The Diamond Cat Read online

  The Diamond Cat

  Marian Babson

  Chapter 1

  After her first few sleepy blinks, the clock on the bedside table came into focus, registering the time in an evil glow: 2:00 a.m. and the end of sleep. Also the end of peace and quiet.

  Outside, a gusting wind shook the windows, hurling rain and hail against the panes. The noise level, she realized, had been slowly rising for some time, disturbing her sleep long before actually waking her. The storm alone could not be blamed for that.

  Downstairs in the house shrieks, howls and a desperate keening combined to give the impression that a massacre had started.

  “Bettina! Bettina!” Her mother’s voice rose over the din, caterwauling with the best of them. “Get down there and stop all that noise! I told you this would happen! I warned you …”

  “Yes, Mother.” Wearily, Bettina dragged herself out of bed, closing her ears to the recriminations. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Go back to sleep.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing!” her mother retorted with some justice. The sounds of impending battle were ear-splitting. “Are you sure they can’t get out of those cages?”

  “They’re all right,” Bettina said, with more certainty than she felt. “The storm is upsetting them, that’s all.”

  “Never mind them,” her mother complained. “I haven’t slept a wink for the past hour. I thought the roof was coming off. And what was that awful thud at the back by the kitchen door? It sounded like half a tree hitting the house.”

  “It was probably that drooping bough from Mrs. Cassidy’s apple tree. It hasn’t been looking too healthy lately.”

  “Just waiting for a puff of wind to blow it away.” Her mother leaped upon the suggestion. “I warned May Cassidy. I told her—”

  “That’s right,” Bettina said absently, closing her mother’s door as she went past. The half-remembered after-echo of the thudding sound came back to her. It must have been what wakened her—and started the cats off. They probably thought someone was trying to get in—perhaps their owners coming back for them. Unfortunately, it was impossible to explain Bank Holiday weekends to a cat.

  The noise level rose as she reached the foot of the stairs; the yowls turned more urgent and demanding as she went along the hallway, peaking to crescendo as she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

  “All right, all right,” she soothed, snapping on the light. “Take it easy now.” A swift glance at the indignant little faces pushed against the bars of their carrying cases assured her that all were present and accounted for. No one had fought their way free with mad intent to destroy the kitchen and each other—it just sounded that way.

  Four pairs of eyes blinked against the sudden light and stared at her hopefully. Someone started to purr.

  It wasn’t Mrs. Cassidy’s Adolf. He glowered at her unforgivingly, the patch of black fur running from one ear down to his cheek gave him a lopsided, faintly mad look, especially when his green eye glared out from it, in contrast to the yellow eye on the white side of his face. His ancestors had probably started out as odd-eyed whites, but someone in the more recent past had had an interlude with a black tom. Adolf twitched the black moustache above his upper lip and renewed his demands for freedom, more territory and the right to do exactly as he pleased.

  The other cats appeared to consider this for a moment, then weighed in with demands of their own.

  “Oh, you’re well named, Adolf! You’re a right little rabble-rouser, you are!” She crossed to the bag of cat treats on the shelf above the kitchen table, considering the alternative of letting them out of their carriers to roam around the kitchen for a bit and, with any luck, wear themselves out enough to go back to sleep. Not much chance of that, though, they were all bright-eyed and alert, obviously ready to begin a long, busy day.

  And in fine voice—although it was all sound and fury. If she let them out, they would mingle happily. They all knew each other and played together in the back gardens. They were just in their carrying cases for convenience, so that they wouldn’t roam through the house all night, perhaps disturbing things and certainly upsetting her mother.

  “Here …” She quickly dropped several of the little munchies into each carrier, then stood back with a sigh of relief as the yowls turned to crunching noises.

  “Bettina! Bettina!” Unfortunately, the silence meant that she could now hear her mother calling again.

  “It’s all right.” Bettina went over to the doorway and called back, “They’re quiet now.”

  Adolf immediately made a liar out of her. His indignant yowl rose higher than ever. He had never liked her mother’s shrill voice; it offended his delicate ears. Bettina looked over her shoulder to see him flick those ears and hurl further imprecations at the source of his discomfort.

  “They don’t sound it! I’ll never get back to sleep now. You might as well make me a cup of tea while you’re up.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Adolf had set the others off again. She closed the kitchen door and surrendered. Otherwise, they would nag at her all the while she was making the tea.

  “All right, all right.” He didn’t deserve it but, for the sake of peace, she let Adolf out first. He leaped free and stared around with satisfaction.

  “Come on, Pasha.” Sylvia Martin’s large ginger Persian was the next most vociferous. He looked, Bettina always thought, more like a feline version of Henry VIII than a pasha, but there was no accounting for the way fond owners saw their cats. Pasha strolled out and shook himself with a benign and lordly air.

  “You, too, Enza.” Mr. Rawson’s dainty little tabby yawned delicately and stretched, quite as though she hadn’t been agitating with the rest of them, then sat down in her carrier.

  “Do as you please—you will anyway.” Enza was the independent type and entrances fascinated her. She had appeared unexpectedly in Mr. Rawson’s life, a bedraggled little waif, and taken him over, soon after his wife had died. The story of her arrival and naming was a source of endless enjoyment to Jack Rawson. “I opened the window and—influenza!” Mr. Rawson was fond of chortling. “In flew Enza!”

  Bluebell was waiting patiently. Her bright blue eyes followed Bettina’s every move; her purr grew louder. Bluebell belonged to Zoe Rome, who lived next door, and, since the Romes and the Bilbys were close friends as well as neighbours, the little Balinese was in the Bilby house often; she was quite at home there. She was Bluebell not just for her blue eyes but because her movements were so graceful that she seemed to dance rather than walk.

  All the cats were out of their carriers now and converging at the back door. They looked at her, then at the door, then back at her.

  “You can’t mean it,” she said. “Not in this storm!”

  Adolf briefly informed her that he was losing patience with her. He turned and pawed at the foot of the door, his claws making little scrabbling noises as he tried to dig his way under. He seemed quite frantic about something.

  “I’m sorry.” Bettina turned away firmly and put the kettle on. “You’ll just have to use the litter box. I’m not letting you out in this. If this wind didn’t blow you away, you’d be startled by a burst of hail or thunder and you’d run off and I’m not chasing you all over the neighbourhood in this weather.”

  Bluebell appeared to see the justice of this argument and went to sit beside the refrigerator door instead.

  A fresh gust of wind slammed against the back door, shaking it on its hinges, blasting it with hailstones that sounded like shotgun pellets.

  Enza, too, seemed to have second thoughts and went to join Bluebell by the fridge.

  “That’s better,” Bettina said. “It’s practically a hurricane out there. You want to stay in where it’s nice and warm.”
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  Pasha wasn’t so sure and Adolf definitely wanted to go out. His moustache twitched as he yowled his fury at being thwarted. He clawed frantically at the wood-and-felt strip that kept the cold draughts from penetrating the crack under the door.

  “Leave that alone!” Bettina feinted a cuff at him.

  “We don’t want it clawed off tonight of all nights. It’s cold enough as it is.”

  Another blast of wind and hail reinforced her words. Pasha backed away uneasily; there was more out there than he wanted to take on.

  “Eeeee-rreooow!” Adolf was ready to take on the world. Alone and unaided, he would battle the elements.

  Pasha gave him a disdainful look and strolled over to join the ladies; they obviously had the best idea. He sniffed noses with them, then turned and gave Bettina a soulful look. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he thought it ought to be given the chance to try.

  “Bettina!” the accusing voice shouted down the stairs. “Where’s that tea?”

  “Kettle’s just boiling, Mother. You stay right there. I’ll bring it up.” The kitchen was full enough; her mother would make one too many.

  “It should have been ready ages ago. You’ve been messing about with those cats again. You think more of those cats than you do of me.”

  “And vice versa,” Bettina Bilby muttered under her breath, in a rare moment of rebellion. A lifetime of living at home and dancing to her mother’s wishes had not led to her being any more appreciated. Sometimes it upset her more than others and this was getting to be one of those times. She wasn’t even allowed to have a cat of her own—and now that that nasty, snuffly little pug dog of Mother’s had gone to the great kennel in the sky, there was no real reason why she shouldn’t. Except that it might take too much of the attention Mother felt was her due; she was even jealous of “The Boarders”, the neighbourhood cats Bettina looked after when their owners went away for weekends and holidays.

  “Bettina—I’m coming down!”

  “No, don’t!” But the footsteps were already descending the stairs. Bettina heard the telltale creak of the loose board mid-staircase.

  “Hurry—inside!” Bettina snatched leftover lamb pieces from the bowl of scraps in the fridge and hurled them recklessly into the carrying cases. Bluebell and Enza flew in after them; Pasha proceeded at a more stately pace.

  “There! I knew those cats had got out! I told you so!” A crash of thunder underlined the words as her mother threw open the door and stood like an avenging angel in the doorway.

  Pasha put on a spurt of speed and disappeared into his carrier. Adolf stood his ground and swore at her.

  “It’s all right,” Bettina said. “I let them out myself.”

  “Whatever did you do that for?”

  “They were restless. The storm was frightening them. They needed to get out and walk around a bit. It can’t be pleasant to be caged up and not able to get away when you don’t understand what all the noise is about.”

  “Ridiculous!” Her mother rolled her eyes upwards and sighed deeply. “You have no sense, Bettina. No sense at all. No wonder everyone takes advantage of you.”

  “You ought to know,” Bettina muttered. She tried, with a discreet foot behind his hindquarters, to urge Adolf towards his carrier.

  “If he wants to go out, let him!” Mrs. Bilby caught her. “One less cat around this place will be all to the good. I’ll open the door for him myself.” She started forward purposefully.

  “No, Mother, you can’t.” Bettina blocked her way, catching her arm and leading her to a chair at the kitchen table. “You know you could never face Mrs. Cassidy if anything happened to Adolf.”

  “I’d like to try. May Cassidy has no more sense than you have. Putting up with a cat like that! Laughing at it and giving him that awful name.”

  “He is a tyrant,” Bettina said as Adolf turned away to take another swipe at the closed door.

  “Nasty, revolting little monster,” Mrs. Bilby said.

  Adolf flicked his ears and spat something equally insulting but fortunately untranslatable at her.

  “Defiant, too,” Mrs. Bilby said. “I don’t know how May Cassidy stands the creature.”

  “Mrs. Cassidy doesn’t mind a bit of independence.” Bettina remembered the subservient canine that used to grovel at her mother’s feet, whimpering with disgusting delight at any kind word. Some people required slaves and some didn’t. Bettina had always liked Mrs. Cassidy, even before she acquired Adolf.

  “Would you like a sandwich with it?” She set the teapot and cups and saucers on the table. “Or a piece of lemon cake? There’s some left over.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really want anything, but I suppose if I don’t force myself I’ll have a headache in the morning after all this disturbance. Why don’t you just make me a simple omelette and, perhaps, a croissant? That shouldn’t be any trouble, once you’ve got the oven hot; the frozen dough is all ready to be cooked.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Bettina restrained a sigh; the proposed menu would take at least another half-hour and she’d hoped to get back to bed before dawn—if they were going to have a dawn today. She turned on the electric oven—it would take fifteen minutes to reach the required temperature—then took the eggs and frozen croissants from the fridge and freezer.

  Adolf suddenly abandoned his vigil by the back door and came to twine round her ankles. She realized that he might not have seen her tossing lamb scraps into the carriers and palmed a fresh piece, allowing him to get the scent of it as she bent to stroke him.

  “I hope you’re going to wash your hands after putting them all over that dirty cat.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Deftly, Bettina flipped the bit of lamb into Adolf’s basket and he disappeared after it. She snicked down the door and the doors of the other carriers before turning to the sink to wash her hands.

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Bilby poured out two cups of tea. Bettina got down a bowl for the eggs and reached for the salt and pepper. She paused as the storm battered afresh at the house and moved over to the window, pulling the curtain aside.

  “There goes part of Mr. Rawson’s fence,” she reported, just managing to discern the chunk of wood being hurled across the bottom of the garden.

  “Good! Perhaps he’ll have the whole thing fixed properly now. It’s been falling apart for years. I warned him. I told him—”

  A monumental crash of thunder drowned out her voice. The room blazed with an eerie light. Then everything went dark and silent.

  “Are you all right, Bettina?” Her mother’s voice was shaken. “Come away from that window. You know I’ve always taught you to keep away from windows when there’s lightning about. Bettina? Bettina? What’s happened? Bettina? Answer me!”

  “I’m all right, Mother.” She was still at the window. “It must have got a power line. The streetlights are out, too.”

  “You see? If those cats weren’t in their cages, they’d be prowling around underfoot and we’d be tripping over them in the dark and breaking our legs.”

  It might not do the cats any good, either, but Mrs. Bilby wasn’t prepared to consider that. Bettina heard the clink of cup against saucer; nothing was going to deter her mother from her cup of tea.

  At least she didn’t have to start cooking now. Her eyes only faintly adjusted to the total lack of light, Bettina half groped her way back to the counter and returned the croissant dough to the freezer and the eggs to the fridge. She left the curtains open so that the room was sporadically lit by the flashes of lightning.

  Having done the worst of its damage, the storm seemed to be retreating, but the rain persisted, although not quite so heavily.

  “You might as well drink your tea, then we can go back to bed. I don’t suppose you know where the candles are?”

  “I don’t want any tea.” Bettina found the candles and matches in the corner of an overhead cupboard and lit one. Tiny pinpoints of light reflected at the doors of the carriers where interested eyes were following
every movement.

  “I’ll just pour another cup for myself then and take it up with me. If you can put your hand on that cake, I’ll have a piece of that, too. Goodness knows when they’ll get the electricity repaired and we can have a cup of hot tea again. You really ought to put what’s left into a Thermos, so we can have something warm in the morning.”

  “I’m sure it will be all right by morning.” Bettina juggled candle and cake, then remembered to turn off the oven.

  “Leave the light on, then we can tell when the electricity comes back.” Mrs. Bilby took the cake and her tea and started for the stairs.

  Bettina followed, holding, the candle high to shed the best light. At the top of the stairs, the candlelight caught the answering gleam of a descending drop of water just before it splashed to the carpet.

  “The roof’s leaking again! You should have got the buckets out as soon as you saw how bad the storm was.”

  “I’ll see to it now.” Bettina sighed, it had been too much to hope that her mother would not have noticed.

  “You’d better. If this carpet gets wet, it will be ruined—and we can’t afford a new one.” Her mother held the candle while Bettina got the buckets and bowl they had learned they needed to control the drips from the roof.

  “There …” Bettina placed them strategically, trying not to look up at the wet patches on the ceiling. She had the uneasy feeling that they were growing larger. It could only be a matter of time before the plaster began falling and then she would have to try to cope with having a new ceiling put in.

  “Move that one to the left a bit more.” Her mother was saying it just to assert her authority; there was nothing wrong with the original placement of the bucket.

  “Yes, Mother.” Bettina kept the peace. “Why don’t you sleep late in the morning?” she suggested. It would be even more peaceful to get the cats and kitchen sorted out in the morning without a running commentary of complaints.

  “I might do that, we’ll see. If the cats don’t start making all that racket and disturbing me again.”