The constable’s men had descended on the house like a ton of bricks the morning after they had gone to find Barb and the others to hang them, only to discover that they had disappeared without any trace at all.
“Where is she?” The constable dispensed with any pleasantries, and got straight to what was on his mind. Barb sat on a stool, watching him, her tail twitching restlessly.
“Who?”
“Your wife – the witch!”
“She is not a witch, and you have her in the gaol! I’d have thought you would have hanged her by now!”
“So why are you here and not in town waiting for the hangings? The rest of the town are!”
That I could believe. The promise of seeing my Barb dangling naked from a noose would have brought an audience from several counties away.
“Would you want to stand and watch your wife being hanged?
That silenced him for a moment. The constable’s wife was well known as a virago. I suspected that he’d have wanted a front row seat.
"I have no idea where she is! If you’ve lost her you need to get better locks for your prison!”
He glared at me. “We found a coat in the empty cell. Where’s your coat?”
“I gave it to my wife.” I said, reasonably. “You had stripped her naked. It was a cold night. I gave her my coat. She, like the generous, warm wonderful, non-witchy person that she is, gave it to Kathy Briggs, who was wearing it the last time I saw it.”
“You’re a clever dick, John Wragg. You have an answer for everything!”
“Just the simple truth, sir,” I assured him.
He did not look convinced. “Search this place!” he ordered.
And search they did. High and low, watched the whole time by a black cat who looked as smug and self-satisfied as only a cat can.
One of the men stopped by Barb, and scratched behind her ear. She mewed happily at him.
“Nice cat,” he remarked. “What do you call him?”
“Her,” I corrected, buying time while my brain whirled. What do you call a cat who is your legally wedded wife?
“’Her’, sorry. What do you call her?”
Amelia, my daughter, aged 4, piped up. “Sweet Cheeks! Daddy calls her ‘Sweet Cheeks!”
“Weird name to call a cat!”
I hoped he hadn’t noticed how red I’d turned. I’d sat Barb down on that same stool last night when I got back from the gaol and said “There you go, Sweet Cheeks, you’re home.” I’d thought Amelia was asleep!
I thought fast, “But she has got sweet cheeks! Look how her whiskers come out at such a perfect angle!” I glared at Amelia, and she fell silent before she could inform them of any other family secrets.
He just looked at me as if I was nuts. Barb looked at me as though she wanted to leap on my throat and sink her claws in deep. She’d always hated that nickname!
But he gently stroked her face, which mollified Barb, and seemed to keep him content. “Nice pussy. Did silly Master give you a daft name, then? He’s a silly bugger, isn’t he? Nice pussy.”
Eventually the constable and his men gave up and concluded that I hadn’t somehow spirited my wife away from the Town gaol, that some other agency had done the deed.
“So you’ve lost my Missus, then, have you?”
He grabbed me by the collar, and pulled my face up close to his. He had severe halitosis.
“You listen carefully, Mister Wragg! If you are hiding her somewhere, we will find out, and then we’ll stretch your neck as soon as we’ve finished stretching hers! Where is she?”
“Like I said, I have no idea!”
He pushed me backwards, and stormed out, followed by his men.
Amelia looked at me, sitting on the floor, with big, frightened eyes. “Where’s Mummy? I want Mummy!” She began to cry.
Barb jumped off the stool and went over to Amelia. She mewed and purred and allowed Amelia to play with her, which distracted her and stopped her crying, as well as saving me from a difficult explanation. I was having trouble getting my own head around the fact that my wife was now a quadruped of the feline genus, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to try and explain it to my children.
Or my mother, who bustled in at that moment. She took in the scene of desolation at a glance. “Did that stray cat make this mess? Out!”
Barb disdainfully ignored her.
“No, it was the constable. Looking for Barb.”
“Escaped. I heard.” Not much got past my mother. “You’re well rid of her, I say. Witch! OUT!” She turned to grab Barb, who arched her back and spat at her.
“Leave the cat, mother,” I sighed. “She’ll be a distraction for the children. They’ll miss Barb, and so will I.”
For once in her life she listened to me. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry, John. Where did you find the cat?”
“Picked her up near the gaol last night. She’s cute, isn’t she?”
“Not really. I can’t abide cats. What do you call her?”
This time I had an answer. I couldn’t call her ‘Barb’, and I certainly couldn’t call her ‘Sweet Cheeks.’
“Somehow, she reminds me of Barb. Let’s call her ‘Barbie’.”
To be continued
*
