In Margarets village in the English countryside, her old tomcat finally passed away. The cat had been something of a legend: many victories in love, numerous battered rivals, and a lifetimes tally of mice caught in the barns. But time does not stand stilleven a champion cat ends up worn out after nearly twenty years without a major overhaul.
She wrapped her beloved pet in a clean tea towel, picked up her spade, and headed behind the allotments to bury him properly. Her husband, Ernest Barrow, was tinkering around in the shed at the far end of the garden, muttering and swearing as he fixed something deep below in the cellar.
After paying her final respects to her faithful feline, Margaret covered the small grave and stepped out into the lane, clay still clinging to her spade. Just then, her neighbourcity-bred Florenceapproached, her shopping basket in hand.
Good morning, Margaret, Florence called, adding politely, What brings you out so early?
Oh, its my old Percy, said Margaret with a sigh. Hes had his run. Poor old boy passed on this morning. Had a little cry, then buried him behind the allotment.
The news made Florence pause, confusedshed seen Ernest Barrow just yesterday at the village shop, picking up bags of sugar, a pack of Lambert & Butler, and a nip of gin.
Cant be! exclaimed Florence. Ernest is gone? So suddenly? I was chatting to him only yesterday.
Yes, nodded Margaret gravely, He was sprightly enough then, polished off an entire tin of pilchards for tea. We even had a bit of a cuddle last night
Florences eyes widened as the implication took root.
But this morning he was under the weather, Margaret went on, Lay down on the bench, mumbled a bit, and just slipped away.
Florence crossed herself out of habit, unsettled.
How quickly things can turn! she gasped. One minute hes here, the nextgone. But why are you carrying that spade?
Told you, didnt I? Margaret said with a touch of impatience. I wrapped him up nice and neat, buried him behind the allotment, and marked the spot with a stick so I dont forget.
Florence was a woman of the city, uncertain about these rural traditions. It seemed strange to her that Margaret would so casually bury her departed Ernest behind the vegetable patch and mark it with a twig.
Youre nothing if not practical, Margaret! Florence mumbled awkwardly. Just went and buried him yourself! Arent you supposed to call someone, at least the doctor to register the death?
Now it was Margarets turn to look at Florence as if shed lost the plot.
Dont be daft! Margaret laughed. He was a character, sure, but whos got the patience for all that fuss? What, you want me to fetch the Chief Constable for every such thing?
Florence was speechless. Margaret shifted the spade to her other shoulder.
Maybe in the city thats how you lot do things, she conceded, Bureaucrats and paperwork for every little thing. Here, we keep it simple. Someone passeswell, thats the way of things. Pick up your spade, go behind the allotments. Plenty of space out there.
Goodness Florence muttered. I can see Ive still much to learn about village life. But why bury him out in the nettles behind the allotment? Couldnt you have him in the churchyard, at least?
Margaret felt her patience wearing thin.
And where else would you have me put him? she said fiercely. Not in consecrated ground with the upright folk? Thats hardly fitting. Behind the allotments where weve always put them.
Florence perched warily on a log, avoiding Margarets eyes and the muddy spade. Her legs were suddenly unsteady.
You are something else, neighbour, she managed, voice trembling. So youve buried others back there too?
Oh, Ive buried my share, Margaret said with a sigh. There was Charlie before Percygentle-natured, but a right nuisance in his own way. Would sneak into bed at night and leave the sheets soaked by morning. I used to tan his hide, I can tell you! And before Charlie, there was Tommyhe was a sweetheart, but his time came and he went as well. Ive gone through a fair few over the years.
She slammed the spade into the turf for emphasis.
Now theyre all lined up out therePercy, Charlie, Tommy. My handsome boys. No matter, though. My niece promised me a new kitten next week. I daresay Ill never be short of company.
What Florence thought was never known, because just then, out from the cellar, covered in earth and red-faced with fury, stomped Ernest Barrow.
Trying to do me in, are you, you old baggage? he hollered at Margaret. You covered me over up there, I shouted my head off, flailing abouttook me ages to scramble out, while youre here gossiping!
He snatched the spade from Margaret.
Give me that! I need to dig out my bootsand the gins down there too!
At that moment, Florence slipped clean off her log, fainted away, and crumpled to the grass. That little bottle of gin from the cellar came very much in handy after all.
