Bucks Fizz For Breakfast

It’s amazing how a determined cat can rearrange your plans!

On Christmas Day I’m going to batten down the hatches, have Bucks Fizz for breakfast and wear my jimjams all day,” I announced.

Neil handed me an apéritif before sinking down on the settee in front of the log fire, in front of which a pile of next year’s holiday brochures lay scattered over the floor. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “And you,” I said to Scamp, our cat, “can do your own thing.” “OK,” he said – with a meow. Nine months ago, I went to a farm to collect some free-range eggs and instead came back with a free-range cat. Free-range as in sociable. Scamp visited all our neighbours – and their pets. Except Tuesday evenings. Tuesdays was his WI night.

Agreed, we stared mesmerised into the fire. A fallen log sparked up some flames while outside, a snell wind battered hail against the window. “This is the life,” murmured Neil. “It sure is,” I replied, thinking that for the first time in years, we would be having Christmas on our own.

Our kids had flown the coop and were with friends. And the relatives, through fair means and foul, had all been persuaded to make alternative arrangements.

“Just think,” said Neil, “I’ll not have Uncle Harry bending my ear about blended whisky versus malt. And drinking half a bottle of each of our whiskies to prove his point.”

“Nor Great Aunt Hettie leaving her false teeth beside her plate while she sucks the gravy off the turkey.”

No son’s student friends sleeping in the bath, no father relieving himself in the rhododendron bush because the bathrooms were occupied, no daughter being sick in the sink and crying helplessly over her lost love… “Bliss,” I said. I heard Greta’s car in the driveway next door. Two minutes later, the doorbell rang.

In the run-up to Christmas we had taken on the unofficial role of parceltaker-inners and had two sitting on the hall table. Scamp followed me to the door. Greta stood there in her duffel coat and Paddington Bear hat, looking rosy-cheeked and at seventy, fit enough to climb the Alps.

I handed her one of the parcels and she said without preamble, “I heard that you will be on your own on Christmas Day.” “Who told you that?” “Er… Scamp?” Did I forget to mention that I have the world’s first talking cat?

“No matter,” she continued, “you are most welcome to visit for a schnapps and some Stollen. Ja?”

I opened my mouth but the word no stuck in my throat. Instead, I prevaricated.

“Thank you, Greta, that’s most kind but some of the family may yet make it.”

Over my dead body – but that’s all I could think of on the spur of the moment.

“OK, but if you change your mind you are most welcome. Come, Scamp. Honey is waiting for you.”

Honey was her golden Labrador and he and Scamp were great pals. I watched as Scamp followed her and then closed the door, feeling mean.

Anita phoned,” said Neil, when I sat down. “We’ve been invited to their Christmas Eve party.” “And what did you say?” “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t get a chance. She launched into the good value of party trays from Freezeland, the best place to get prawn rings and how Mrs Jamieson’s bunions are acting up.”

“But their parties go on forever,” I wailed. “We’ll be lucky to get home before dawn!”

“Poor Allie.” Neil put an arm round me. “Come on, let’s look at the brochures.”

We were whale-watching in Nova Scotia when Robert came to the door. He was a man of few words. In appearance he reminded us of the character Owen in TheVicarofDibley. A confirmed bachelor, he sometimes even acted like him. “I’ve come for my parcel,” and halfway down the path, “thanks,” were the only words he uttered. We liked Robert – a lot. Later that evening when we’d finished our meal and were working our way down a bottle of wine the cat flap clattered.

“It’s a PRESENT,” Robert replied as if I’d ASKED a stupid QUESTION

Scamp barged in, agitated and vocal.

“Come and look, Mum,” he meowed. “Come and look, Dad.”

He circled between our legs meowing louder and louder. We followed him through to the kitchen where he stood at the door and meowed. “Open it.” Neil opened it and stared. I peered over his shoulder. A scrawny, motheaten cat sat on our doorstep. Her wide, frightened eyes took up most of her small face. She was obviously a stray.

“Oh, the poor thing looks starved,” I muttered, heading for Scamp’s feeding dishes. He chirruped his approval. If Scamp was human, he would be a charity worker.

Belly low to the ground, the cat slunk towards the food. She gobbled it as if it was going to be snatched away.

Now, I know we could have phoned the RSPCA but Scamp was smitten. Even though she was heavily pregnant.

“You are not the father, you know,” I said firmly to our neutered tom.

But Scamp didn’t care. He kept licking her face. We made up a basket for her in the utility room and slowly started to win her trust.

It was on Christmas Eve when she was pacing the floor, howling, that we decided to call her Tinker.

“We can’t go to the party and leave her like this,” I said to Neil, “she’s obviously going into labour.”

Neil watched as Tinker went to the litter tray and out again. She was definitely agitated and restless.

‘I’ll phone Anita and Ben and say an emergency has come up.”

We were only going to go for a couple of hours anyway. Instead I went on to the internet to see how long a cat’s labour lasts.

“It could last for hours,” I said, “as there could be forty-five minutes to an hour between kittens.”

In the end it was after four in the morning and after five kittens, when we finally got to bed. We were exhausted. Even Scamp looked pooped. He slept on the bottom of our bed, splayed out like a panda. Tinker and the kittens were fine.

Before breakfast next morning, there was a banging on the door. It was Anita and Ben. She shoved a tray of food in my arms.

“It’s a miracle! I didn’t know Scamp was female, never mind pregnant! How is the poor love?” asked Anita.

“Merry Christmas,” said Ben. “We couldn’t go to bed without seeing our favourite cat.”

Neil just shrugged and mouthed, I thinktheywerehalfcutwhenIphoned. Our miracle cat came to say hello – which added to the confusion.

Anita and Ben were still laughing at their mistake when a “Coo-ee” sounded at the back door. It was Greta and Ernst with Honey. Greta had come over last night to give us some advice.

“Merry Christmas. Is everything OK?” she asked, handing me some Stollen.

“Fine,” I said kissing her cheek. “And a merry Christmas to you both, too.”

Tinker seemed oblivious to it all while Scamp basked in the excitement.

“So much for a quiet Christmas,” I whispered to Neil, as the doorbell went – again. It was Robert. He thrust a badly wrapped package in my hand. “Merry Christmas.” “And to you. What’s this, Robert?” “It’s a present,” he replied, as if I had asked a stupid question. “It’s worming tablets and flea powder.” “But how did you know?” “Scamp told me.” “Of course he did. He’ll be chairing the WI committee next. Come in, Robert.”

Robert came in and helped himself to some food from the party tray.

“I hope one of them kittens is a mouser,” he said. “I can do with one. Plagued by the little blighters, I am.”

“Lovely Stollen,” said Anita, looking no worse for wear after their all-night party.

And suddenly everything became animated and almost party-like. It occurred to me then that something was missing. I clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention.

“This calls for a drink to celebrate,” I announced. “Bring on the Buck’s Fizz!”

And as Neil obliged, Scamp, the instigator of all this, said, Meow, while Tinker purred and nursed her kittens in quiet contentment.

And do you know what? It turned out to be a purrfect Christmas. Especially as I stayed in my jimjams all day.