A Christmas Cracker: The only festive romance to curl up with this Christmas!

‘There’s no need for insults. You’ve got what you wanted, so why don’t you go away?’ Kate suggested.

‘I can see you got what you wanted, too, Kate,’ I said, then added to Jeremy, ‘You deserve each other, you poor, credulous mutt!’

Then I hefted my bags and walked off down the drive, feeling glad I’d bought a belt at the station when I’d got the holdall, because losing my jeans halfway down the drive wouldn’t have done a lot for the dignity of my departure.

I knew where the cats’ home was: a good couple of miles away. I managed to balance my bag on top of the wheeled suitcase and drag them both together, but I was still exhausted by the time I’d walked there.

The girl behind the desk had a doughy face and scarlet-tipped black hair exploding out of a high knot, and I could see from her guarded expression that she’d recognised me the moment I walked in. I suppose the case had been a seven-day wonder locally.

I pretended I hadn’t noticed and explained the situation anyway: that I’d been away and my cat, Pye, had been brought there without my permission, so now I needed to know what had happened to him.

‘Oh yes … Pye,’ she said uneasily. ‘We renamed him Pip because it sounded more friendly, though he isn’t, is he?’

‘Not to strangers, no.’

‘You must be Tabitha Coombs.’

‘Give the girl a coconut,’ I said shortly. It had been a long and stressful day already and the tension was slowly building inside me. ‘I’m the person his identity chip is registered to, if you checked it?’

‘Yes, but he was brought in by a man living at the same address as that on his chip, so—’

‘My ex-fiancé. We shared the same address, but not the same name. Pye is my cat.’

‘He told us he couldn’t keep him and you’d agreed that he should be brought to us for rehoming.’

‘Well, I didn’t – and he told me he’d found Pye a good home, he just didn’t tell me it was a cat rescue one. So … have you rehomed him? You didn’t … put him down?’

‘No, of course not! He was healthy enough to go straight onto the rehoming wing of the cattery, though actually, black cats are the most difficult to rehome, especially adult ones with odd eyes and …’ she paused, wondering how to put it tactfully, ‘… difficult temperaments,’ she finished.

‘He does have his little ways and he’s very vocal,’ I conceded, and then, like music to my ears, a far-away, familiar wailing noise began to slowly work towards what I knew would be an ear-splitting crescendo.

‘Pye? He’s – still here?’ I demanded.

‘I— yes, but I’m not sure where we stand about …’ she began, but I was already heading for the inner door.

She moved quickly to block me. ‘I’m afraid that visiting time for future rehomers has finished for the day, but if you could come back tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to discuss the matter with the manager—’

I faced her. ‘I’m going to see my cat now,’ I stated, and I expect I was giving off a powerful vibe that I was prepared to knock her down and trample over her to do so, if necessary, because she backed away a little.

‘Please,’ I added, attempting an ingratiating smile that was probably scarier than my previous expression. ‘I’ve missed him so much.’

‘Oh, well …’ she said, giving in suddenly and ushering me through the swinging door to the cattery. ‘Let’s see if he recognises you.’

We walked down a short corridor and then along a row of cages, the unusual wailing noise now rising and falling like some kind of demonic lullaby.

In the very last pen, thin, angry and bristling with displeasure, was a very large black cat. He stopped wailing and stared at me coldly from mismatched eyes, one blue, one green.

‘Pye?’ I whispered tremulously.

He turned his back disdainfully and sat down.

‘He doesn’t exactly seem pleased to see you,’ the girl commented.

‘He’s just angry with me because he thinks I abandoned him,’ I explained. ‘Pye? I came back as soon as I could.’

Pye, his back still turned, began to wash one paw, as if he wasn’t listening.

‘You are sure this is your cat?’

‘Yes, of course it’s my cat! Could you let me inside the pen?’

‘Sooner you than me,’ she said, unlocking it so I could step in. ‘And I wouldn’t touch him, because he’s all claws and teeth and …’

Pye, when I picked him up, made a weird snarl and then went limp and heavy. I held him in my arms and a fat tear dropped onto his sharp, furry face. ‘Oh, Pye, I’m so sorry!’ I told him.

He gave a galvanic jerk, painfully rabbit-kicking me, before scrambling up and attaching himself like a burr to my neck, where he butted my chin so that my teeth clicked together. There was more angry grumbling.

I turned, holding him and laughing. ‘That’s my Pye!’

‘Well, he wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but he certainly seems glad to see you, in his way,’ she conceded.

‘Come on, Pye, let’s spring you,’ I said, carrying him out into the corridor. ‘This is the day we both get out of prison!’

‘But I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ the girl said. ‘Since he was signed over to us for rehoming, he’ll have to stay here while we go through that process – you know, inspect your house and suitability as an owner and—’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I said shortly. ‘I lost my home and fiancé when I went to prison and I’ve only just got out.’

She flinched. ‘But we have to make sure they go to suitable homes.’

‘Look, the cat is mine, he’s microchipped in my name and was given away illegally and without my permission. And anyway, if you think you can detach him from me, go ahead and try!’

She accepted defeat.

‘I suppose in the circumstances … though we’ll have to go and do some paperwork and I’ll need an address.’

‘I have a job with living accommodation, so he’ll be fine,’ I assured her, though not in the least certain how Mercy Marwood felt about cats, especially cats like Pye.

But I filled in the form with my new address and had to pay her some money before she would sign him over to me. My cash was fast running out, but I also purchased a cardboard pet carrier into which, with extreme difficulty, I inserted Pye.

It was now four o’clock and I needed to be at Mote Farm by five, to be tagged, and while it was only about twenty miles away, I suspected it would be a long and convoluted journey by train and bus – and Pye was already working on shredding the box. I counted what was left of my money and then got the receptionist to call me a taxi.

Due to the miracles of satnav I was dropped off at dusk, at the bottom of a narrow tarmac road which apparently led to Mote Farm, my destination.

Paying the taxi took every last penny I had and then I trudged wearily off up the road, trundling my laden suitcase and weighed down by the cat carrier. The hills enclosing the narrow valley cast a dark shadow over it, but the lights were lit behind the curtains of the short terrace of workers’ cottages that Mercy told me about.

The shape of the mill loomed up, closed and silent, and I turned to cross a stone bridge towards the drive that led up to the distant house, the cat seeming to get heavier with every step.

I had to keep stopping to rest, and Pye was getting crosser and crosser. But at last I trudged over another stone bridge that spanned a narrow moat, mocked by the quacking of ducks beneath. The house stretched out on either side of the porch with the glimmer of light showing the edges of inner wooden shutters.