I was rather tired and grumpy that weekend. Who wants to be the runt of the litter and the smallest, and the skinniest and ‘a funny mixture of colours’? The biggest insult of all was when a spoilt English kid chose my rather dull tabby sister over me! Of course, she was my litter sister but I knew she wasn’t ‘special’ like me. Anyway, more of that later! This is my story, so you have to be patient, feline or not.
I should explain I live in Paris, in a rather superior apartment, in a rather fashionable arrondissement – district – for those whose French is limited. My mother is, let’s be honest, a bit of a flirt. She lives in the café next door and has many admirers. To cut a long story short – catty stories have naturally long ‘tails’ – all her last litter had homes, except for me.
I’d noticed a young boy come into the café once or twice for coffee with his mother and brothers. They seemed quite civilised compared with most young people who are usually flipping through those mobile phones or playing some sort of mindless games on them. That particular morning, being the last kitten, I had been allowed to wander around the café. You’d be surprised what tasty cordon bleu titbits fall on the floors of French restaurants!
The youngest boy suddenly ran and picked me up. As you can imagine I had my claws ready. After all, what cat worth his sturgeon likes to be scraped up off the floor? But this kid was a true gentleman. He stroked me so softly, I almost found myself purring. The mother put out her hands to take me. They were talking in some harsh sounding language. I later learnt it was called English; I’ve always preferred my mother tongue, more suited to feline discussions I feel. She reverted to French when talking to the waiter and inquired if I was the last of the litter. She explained to her son that I was a ‘tortoiseshell’ cat and almost certainly a female. Embarrassing to hear strangers discussing such intimate details!
Before I could squeak a word, I found myself in a wicker basket being carried or rather ‘swung’ by the young boy. I could see through the gaps large things on wheels rushing up and down the roads. The drivers seemed to ignore special places for walkers to cross safely! Twice my young carrier was nearly squashed, together with me in the basket!
Luckily, we soon turned into a tall, grand building. The entrance hall gleamed with glass. Tall waxy green plants lined the walls. The concierge or ‘caretaker’ came out for a chat. I heard a rather rough voice talking to me through the side of the basket.
‘You can always pee in these plant plots if you get taken short!’ It meowed in poor French. I later learnt it was a foreign cat and rather ill-bred!
The mother of the boys pressed a button and a large metal cage suddenly landed in the hall. Of course, I later learnt it was a ‘lift’ or what Americans – more of them later- call an ‘elevator’. We were whizzing upwards so fast, I thought we would fly out through the roof. No, it was safe. We had arrived on the top floor!
I knew immediately this apartment was what the English call ‘posh’ – perfect, overall shelter for handsome cats. The sofas had great views. I could see a very tall iron insect just across the road. I soon realised people called it the Eiffel Tower! The kitchen led into the main room so plenty of chance of those special tit-bits. Above were two large terraces with small trees and plants. No need to nip down to the hallway pots! In the main room was a very upmarket cat bed, lined with sheepskin. I was just thinking about trying it out when a real ‘Goldilocks’ of a cat appeared. She slipped elegantly into the cat bed with a ‘whose been sleeping in my bed?’ very catty look! The young man opened the lid of the basket and gently lifted me out.
I had learnt he was called Noah and he seemed anxious to make me feel at home.
‘Shall I go and get her a basket, Ki-Ki will never share!’
By the evening I felt very settled in. I had my own comfortable bed and had eaten my fill of special kitten food. I knew it was for kittens because it had pictures of rather silly looking fluffy white kittens on the tin!
A long discussion followed and the voices got rather excited. My English at that time was quite limited but I realised they were arguing about my name. By this time the father had arrived home from some strange place called ‘the office’ which seemed to be very popular with him. He went every day, even sometimes at weekends. He stopped all the commotion. He named me ‘Pebbles’ because my coat reminded him of a beach he had known as a child. I had rather feared he might choose ‘Office’ which didn’t sound very lady-like.
After the lights had been switched off, Ki-Ki lay stretched out in the basket next to me. She was a beautiful light chocolate with darker ears and feet. Her eyes were the deepest yellow but at night, they had a magical greenish sheen. She told me she belonged to a very aristocratic family descended from the royal cats of Burma! She tolerated Ki-Ki but her real name was Wong Anastasia Tallulah. I was half asleep as her smooth, silky voice told me stories of her famous ancestors and their homes in the great Buddhist Temples of her homeland. ‘Silks, rubies, lakes, temples, mysterious jungles…’ I drifted off to sleep!
Ki-Ki and I became good friends. We were deservedly spoilt cats I’m pleased to say. We never went out on the dangerous roads around Trocadero, a tourist centre with cars, scooters, electric cycles, buses, delivery lorries all competing with each other. We roamed the two terraces and lay luxuriating in the Spring sunshine, looking at the tiny figures, far down at street level, queueing for the Eiffel Tower or eating ice creams beneath the café awnings! That is until one terrible Saturday!
There was a generally relaxed feel about Saturdays. The boys looked forward to a weekend of sport. Even the office seemed to lose its attraction. It was an evening for sitting up on the top terrace and letting the noise and hustle go on far below!
That Saturday was odd from the beginning. The father left for the office early. The boys were away at a football tournament. The doorbell suddenly rang. I could hear it from my warm cushion on the terrace. Ki-Ki called quietly from her basket. ‘Watch out! Gardeners are coming to water the plants!’
Just as I stood up and lazily stretched my front legs, then arched my back, two men in overalls came upstairs onto the terrace. They were not the usual men. Their voices were different and their smell. They didn’t seem to understand the watering system. They stood by the edge of the terrace talking in low voices. As I edged nearer, the tall guy kicked at me. I was sure I heard the other one say, ‘Not that one!’ Below I heard the door slam. Ki-Ki appeared at the end of the terrace meowing, ‘She’s just gone out to buy croissants.’
The minute the door slammed, one of the men produced a wicker basket, just like the one I had been carried in as a kitten! In a flash I knew why they were there. Ki-Ki stood at the opposite end of the terrace. I screeched as loudly as I could and dug my claws into the leg of the man who had kicked me. He kicked out at me again and ran down one side of the terrace. The guy with the cat basket ran down the other. Ki-Ki moved too late-she was cornered! She leapt onto the parapet. I thought she was going to jump. I looked down to the toy cars and ant-like figures far below. As she hesitated, the tall man had grabbed her. Ki-Ki was screeching as only Burmese cats can. Some of her beautiful chocolate fur was flying. One man’s face had bleeding claw marks but between them they had her in the basket. I heard the door slam and the lift clang. Ki-Ki had gone!
I balanced on the edge of the parapet. For a split second I hesitated. It seemed so far down, even the lorries looked like tiny models! I quickly remembered my mother’s voice reassuring me when I remained left behind, rejected.
‘You are special, the seventh tortoiseshell kitten born of a seventh tortoiseshell mother! You have nine wishes for each of your nine lives. Use them wisely!’
Well now, if ever, was the moment to risk one of those lives. I closed my eyes. I wished for ‘cat wings’! (In my kitten crisis, I almost said ‘catkins’.) All was well. I could feel with my back paw a pair of furry wings sprouting at the bottom of my neck. I launched myself off into the blue Paris sky. For a quick practice I flew once over the top of the Eiffel Tower, before flying up Rue de Longchamp, outside ourapartment. I hovered, like those helicopters I’d seen on the TV. Down below Ki-Ki was being bungled into a dirty old grey van. How humiliating for a Burmese Princess! No time to waste. The van was turning left by the Indian Restaurant on the corner.
I found it quite easy keeping up with the vehicle which was winding its way through the lunchtime traffic. Traffic lights proved a little tricky. I had to practise my hovering skills and avoid overhead wires! Soon we were driving out through the suburbs. We crossed the river Seine which I admit scared me. Like most cats, I don’t like water. I could see the road went through a tunnel. My head was a little too close to the brickwork for comfort! It was great when the road left the tunnel and there was just a sunny sky above. I was enjoying the breeze in my hair so much that I almost lost the van as it made a sudden right turn. After a couple of kilometres, it drove up a rough, unkept drive and parked in front of a gloomy, ramshackle house. A broken, weather-worn ‘For Sale’ notice lay at the edge of the garden. This was a house that had been empty for some time. Ki-Ki was carried in through the front door. The tall guy seemed to have the key. Just before the door swung shut, I managed to squeeze into the front hall. It was dark and dusty with cobwebs everywhere. The smaller guy put the basket on a large table. I couldn’t see Ki-Ki moving. She seemed to be lying asleep. I couldn’t risk being seen. I had to hide in the shadows. I watched the men poke some of that dry food through the wicker work. I knew Ki-Ki hated it.
After a brief phone call, the two men left. I could hear the old van disappearing down the drive. I checked quickly. The wings had gone! I glimpsed myself in an old mirror. I looked the same charming cat as before. Jumping onto the table, I peered at Ki-Ki through the side of the basket. Her beautiful eyes were closed and her coat, usually so silky and smooth, was dirty and dishevelled! I purred reassuringly and whispered her name. Her eyes slowly opened. She blinked in disbelief.
‘Pebbles, is it really you, darling? Did you squeeze into the van?’
‘No, I flew here! Not on Air France, silly! Under my own steam, or to be accurate- wings!’
‘But you’re feline, not avian. I’ve seen a few rare exotic cats like me, but never one with wings.’
‘We have lots to meow over but not now!’
At that moment I heard a gruff feline voice from behind some shabby curtains.
‘Why are Parisian demoiselles hanging out in this ugly, dirty old house?’
‘We’re prisoners and we need a chevalier like you to come to our rescue. It seemed to me to be best to address him in gentlemanly terms, despite his dreadful provincial accent. A large, fluffy, ginger tom leapt onto the table beside us.
‘Hot Rod, or Roddy to my lady friends. At your service mesdames. It’s not often I see a couple of queens round ‘ere, unescorted.’
I could feel Ki-Ki cringe from the top of one elegant ear to the tip of her ‘su purr b’ tail! Well needs must etc.
‘Them two thieves will be back soon. I ‘eard what they was saying. We gotta get moving, ladies.
First, we need to get you out of that damn basket, if you’ll excuse my French!’
Before I could use my second wish, Roddy had charged at the basket and sent it spinning off the table, across the floor, with poor Ki-Ki rolling around inside. She was yowling in true Burmese style. He lifted the basket lid open with a deft tap of this paw. I guessed this was not the first time he’d opened a cat basket or rescued a lady in distress.
Now a triple entente or an entente cordiale, we sat and plotted on the dusty carpet. Escaping from the house was easy. The old cat flap still functioned. Roddy was quick to show us this magical, but unfamiliar, device. We sat in the back garden among broken deck chairs, splintered flower pots and discarded shutters. We all agreed that flying back was our best option. The problem was neither of us had a great sense of direction beyond our posh apartment and the two terraces.
Roddy, far more ‘catwise’, came up with a plan worthy of Macavity himself! ‘There’s a bus that goes from the bottom of the road ‘ere all the way to Montmartre. You can see the Eiffel Tower from there. Then you’ll be able to wing it.’
Early next morning we hung around in the bushes behind the bus station. Roddy pointed out that three such different felines would attract unwanted attention. We could, according to Roddy, end up at somewhere called the ‘Cats’ Home’ which he didn’t recommend! The bus was on time and the driver opened the boot for cases and other luggage, just as Roddy had predicted. As the driver went to the front to check the tickets, Ki-ki and I squeezed in behind the luggage. It was dark and sadly the boot was slammed shut, before we could say goodbye to Roddy.
The bus at first travelled quickly. I guessed we were still in the suburbs. The luggage was loosely stacked. Ki-Ki just escaped a bag of golf clubs whacking her on the head. I caught my front paws under a heavy brief case. They were sore for weeks. After it reached the city itself, the bus stopped far more frequently! Every time the boot was opened the pile of luggage grew smaller and the space to hide smaller too! There were very few cases left. The bus was climbing steeply. Ki-Ki and I were rolling about like a pair of drunken old toms. It suddenly came to a halt and we were both thrown forward. We had agreed when the boot was opened, we’d just make a run for it. Surprise seemed our best chance of escaping.
As soon as we could see a crack of light, we made a run for it! There were uneven cobble stones on the road but we ran slipping and sliding up some steep steps into a tall white building that reflected the bright sunlight. It was beautiful and quiet inside, gold and white. We stared at a huge, stone carving of a kind–looking Man with His arms stretching out. Afterwards, Ki-Ki said she had felt included in this embrace! I’d felt that too.
On the left was a flight of steps which looked as if they led upwards. I called to Ki-Ki to follow. Flights of stone steps led on and on, ever upwards. Ahead we could see shoes and legs, some covered, others bare. Voices of children could be heard complaining. ‘Mom, it’s too hot!’ or ‘Gee! How many more steps?’ or ‘Pass the water bottle!’
They seemed to be speaking a dialect of English. Ki-Ki said later she guessed they were Americans! I was concentrating on counting. So far, I’d made it over two hundred steps and still going! After creeping past another group of tourists, we heard a woman’s voice- ‘Oh so sweet- church cats, even in the famous Sacre Coeur. Well, I guess they suffer from mice too!’
At last, I mewed to myself, ‘Three hundred!’. Ki-Ki was only a couple of steps behind. We were indeed in the top of the great Church of the Sacred Heart, under a sort of upside- down stone cup. (Later, I learnt from one of Noah’s books it was called a ‘dome’.) From this point we had a most fantastic view of Paris, winding lanes twisting down to Montmartre, thousands of roof tops with the famous Paris chimneys. There, far in the distance, was the Eiffel tower. Flying above would give us a wonderful cat’s eye view! Our wings had magically sprouted. Mine were speckled in the sun- just like the beach I’d been named after. Ki-Ki’s were like an eastern Queen’s robes- transparent, light as thistledown and sparkling in the summer light! We sprang into the air. The wind carried us over this beautiful city which the boys had so often spoken about. Beneath us passed wide boulevards, with distant vistas. There were the gardens of the Louvre, the grand shops of the Champs Elysees, the magnificent Arc de Triomphe. There ahead was the Eiffel tower. We flew round it once. Why? Just because we could! Then there was the very same terrace I’d left the day before! It looked empty as we floated in to land.
The moment our paws touched the concrete, our wings vanished into air, into thin air. We could hear the boys’ voices drifting up from the lounge. Side by side we strolled downstairs. The family, our family, stood and stared.
‘I told you they were hiding somewhere on the top terrace. Not for nothing do cats have nine lives,’ said Noah.
‘Only seven now,” I murmured to Ki-Ki. “I gave one to you.’
Sir Socks Le Chat 