Smokey and the Bad Night

It is a story from my wife's family that I never tire of hearing.

In fact, I find myself edging forward on my chair at a gathering whenever there appears to be a possibility that it will be told again.

It involved a beloved family member, a cat called smokey.

The name, after the incident to be described, seemed to be quite apt although it was of course the name given to the cat from its arrival as a tiny kitten at the house on the old terraced street.

On that fateful day my mother in law, Maureen and her step sister, Lily were sharing a few moments over a cup of tea sat on the sofa in the back living room. It was a comfortable and cosy place, the heart of the home in which my wife,her  older sister and younger brother had been brought up by their loving parents.

In between the conversation and the familiar and comforting meeting of cups on saucers and the sounds of contentment at the passing around of home baked cakes and biscuits there was heard a strange, almost muffled but still discernible ringing of a small bell.

It was only strange because it was out of context as otherwise it would herald the pending arrival of Smokey to rub up against legs or leap up onto the table to be greeted warmly by one and all.

The bell tinkled but no cat came into view.

Maureen gave a quick glance under the table and then searched a bit farther afield behind the settee and even in the understairs gas cupboard. There was no cheeky, whiskered face on the other side of the glazed door to the kitchen or scratching with sharpened claws at the hallway door.

Pulling back of the net curtain at the window gave a good view into the yard and garden but no cat could be seen on the cill, the top of the boundary wall or on the back doorstep.

It was indeed a mystery. A sound without a source.

The bell continued to peal, perhaps with a bit more urgency.

Maureen went into the kitchen and listened carefully for any clue as to the direction from which the noise came. Cupboards were opened in anticipation of the cat jumping out as though playing a game of hide and seek but yielded nothing.

The inner wall of the kitchen was dominated by the functioning focal point of a large cast iron cooking range. The "Yorkist" was a common sight in old terraced houses through the north of England as a means of cooking, providing hot water and providing welcome background heating. A fire was always kept in as a matter of practicality and a challenge. Top and lower double oven compartments could rapidly bring a meal to the table or allow a long, slow almost full day of cooking for a casserole or joint. Liver and onions was a particular favourite to sustain the family and fill the house with the glorious odours of a home cooked meal. A tap, protruding from the cast body of the range allowed the drawing off of scalding water for a tin bath or other domestic purposes.

The bell appeared to be coming from the bottom oven.

Maureen hesitantly opened it up.

Something resembling a hairy mass, tangled, dishevelled and shiny with sweat emerged from the depths of the compartment.

In a double take Maureen realised that the horrific apparition was in fact Smokey the cat.

She pulled it clear and wrapped the almost lifeless form in a towel, rubbing and massaging carefully both to dry the wet fur and in an attempt to comfort the distressed animal. There was little response apart from a perceptible movement of a paw as though to say thank you for the rescue from a terrible experience.

It was not known how long Smokey had been cooked.

No one could recall either the last sighting of the cat or when in fact the oven door had been left open to give an opportunity for feline curiosity.

It may have been a natural and almost unthinking action to just close up the oven door when passing with the end of a slippered foot or casually with a tea towel in hand on taking tea through to the back room.

Maureen sat with the stricken cat for much of the night in a difficult nursing operation. A snifter of brandy in warm milk was offered strictly for medicinal purposes and I think that the cat got some as well. It was thought that it might be necessary to call out the veterinary surgeon.

Cats are resilient however and it may simply have been that Smokey had a good number of her allotted lives left because by the morning she had left the dedicated care of an exhausted Maureen in order to energetically and ruthlessly re-stake a claim to his urban territory in the undergrowth of East Hull.

(The benefits of slow cooking a cat have, understandably, not been documented, but Smokey did reach the very advanced age of 19 years in good health),