Kitten

Yvann told me Diana had been charged by the police for the same offence he had, that of threatening to kill. She does this periodically but is discernibly pushing things lately. A shopkeeper neighbour complained. She spent a night in the cells, as had Yvann, and gone quiet since until the other day when there were police cars outside, an ambulance and a woman with a clip-board on the grass by her door. I leant over the balcony, “Is Diana all right?” and was reassured by a policewoman she was. My concern was the cat I call Kitten. When the ambulance was about to take off, I downed the stairs to ask had provision been made. Yes, Pete would look after it. “There’s no Pete here,” I objected. “The guy upstairs above her.” “That’s Leslie.” He conferred with Diana who must have been lucid. “John,” he concluded and I concurred: “That’s me. Where’s the key?” Further conference: “In a flower pot in her shed.”

Today a note was left on my door from an Alison about her bearing cat food. It was left for me with Tina. Alison came back. She was Diana’s niece who I let into Diana’s to get whatever Diana had wanted her to get. Diana was in the mental part of Queen Mary’s where, it was Alison’s feeling, she’d been sectioned. I made her a real coffee and had a lunch myself of kedgeree with a glass of white wine. I would not have let the cat starve, already having bought food for it – the magpies and the fox which also eat from its outside bowls. But what would it do come winter? Alison was suspecting Diana might be incarcerated indefinitely. “It has a fur coat and never went inside often anyway.” Kitten had made provision for any such eventuality having, as cats do, adopted another human to lengthen its food chain.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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