A RAILWAY CAT

Encouraged by the publication of my letter recently (‘The National Service Cat’ in the May issue), I enclose another trifle for you to look at!

This story starts in the mid-1950s in the public bar of the New Inn, in a Berkshire village, where the stationmaster was telling the landlord — and anybody else who cared to listen — of a problem they were having up at the station.The goods shed was becoming overrun with rats and mice.The farmers were getting fed up with their sacks of produce being attacked and head office was getting fed up with paying compensation, so both sides had told the stationmaster to do something about it — quick.

There were in the bar that evening about three or four locals, and also a stranger whom nobody had seen before. George was the first to offer suggestions.“Have you tried rat poison?” he asked.

“Have we tried rat poison!” exclaimed the stationmaster.

“You bet we have! They take the bait but we very rarely see any bodies. It’s my belief that they get fat on it!” he added bitterly. “How about traps?” suggested Bill.

“Yes, we’ve tried traps,” replied the stationmaster.“But the little beggars seem to have a sixth sense to avoid them. I really am at a loss.”

“I know!” exclaimed Don.“What you need is a cat. Not a kitten but a fully-grown mature cat, capable of taking on a rat, let alone a mouse.Yes, you need a cat!”

“We thought of that,” said the stationmaster.“But it can’t be done. Not legally anyway.You just can’t buy a mature cat.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the landlord, reaching under the counter and pulling out that week’s edition of the ‘Reading Mercury.’“Let’s see. Small ads. Animals. Adorable kittens, ready now, free to good homes. Kittens free to good homes. Siamese kittens costing an arm and a leg. Persian kittens costing the other arm and leg. Kittens…kittens…kittens…hmm. I see what you mean.”

At this point, the stranger spoke up.“Ah well now,” he said. “I may be able to help you there.”

And so it came to pass that a few days later, the stationmaster found himself taking delivery of a fine upstanding black and white moggie who rejoiced in the somewhat unusual name of Quack.

Quack was promptly introduced to the goods shed where he quickly made himself at home and set about reducing the vermin population.The first sign of success was a couple of bodies laid out for inspection on the stationmaster’s desk. His secretary was not amused to find three dead rats on her chair one morning — she nearly screamed the place down — but they were getting there.

After about three weeks, a grateful stationmaster was able to declare the goods shed a vermin free zone. Quack then moved on to the signal box. Quack was, moreover, a friendly soul as cats go and soon became a great favourite with passengers. In short, Quack was a very worthwhile addition to the station staff, liked and respected by all. By all that is, except the booking clerk.The booking clerk was detailed to give Quack his dinner each day. This involved taking a bowl, filling it with cat food, stepping out on to the platform, and shouting: “Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! Quaaaaack!”

Jim Pike