Now when these bad acts are going on, St Francis, who heads up the animal sanctuary in paradise (that’s the room next door) and does look after some of the owners too, usually sends help. ‘Angels to you humans, but for us, one of our kind.’ explained Wonka.
‘So like to like…’ I said thoughtfully, trying to imagine who might come down and help me. I had by now popped the kettle on for a comforting cup of healthy tea, or perhaps I would break out and have a chocolate night cap. Had I put the box set on pause?
‘Are you listening?’ Wonka gave me a stern look from his perch on the side, and went on with this sad tale.
As the rain beat down and turned to freezing sleet, Sheba huddled on the step. She was tired, too tired to seek shelter elsewhere and her unborn kittens would not survive long in this freezing cold winter’s night. As she grew weaker and weaker her tired body laid down on the stone door step, so near to the warmth of the kitchen but close to death.
It was the eve before the day you humans call Christmas Day, and as the night wore on, the sleet had now turned to snow. Soon, Sheba would be gone from this World, and her unborn kittens with her. The bad Owner was cosy and warm in her living room, a real fire lit up the dark, and the shadows leapt higher and higher.
It was then that a Christmas miracle came in the shape of the little boy called Joe, who lived next door. Wide awake in his bedroom, the boy’s mother had just finished telling him his favourite story. It had nothing to do with Christmas and was all about a cat called Mog. Joe was hoping for a new Mog story and thought maybe it would come in the night courtesy of Father Christmas.
Wonka paused here for effect. I did approve of his choice of story, it being about a cat and all, and was in agreement about saving Christmas stories for the day itself.
So it was, that little Joe had seen Sheba from his bedroom window as he searched the sky for Father Christmas. As he looked hard outside, he thought he saw just for a moment, the sight of a reindeer and a large red cape over in next door’s yard. He even heard the sound of bells ringing. Just a small jingle. He opened his window to see better and call his Mum.
Wonka looked at me and I breathed easy. Rescued I could live with, alone and uncared for, not. The kettle had boiled and deciding on a new malt bedtime drink, I stirred it round and round. The freckles on the top reminded me of standing in the kitchen with my Grandma, pouring in the hot milk to my favourite night time drink.
The boy’s mother made one of those good decisions, that even so, are brought about through a synchronicity, a bringing together of many events, seemingly unrelated, but in their coming together, being exactly that.
She ran downstairs, put on a mac and some old slippers, and went outside. In a matter of moments she had gone out of her back yard and gate into her neighbour’s yard. She saw then what her small son had seen, there close to death surely, and laid out on the back step so close to the back door, was Sheba. She quickly pulled off the mac and wrapped Sheba in it, and ran back to the house. The wind chimes tinkled loud as the freezing snow caught them, and a red tarpaulin covering some of the flower beds had twisted round flapping and making shapes.
Wonka stopped to have a small lick of his paw, and listen outside. There was still the noise of the wind and rain. He peered round the curtain, as I had before. ‘It’s gone’ he announced.
‘But what was it? It looked real, well sort of real’. Had it come to tell us something, or warn us even. Despite Wonka telling me not to, I shoved him in the dining room and closed the door. I could now open the poor back door a notch and inspect the yard. I did so. Nothing out there except a few of my plant pots rolling around and the shed door banging.
Back in the warm I fed Wonka who surely had earned his supper tonight. ‘I love that one’ he trilled, batting my hand out of the way to get to the saucer. ‘Go away Baba!’ Baba had sneaked in the room from his hiding place and was sitting placidly just where I was going to walk.
Sneezing and then having a mild choke on one of those luxury biscuits he shouldn’t be having, it was clear this Baba was not an apparition or some projection of my anxiety ridden state. I mean Jung talked of shadows and synchronicity, not in the same sentence like me, but could he have explained the thing on the door step? But, it was alright as Wonka had seen it too.
Wonka insisted on finishing the story before we went back in the living room, so I sat at the table sipping my hot milky drink and admiring the decorations I had managed to put up. The tea light flickered in the glass holder and the advent calendar was poised to give up the last secret behind the door.
In the meantime, the bad Owner had fallen into a doze brought about by the sherry and the chocolates. In the steadily darkening room, the fire was now low in the grate and the main sound was the tick of the old clock. It was near to midnight and the paper decorations and tinsel shivered as a small draft lifted them. The angel at the top of the artificial tree quivered and fell, bouncing on the way down and falling into the hearth. The little face looked rosy and warm as it caught the last glow from the fire, but turned dark as the fire finally died.
I had nearly dozed off myself, listening to this and leaning on the table. Fallen angels, never a good sign surely? I mean some say we are half angel and half human, but before I could properly decide on this and maybe watch that James Stewart film after all, Baba jumped up on the table to escape Wonka and I was once more in the present.
‘Stop it Wonka or I won’t listen to the rest!’ or give you your new Christmas toy I muttered. I looked out of the window and noted the sky had cleared and there were stars glittering up there. There was one up there that surely seemed bigger and brighter than the others.
As I listened now to the rest of the story, it was easy to imagine the cold dark living room, with that certain kind of chill that comes once a warm room loses heat and somehow any homeliness is gone. Soft edges become sharp and hard, ornaments turn into strange objects, and the grate is full of ash.
The angel lay in the hearth on its side, turned towards the snoring woman on the settee. The clock ticked on and the hands moved towards midnight, and when it did so, it would chime the hour.
The woman dreamed she was a child again, and watching for Father Christmas. It was a happy dream as in it she was with her little sister, and together they looked out the bedroom window full of excitement. It faded though as the clock began its deep resonating chimes and she woke suddenly feeling a loss so great she could not bear it. Her sister had not lived to see another Christmas, and the woman, old now, wished she did not have to.
‘Tell me about Sheba and the kittens’ I did not like the way this was going. At this rate I would have to start on the Sherry. This after years of deliberation had become my Christmas tipple. It was a routine that the second my mince pies were out of the oven, with that comforting spicy smell did I have to crack open the bottle. This meant Christmas had begun.
Next door, began Wonka, a cat lay in the warm surrounded by her kittens. There were four. All born as the night moved into day, Christmas Day.
I wondered if any of them had been called Jesus as this seemed fair but according to the story, they were named by the little boy, Joe, on Christmas morning. The smallest kitten he called Ba.
‘And the others?’
There was Rufus, Pursha, and another Sheba to continue the name. Three boys and a girl, mostly black with a speckle of white here and there. Tiny purring creatures half hidden by Sheba as they were washed and fed and finally left to fall asleep. For now, they were safe and happy, thanks to the little boy and his Mum who had rescued their mother.
Next door it was a different story, as the bad Owner, alone and troubled, sat in her cold living room, too tired and despairing to move. Suddenly she remembered the cat, and something cracked in her heart as she realised what she had done.
‘Bit late for that’ I started ‘ if it hadn’t been for –‘
‘Realisation, or revelation’ i
nterrupted Wonka,’is never late, it is always in time.’ And for the bad Owner, even the beginnings of shame and remorse were the way back. Sheba would not come back, but the bad Owner’s feelings had. Blocked all those years by grief, she now returned to life.
Wonka ended the story here although I pestered him for some more. I wanted to hear more of Joe’s Christmas (Wonka assures me that there is a proper story about Joe and he is saving it for now) and learn the significance of the shadowy creature outside. Did Baba have a double and had it come to fetch him home? Surely St Francis could wait a bit longer.
I pottered about for a while, taking stock of the year that would soon be gone. Christmas Eve was rolling in on me and bringing with it a tide full of memories, the excitement of presents waiting to be opened, all of us at the table waiting for Grandma to sit down so we could play Newmarket. One memory stood out and it was me and my brother running through the Church yard on our way up to Grandma’s. There was always a huge real tree, with coloured lights in the Church yard and the night was a clear one, dark and crisp and clean. We ran quickly, way ahead of Mum and Dad with the joy of Christmas before us.
‘Have you put out the mince pie and the sherry?’ enquired Wonka, checking on the arrangements. He was now stationed on the sideboard and gazing intently out the back. I looked over his shoulder and up at the sky. Yes, there it was, the brightest star and as I looked at it I made my wish.
‘And you wished for?’ queried Wonka sniffing at the night air as I opened the window …
Happy Christmas for everyone, that’s what I wished for, and with that Wonka and me settled back down. I could just make out a black shape at the top of the stairs. Baba sneezed and then he too made himself comfy.
I pressed play.
Love and Peace to you all.
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