When we travelled from London to spend the holidays in the countryside, we brought along our cat, Oliver. Out there in the little Hampshire village, Olivers own brother, Basil, already resided. Basil earned his name thanks to his bulging, owl-like eyesa quality for which the villagers were never shy with their plain-spoken nicknames.
Things started off rather rocky for poor Oliver. Despite his modest stature, Basil made sure his city brother knew who was boss, bullying him away from the store cupboard and hissing with a ferocity reminiscent of those dramatic guests on famous chat shows.
And then, one day, Basil made the classic mistake of a schoolyard toughbelieving himself invincible, he launched a full-blown attack on Oliver. Oliver, with an air of dismissive elegance, lazily waved his paw in that oh, do go away, darling fashion, accidentally catching Basil square with a right hook. Later, we had to fish Basil out of the dustbin, ruffled but unharmed.
So in a manner both awkward and typical of his life, Oliver unintentionally claimed top spot in the local feline hierarchy.
Here in the village, cats are regarded for practical reasons. Only winter spared Oliver from working the stables, chasing mice from dawn till dusk. Mealtimes, on the other hand, were an unpredictable affair. Oliver took a long time to get used to this, having been raised on schedule and served from porcelain, with the city housekeeper inviting him to dinner as if he were a lord.
The stress brought out Olivers primitive instincts in no time. More than once, I caught him in the middle of the night, nose-deep in a saucepan atop the cooker. Basil, crouched by the kitchen stool, would hiss desperately to alert his brother of my approach. Slowly, Oliver would glance my way and meow, as if to say, Dont worry, hes one of usyou should see how he raids the fridge after dark.
One afternoon, convinced that Oliver was finally ready, we carried him out and set him in the snow-covered garden. When Oliver turned to face us, his whole face dusted white, his eyes carried the mournful look of a man reflecting on all lifes wrong turnslike Al Pacino in that famous scene from Scarface. After that, we decided it was best not to let him outside again.
One evening, a few of Arthurs local mates came around. We had squeezed ourselves into our small sitting room, where I read the children a bit of Dickens, The Pickwick Papers. Just as we reached the part where a sinister woman transforms into a jet-black cat, scratching down the corridor, the lounge door swung open with a piercing creak. In strutted Basil, proud as anything.
To our dismay, Oliver had finally taught his brother the art of opening any door with a flick of the paw.
The sitting room was tiny, but in that instant we scattered. One lad tried to clamber out the window; only his grandmother, ever the feeder, managed to catch him before he tumbled out altogether.
Oh, and I probably should mentionBasil is pure, pitch-black.
Truly, there are few times when classic tales have such a thunderous effect on modern children.
