turpin. ‘I don’t think he’d do well at the rescue. He’s not the sort of cuddly kitty most people are after. I’m not sure he’s even house-trained.’ What would happen to a feline like Turpin at the cat rescue anyway? He wasn’t exactly friendly and barely tolerated being stroked – who wanted a cat like that? Blythe feared they would have no alternative but to put him down, which seemed like a drastic solution. ‘Surely you could cut him some slack.’
‘I’m not really a cat person,’ said Sam. ‘I’m sure he’ll find a good home.’
‘He’s never been someone’s pet. He’s an outdoor cat. I doubt he would cope at a rescue centre; they probably wouldn’t even be able to catch him.’
Sam shrugged. ‘I’m sorry but he’s not living here.’
‘Okay. How about if I feed him?’ offered Blythe, but Sam was frowning. ‘You’ll not have to do anything. I’ll come round and I’ll try to lure him to my parents’ house. I’ll move the food a bit closer each night.’ She mimed moving the bowl and Turpin hissed at her.
‘That’ll take a while.’
‘At least let me try. I think the rescue would be a death sentence for him.’ She went to stroke Turpin and he took a swipe at her.
Sam took a long while before answering. ‘Fine.’ He handed her back her keys. ‘As long as he’s not going to be a nuisance. We’ll need to—’
His sentence was cut short by an awful clattering sound as the Shih Tzu came belting around the side of the house dragging the garden chair behind it and Turpin fled into the bushes.
9
2ndOctober
The first Holly Cross Christmas Committee meeting of the year was always a bit of an occasion. Attended by the great and the good of Holly Cross, all were enticed to show up by Norman’s iced buns. Blythe took a seat and put her bag on one for Vicky, who was setting Eden up on a separate table with some colouring. She joined the others already assembled around the meeting table with Leonora, the formidable chair of the committee, at the head. Phyllis sat to her left as she was the HCCC secretary – a slight woman with a shock of grey hair who had a soft spot for Norman.
Norman opened up the cake boxes he’d placed in the middle. ‘Usual buns and I’m trying out a passionfruit curd in the éclairs so all feedback welcomed,’ he said, as hands came from every angle to grab one. He seemed pleased by the eager response.
‘I suppose now is a good time to go through notices while you’re all busy eating,’ said Leonora. She didn’t wait for replies. ‘Last year we had more visitors than ever and raised the most money we ever have for charity, which is something we want to continue this year. At the post-event meeting in January we talked about improvements we wanted to see this year, which were an online presence, Christmas Olympics, sexy Santas—’ there was a moment where Leonora eyed Phyllis over her glasses before continuing ‘—definitely no live reindeers and the end of Murray’s dodgy flickering lights. Ah, well, that leads me on to my next point. We have lost a key member of this committee in Murray—’
‘We’ll all miss Murray,’ said Norman, and there was a forlorn ripple of agreement.
‘Lovely man. Very sad,’ said Vicky, whilst licking cream off her fingers. ‘Those éclairs are bloody gorgeous, Norman,’ she added.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled broadly.
‘He’ll be sorely missed,’ said Greg, giving a nod in Blythe’s direction.
‘Funny he was buried in Manchester though,’ said Vicky.
‘I don’t think funny is the right word,’ said Arthur.
