Not many people's favourite animal are rats, and so it seems to Tom.
After slinking away unseen the other night, I have just found a small dead rat
near to the step of the caravan. I presume it was he who left it and although
it appears to have no marks on it I don't think it had a cardiac arrest as it
was passing the caravan. I like to think that he brought it to me as a gift for helping him out, and although not
a particularly nice one for humans, I suppose his gift range is a little
limited. I expect it was more likely though that he dropped it as he caught
sight of me as he was making good his escape. He will probably return for it
when it gets dark. Rats hold a singular
place in my affections. When I was but a young chap with only the acquisition
of girlfriends, money and a decent left foot on the pitch to stretch my mind, I
was working on the construction of a new brewery maltings. Like most young men, I probably had an over inflated opinion
of my own abilities and one day after saying that I could work quite easily on
my own, I found myself in a labyrinth of concrete lined dark tunnels with
flickering lights every ten meters or so which felt like I was on one of those
scary video games. Near every light there was a steel joist that held up the
concrete slabbed roof.
"Just wrap the stainless steel mesh around each one, tie angle
beads on the edges and render them with three coats," said my dad with a
smile that knew my ego would not let me utter any grievance about being given this god forsaken job. He knew as
well as I, that it meant carrying trestles and planks, as well as barrowing the
sand and cement and wire etc, underground along long, cold corridors, with my
footsteps the only sound to accompany me. After a couple of days with no
daylight, I was beginning to feel like Jack Nicholson stalking those corridors in
The Shining, when pushing the wheelbarrow along to where my trestles were set
up, I heard a funny kind of rustling, scratching noise that seemed to be
getting closer. Picking up my speed a little that had lapsed into a plod, I
gripped the handles tighter and broke into a trot, which isn't easy when your
barrow is full to the hilt. With the noise getting closer and more sinister I
stopped and turned and shouted out that whoever was there to stop mucking
about, or words to that effect. But in the dimness I still couldn't see
anything until in the glow of the last light behind me I saw a mass of rats
running my way with god knows what aim in mind. Leaving the barrow where it
was, I took off, reaching my top speed in a time that I had rarely achieved on
the football pitch, but even so was surprised when I approached the trestles
and leapt onto the planks before the rats reached me. Feeling like a builder's
version of Indiana Jones, and I do believe he was a carpenter once, I looked
back to see fat rats, bloated on Barley, run under the trestles and off into
the darkness with barely a squeak in my direction. Where they were going and in
such a hurry I never found out. In the
three months it took me to do what seemed like endless beams, the rats came
again on three more occasions, but by then I was almost used to it. It's getting dark now and I am beginning to
wish I had moved the rat further away, but if it is there in the morning I
suppose it means that it was meant for me.
Still on my own, and with the villages and towns full of smiling
tourists, it all feels a little hollow to me. Maybe that's why I started this
blog, but does anybody actually read them anyway? I have been thinking about
not bothering to write anymore when I met Tom. When I say met, I mean I heard a
faint gurgling meow kind of noise in the old lime tree that grows over the roof
of the caravan. To be honest I am not even sure he's male, but when I looked in
the dense foliage about an hour ago, I finally spotted what looked like the
Cheshire cat grinning down at me. He seemed to be just happily sitting there,
his ginger and white fur a good
camouflage amongst the shadowy leaves, but after a couple of minutes and me
opening a carton of milk and pouring him some out into a bowl, I felt something
was wrong. Fetching my ladder, thinking he had bitten off more than he could
chew, I leaned it on the branch he was on and tried to coax him down. Still he
did not move. So slowly climbing the rungs, I decided to attempt a rescue.
Halfway up, I noticed some grubby floral fabric near his head which on closer
inspection I found was a long makeshift collar that he had entangled in the
branch until it held his neck tight to it. His Cheshire cat grin was of slow
suffocation. He didn't move, I expect through exhaustion at the struggle to free
himself, as I tried to release him, but the fabric was strong so I went back
down to fetch my Stanley knife. Gently sawing at the fabric and with soothing
words I cut through it and was surprised when he still sat there. Backing down
the ladder, I pulled up my plastic chair and watched as he opened his mouth a
few times and moved down the branch a little. Nudging the bowl of milk a little
closer to the base of the tree, I was glad for the first time since being here
that I was on my own, as the sight of me crouched down talking in a high
pitched voice, tool belt dragging on the floor must have looked a picture.
Eventually he made his way down on to the roof of the caravan before tentatively
dropping down and under the caravan. He is still there now, still shy of
venturing out, but it has given time to think abut what idiot what make a
collar for a cat with a piece of fabric over a meter long and knotted round his
neck. Surely not Jean Pierre? He seems so common sense like, but there is no
one else here for over half a mile! Oh well, we will see what happens, and
hopefully he will still be about when the kids get here as they have always
wanted a dog or cat. That's if I can coax him out from under the caravan.
As Danny passed me a quarry tile and I pressed it into place, the man's head appeared round the corner again.
"You lads sure you won't 'ave a cuppa tea?"
I looked at Danny and gave a little sigh. When you work in prisons you are not supposed to take anything from inmates, but the old chap seemed so eager to make one and it was about the fifth time he had asked that day that I shrugged and said okay. As he shuffled off down the corridor to his cell, I stood up and stretched to see Danny looking at me with a little grimace.
"I know," I said, but it couldn't do any harm and I was ready for one anyway.
Standing in the doorway of his cell, I was surprised at how big it was, with an armchair and a television which had horse racing on, but as he was elderly I supposed they gave him a little slack.
"I love my racing," he said, then as the tea was mashing began to tell me about his illnesses and how little he saw of his family before pouring the tea and handing it to us.
The tea was hot, so I held the mug a while whilst he sat in his chair continuing with his life story and that he had been inside for fifteen years. Taking this as a cue and thinking he had taken us into his confidence I asked what his offence had been. Danny, tiring of the conversation began to sip his tea when he said casually,
"I poisoned three people."
Convulsing backwards, Danny spit his tea up the wall and shot out into the corridor. Bumbling some excuse, I followed him and we both poured our tea ceremoniously down the sink in the toilet. Surprisingly, we were not asked for tea again.
This tea tastes great though. Even though it is very hot sitting in the shade of the caravan in the old deckchair, nothing else hits the spot for me. A couple of digestives compliments it nicely, and as I look up at the window I have put in today which basically finishes off the kid's bedroom, I feel a little relaxed thinking they have somewhere to sleep when they get here on Monday.
