Upping Sticks
WRITTEN BY BARBARA DYNES
A lonely woman, a pyramid of cat food tins, a missing cat and a bored bloke… who knows what might happen?
My contented sister – with one lovely hubby, two adorable children and one cute cockapoo – is not the right person to ring when you need a moan. Yet I do just that.
“I’ve done the wrong thing, Donna. Coming here, I mean.” I ignore the weary sigh at the other end. “Upping sticks and moving miles from you all was crazy – “
“Hattie!” Her voice sounds stern. “You were so keen to get away after splitting with Jason. What was all that about clean slates and starting over?”
Now I’m the one who’s sighing, because she’s right, and I‘ve always loved this little coastal town – we used to come here on holiday as children. However, even at twenty-three, beginning again on your own is a bit scary.
“You’ve only been there six months. Give it time,” Donna goes on. “You’ve a good job and you’ll soon make friends. Must go and dunk the kiddies. Love you!”
Make friends? Ha! The two guys I work with in the small insurance office are both great, but Don is about to retire to Spain and Nigel is married to his beloved golf. There’s Di the Dragon, in Accounts, I suppose. On the bright side, moving has helped me get over the two-timing Jason. So has writing poems – drowning my sorrows – paper and laptop-wise. Odd odes, you might call them…
Mum must have had some kind of premonition about me when I was born. Calling me Hattie, I mean. “Scatty-Hattie suits you down to the ground!” she always says, good-naturedly. I frown, not even sure if the word “scatty” is cool these days, but it certainly suits. Though there must be other people who love bright colours, write dreamy poems in the dead of night, and have read the entire stock of Westerns in the library – twice. Also, a very rare few, like me, who can’t stand mobile phones or social media.
It’s six pm. Jump to it, Hatt, go feed the cat I think, grabbing my jacket and slamming the front door. This is my favourite part of the day. The gorgeous Persian up the road is called Jasmine.
I first met her owner, eighty-seven-year-old Pam Wetherby, in Sainsbury’s. One day, after she admired my tangerine and scarlet skirt, I bought her a coffee in the café and exhausted myself listening to accounts of her Bridge sessions, swimming, indoor bowls, book club… “tripe” she dubbed my beloved Westerns. Her social life, unlike mine, is amazing. Then she mentioned visiting her poorly sister and Jasmine always going berserk in kennels. So, of course, I stepped in.
At Pam’s, Jasmine greets me by jumping down from her mum’s bed, yawning. I chat away to her as I stroke her long cream fur. Jasmine never fails to cheer me up. My flat having its own small patch of garden, I’ve contemplated getting a rescue cat myself, but supposing I up-sticks again?
I reread Pam’s written instructions: Jasmine dislikes being picked up, will only eat one brand of cat food, Charlie’s Choice, and don’t forget her daily hairball treats. Cash in desk drawer.
“Must go to the pet shop, Jasmine,” I say, tickling her under the chin. Pam did apologise for not replenishing Jasmine’s food stock before she left – too busy socialising, no doubt. Well, that’s no problem. “But your mum’s left far too much cash,” I murmur to the cat, eyeing the notes in the drawer. Those gorgeous golden eyes stare at me, unblinking.
Next morning, Saturday, I trot along to Purrfect Pets two streets away and spot Jasmine’s favourite food immediately, stacked up in a beautifully created pyramid. Someone is obviously dedicated to their job, I muse, blinking at the mass of Charlie’s Choice tins, all so meticulously balanced. Then I give myself a little shake. Hattie, this is not the Tate Gallery; you’re holding people up.
I move forward to grab a couple of tins from the top, and suddenly – you’ve guessed – the shop’s calm aura is shattered. The racket as tins collapse all around in a kind of heavy metal rain shower is thunderous. People yell as they dart out of the way, dogs bark excitedly, and all is chaos.
As for me, I am horrified, embarrassed, mortified, you name it. Scatty Hattie should be used to such happenings, but I want to just disappear.
“Madame, there are plenty Charlie’s Choice on the shelf,” a voice says icily.
I turn. A tall guy with Robbie on his name label is glaring at me politely. It is actually possible to politely glare. I’ve seen the expression before, but this man’s attempt is slightly different in that his eyes – a warm chocolate colour – seem to be almost twinkling. My imagination, probably. I gape at the avalanche.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t notice –”
“Please step aside, Madame.”
I do a sheepish shuffle and Robbie wades into the sea of Charlie’s Choice like a warrior minus his sword. All those tins – I worry about his shins… That rhymes, I think crazily, suddenly wanting to giggle.
Desperately grabbing some hairball treats off the shelf, I hurry to the till. Then I can’t remember if they are the right brand. Luckily, Jane (on her lapel) remembers her customer, Pam. She yells at me over the clatter of Robbie’s restacking efforts. “Yes, Mrs Wetherby always buys it for Jasmine.”
I can’t face going to other shops, so I go home to brew a strong black coffee. Hopefully I won’t ever need to go in Purrfect Pets again as Pam will be back in a few days.
That evening when I go to feed Jasmine she doesn’t appear immediately and I end up trailing through the house, calling her name.
“Hattie, the house is cat-less,” I tell myself eventually, but it’s chilly and damp in the garden, with no sign of life. I frown as I study the fence. It’s quite high. Jasmine does not strike me as a particularly agile cat, but she’s only five years old. Can Persians jump? Now my insides are churning alarmingly. In fact, I’m beginning to panic.
I go back in and search everywhere, peering in cupboards I’d normally never dream of opening in someone else’s house. Pam did say Jasmine rarely ventured far, but maybe she fancied a night on the tiles… or, more likely, she needed to get away from Scatty Hattie.
By Sunday afternoon, with Jasmine still missing, I’m in despair. I make a plan. Ring every doorbell in the road, then the Cats Protection people and the police. Put Missing Cat posters on lampposts… and, as a last resort, ring Pam. I am in a right state. I’ve done some stupid things in my time but losing someone else’s cat is not one of them.
My concerned neighbours are really kind, most volunteering to search sheds, etc. I even pluck up courage to phone Purrfect Pets. Jane is lovely, assuring me the shop will do all it can to help.
Next morning, I go straight to Pam’s. Still no Jasmine. I stare at my phone. Pam is due back tomorrow. Is it better to ring with the awful news now – prepare her, well, if you can call it that? I swallow hard. I just can’t.
The doorbell rings.
I stare blankly at the guy on the step. Tall, big brown eyes… the tin man… my sword-less warrior.
“Hi! Hattie, isn’t it? I’m Robbie from Purrfect Pets. I hear Mrs Wetherby’s cat is missing?”
“Well, yes…”
“Jane said you rang. I delivered Jasmine’s food here once, so I knew where to come.”
“Really?” Now I’m the one who’s lost.
“It’s just that I have an idea,” he says. “Have you searched the little thicket behind this house?”
“No – she never goes far –”
“Ah, we’re talking cats; unpredictable creatures. I could help you look there? I’ve a free couple of hours.”
“That’s so kind of you!”
I grab my jacket then lock the door. I am overwhelmed. People are lovely. One day I shall write a poem about the kindness of strangers. I sigh. If Scatty Hattie, the poet, ever writes again, that is. A bit dramatic, that, but… Why, oh why did I ever move here?
Robbie and I go around to the back of Pam’s house. Sure enough, there is a small wooded area – Jasmine would have to go across a road… I bite my lip and turn my head away from Robbie. Tears are very close, but he notices.
“Look, this is not your fault, Hattie. She will turn up, I’m sure.” He pauses, blinking exaggeratedly. “She can’t fail to see that jacket from wherever she is.”
I look down. It’s my favourite lime green. “I suppose it is a bit bright.”
“I love it. It suits you.”
Stupidly, I find myself blushing. Annoyed, I tell myself that colourful coats are not the main issue here.
“Pam will be back tomorrow,” I blurt out. “How can I face her?”
“She’ll be upset, but she’ll understand. Mrs W’s a sensible woman.”
I smile weakly and stare ahead, desperately hoping to see that cute cream hairy face in the undergrowth.
“Apologies again,” I say.
About the tins. Was that pyramid your creation?
“No, the manager’s.” His smile is wide and warm. “I love my job but in boring moments I’ve dreamt about that happening. You made my day!”
I laugh, then frown.
“D’you reckon if we yell her name it might help?”
“No. She’s a cat, not a dog… but we can try… Jasmine!” he shouts.
I join in, but it’s no use. Trees rustle and twigs crackle underfoot, but no Persian cat appears. We tramp about for a while, then Robbie suggests we go back.
“I’m so sorry,” he states. “It’s an awful situation. A pal once told me how he looked after someone else’s goldfish. When the poor thing suddenly expired, he bought another from a pet shop. He couldn’t face telling the owner, see. She never guessed, apparently.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Just trying to cheer you up,” he says, as we approach Pam’s door. Then he suddenly stops. “Wow! Look what I see.”
I stare. There, sitting square in the middle of the front step is the beautiful Jasmine, calmly and deliberately washing her face. She stops, paw in mid-air, her expression clearly saying You’re late!
I am so relieved I can’t speak. Then I find myself giggling helplessly as we take her inside, both making a fuss of her.
“I don’t get it,” I say eventually. “Her coat is hardly ruffled. Where has she been?”
“Who knows? Problem solved, that’s the main thing.”
“Thank you so much for this, Robbie.”
It’s the first time I’ve called him by his name and he looks chuffed.
“So pleased she’s turned up.” He hesitates. “Might you be in the shop again to play footie with a few more tins?”
“Who knows? I did think about getting a rescue cat.”
“Great! If you need help choosing one, I’m your man!”
Robbie winks and I laugh. Maybe Donna was right. Upping sticks wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
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Pic: Alamy
Allison Hay
I joined the "My Weekly" team thirteen years ago and, more recently, "The People's Friend". I love the variety of topics we cover both online and in the magazines. I manage the digital content for the brands, sharing features and information on the website, social media and in our digital newsletters.
