A Christmas deliCat Tale

He looks at me with that mix of superiority and condescension which is his trademark expression when puzzled. We call him Hamish, but we don't know what he calls himself or whether he understands the reference to being a ginger. Probably an Egyptian name. Perhaps he thinks of himself as Mihos – the Lion-headed cat, or maybe as Mekal - the Fierce Devourer. He once told me that when he was very young and lived in Egypt he and his kind were worshipped as gods. He told me never to forget that.

Today however he has other questions on his mind. He wants to know what all this bling is doing in his sitting room. Why is there a tree in his favourite corner ? Where is his favourite chair ?

He especially wants to know why we have put his best catnip mouse at the top of the tree. In other houses where he dines there is a star on top of the tree. Do we really think he can't reach his mouse ?

He stands up, arches his back, stretches his paws out in front of him and digs deep into the carpet. Then he shakes himself and advances towards the tree. He looks round at me, gives a sort half purr half growl and launches himself up the branches. The tree hesitates and then tumbles down on top of him. There is a scuffling sound and he emerges covered in pine needles with his mouse in his mouth and bits of tinsel hanging down round his ears. Shaking them off, he recovers his dignity, sits down, wraps his tail around his paws and stares at me.

I know what's coming. Muffled, because of the mouse in his mouth, he demands :

Well ? Where's my Parson's Nose from the turkey ?

When the lights went out

(First appeared in Writers of Ottery Anthology 2023)

The four of them had spent a pleasant three days in the bustling port of Paimpol on the north Brittany coast. It was a typical Breton harbour with a mix of fishing boats, a yacht marina and a fleet of tourist trip boats. One of the spectacular local sights which they could just see from the marina was a small island or very large rock depending on your point of view over which circled a huge flock of gannets. The flashes of the birds dive-bombing fish in the deep waters round the rock was one of nature's wonders. No wonder the French call them mad.

Their trip along the Breton coast had been an adventure, a test of navigation. The coastline was sown with rocks, many just below the surface, swirled in all directions by currents and counter currents. The weather had been kind and the welcomes ashore even kinder. They had discovered Calvados, strong and fruity; Pommeau, a smooth aperitif channeling its name with Pineau from much further south; and more recently Lambig de Bretagne from the nearby town of Lannion, another 40% proof version of cider.

They had all succumbed to the blue and white stripes of the sweaters and T shirts of the area and the two men even wore Breton sailors' caps. They felt they were living in a different dimension, warm, hazy, nourished on fruits de mer, crêpes and galettes. Their skins bristled with salt, their hair bleached a lighter shade than normal, their faces sun and wind weathered. A perfect getaway break.

When they left the harbour that evening for the night sail back to their home port of Newton Ferrers near Plymouth, conversation flowed freely. The stars were just beginning to appear and the moonrise was only a couple of hours away. Behind them the lights on the shore picked out the houses in the port, then more appeared on the cliff tops on either side. The further out they sailed the more the lights cut out. Finally the luminous thread attaching them to the shore was cut.

The skipper went forward to check the port and starboard lights and the masthead light. All in order. Back in the cockpit the cabin doors were open and the yellow light from below illuminated the helm and the compass on its gumball mounting in front of the wheel. The smell of mackerel frying reached him, but he called out to them to pull the doors to. He needed to restore his night vision now that they were moving out towards the shipping lanes. But he didn't refuse the mackerel buttie when it was passed up to him. Nor the coffee later.

Scudding clouds made black against the moonlight crossed in front of the moon and he could feel the wind rising. A deeper darkness enveloped the ketch. The crossing would last at least 18 hours. Fortunately the main hazards – cargo ships and ferries – were lit up like buses. The skipper had crossed the Channel several times. He knew the dangers, he knew the way. He was sorry the moon had hidden itself. At least the lights of the passing ships stood out more sharply as they headed down the Channel towards the Atlantic, or up the Channel to the North Sea. He just needed to gauge their speed and to set the course to avoid them.

Every two hours one of the others emerged from the cabin and took over the helm after a short briefing; on their position; on the compass heading. Moonset would not be for another six hours, but there was no moonlight now anyway and the stars had retired behind the clouds. The course across was not straight. The tides in the Channel were strong and crossing them diagonally meant being swept down towards the Scillies for six hours and then being swept back up east for six hours cancelling out the drift.

The Captain of the container ship heading east at a steady 25 knots demanded urgently to know why the dim lights on the bridge had gone out. And why the navigation lights had failed. They were making passage blacked out in one of the busiest waterways in the world. Against all the rules. Against all common sense. Get them fixed and fast, he ordered. Way below his sight-line the ketch and the container ship were closing fast. The Captain sensed rather than felt a slight bump. A judder. He looked out across the darkness but there was nothing to be seen.

To purchase: Wrtiers of Ottery Anthology