Cats In Clover Read online

  ***

  Three months later we stood at the gate of our new property on Adriana, a small island in the Strait of Georgia.

  "There it is, two hectares of the best soil on the island." Ben beamed as he gave me a hug. "And look at that view!"

  "Don't talk to me in metric," I said, "it's five acres." He was right about the view, though.

  The land lay on the eastern slope of the central north-south spine of hills, facing the Strait. Fifty yards beyond the maples, cedars and Garry oaks fringing the bottom of our meadow, the sea sparkled blue and serene under the March sun. Robins and sparrows warbled. Crows flapped lazily across the sky and seagulls soared over the beach. The air smelled of new growth and salt sea. I looked at the dilapidated buildings and moaned.

  "We'll have the place in shape sooner than you think," Ben said, giving me another squeeze.

  The old two-story house was big – at least we could have plenty of company – and I loved the wide front veranda facing the island-dotted sea. I could see myself sitting out there every morning with a mug of coffee, watching sunrise spread gold over the water and listening to the sleepy chirping of birds while I scribbled immortal prose. But not until we fixed the cracked siding and completely renovated the interior. Then there was the back door, which faced the road where we stood and seemed about to fall off its hinges. The chicken house resembled a pile of rubble. The two-foot high lawn was booby-trapped with abandoned iron bedsteads and bits of wire. The orchard looked like it hadn't been pruned since the Second World War.

  "I've got it all planned out," Ben said. "Renovating won't be a problem."

  I thought he was as overly optimistic about the renovations as he was about my learning to love living on a farm. Mora Bay, the ferry terminal and main town on Adriana, was small and we'd probably have to go to Victoria for major supplies. The five miles of gravel road to Mora Bay, twisting through cedar-scented forest and a scattering of tiny farms, took fifteen minutes and the crossing to Victoria an hour. Add the amount of time it would take to drive to a building supply store, pick up materials and make the trip home and we'd blow a whole day just getting a bag of nails. I reminded myself that clocks didn't matter anymore.

  Ben had assured me, all through the purchase negotiations, that the house looked worse than it was. He said the structure and plumbing were sound and the only major expense, other than replacing the inner and outer shells, would be some electrical work.

  Ben patted my arm. "Come on, Holly, quit worrying. The house is liveable."

  "Just barely." One burner was gone on the stove, the fridge motor gave a death rattle when it shut off and the linoleum was worn down to the backing. In the first glow of finding affordable land that pleased Ben and a view that consoled me – a little – for leaving the city, I hadn't paid much attention to these little problems. Besides, Ben kept consulting his cost estimates and telling me to look at the big picture. So I had. I'd looked at the meadow and the sea and dreamed of going back to the city. And shut my eyes to that disaster of a house.

  But renovating, no matter how tough, had to be less of a pain than my years of being a legal secretary, where the only good thing was the salary. And Ben had agreed to my having one cat. A far cry from the six I wanted, but it was a start.

  "Don't forget the pool," he said. "When the weather gets warmer we can have a leisurely dip every night before cocktails. More luxury than we had in the condo."

  The real estate agent told us that the pool had been put in six months before, the only new structure on the place. Ben was yearning to strip off the blue plastic cover and dive in but the pool wasn't heated and, even for a water enthusiast like him, March is not the time to go swimming in southern British Columbia. As far as I was concerned, water was only useful as a hot shower or in a glass with ice. A pool was merely something to sit beside with a book, a plate of munchies and a martini.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel road to our left. A lanky man with graying carroty hair sticking out from under a baseball cap stopped beside us. He held out his hand. "I'm Cal Peterson from next door. Saw your furniture van come yesterday." Cal towered over me and looked to be a good six inches taller than Ben, which made him well over six feet.

  We introduced ourselves and Cal asked, "You folks work in Victoria?"

  "We're retired," Ben said.

  "Go on, you're way too young."

  Blond, blue-eyed men are lucky; Ben looked forty-five rather than fifty-five. Aging had merely turned his hair and beard the color of faded straw and he could outlast me at the gym without even breathing hard. Dark women aren't so lucky; my long braid of black hair was laced with silver, though Ben tried to convince me that I hadn't changed a bit since our wedding day.

  "Well, I'm not really retired." Ben waved his hand at our land. "I've always wanted to have a little farm. No more rules and regulations, no more eight-to-five routine. Fresh home-grown vegetables and fruit." He looked at Cal. "Have you lived here long?"

  "Born in that house right there." Cal pointed to a mossy, cedar shake roof barely visible beyond the blackberry bushes marking our northern boundary. "Anything you want to know about the island or getting things done, just ask me."

  "Thanks." Ben nodded at the set of parallel iron bars set flat into the ground between our two gate posts. "Okay, first question. What are those for?"

  "Cattle guard. Guess you folks don't know much about farming."

  "I learn fast," Ben said. "But I never saw one of those before. How does it work?"

  "See, it hurts the cow's feet, stepping half on the bars and half on the empty space between. So they stay off it. You plan on raising any cattle?"

  "Maybe one cow and a calf each year for the freezer."

  "We might raise cats, too," I said, tongue in cheek. "I've had some experience with that."

  "We aren't going to raise cats," Ben retorted. "I know purebred kittens sell for big prices but the costs are bound to wipe out any profit."

  I should have known Ben would do the research. Cost accounting was in his blood and he'd even got into the habit of applying profit principles to our private lives. His desk was always awash in detailed budgets. I was hoping retirement would cure him, because I had no intention of raising kittens to sell. If I lucked into any kittens, I intended to keep them forever.

  Ben pointed to the right of our tattered house. "See the fenced area there with the little shed? Figured I'd plow it up for a garden and sell vegetables."

  Cal rubbed his jaw. "That's near two acres. You'll need a better fence to keep the deer out. Anything under eight, ten feet, they'll jump it."

  A rabbit popped out of the blackberry bushes hedging the west side of our land from the road. I hadn't noticed there were vines on three sides of the property; Ben's first cash crop might be blackberries. Unless I took up making blackberry wine to drown my sorrows. The rabbit stared at us in astonishment, waggled its ears and scooted away.

  "Could have a problem with rabbits, too," Cal added.

  "Not with a good dog around," Ben said. "I'm going to get a pup and train it. But first I want to build a carport and a workshop, fix up the chicken house."

  "Our house needs fixing, too," I reminded him.

  Cal removed his cap and smoothed back his hair. "The agent tell you that well's inclined to go dry in summer?"

  The well was fifteen feet from the back door, on the orchard side, and the real estate blurb had referred to it as 'picturesque.' It was four feet in diameter, protected from the elements by a thigh-high stone wall and a peaked wooden roof. A wooden lid kept debris out of the water but the small oaken bucket and crude winding handle suspended beneath the roof were purely for show. The pump house, attached to the back of the house, had apparently been built for midgets. The only way Ben could get in was on his hands and knees. When, at his suggestion, I'd crawled halfway in to see what a water pump looked like, spiders and strange little black insects scuttled in every direction. I backed out too fast and banged my head on the door fram
e.

  "The agent said it was only twenty feet deep," Ben said, "but with all the rain we get on this coast, I don't think there's much danger of it going dry."

  "Uh huh." Cal reached in his shirt pocket. "Well, you want any help, let me know. I do electrical work, plumbing, carpentry, just about anything you need." He handed me a business card that said 'Mister Fix-it'. "I'll drop around again when you're settled in. Gotta go feed my Angoras."

  After he strolled away, I said, "Do you suppose he has Angora cats or Angora goats?"

  "Could be either. He seems like a bit of a character."

  "If he meant cats, I want to see them. But I guess that can wait." I gazed at our tumbledown kingdom. "We need a name for our farm. How about Adriana Acres?"

  "This country has been using metric for years. Make it Holly Hectares."

  "No thanks!" I'd finished high school before the government introduced the metric system and I still hadn't got the hang of it. Mostly because I didn't want to.

  "Let's finish unpacking. We can think of a name later."

  "I'm going to organize my office." It was hard to believe I actually had my own space. Now, with time and country quiet, perhaps I could polish the short mystery stories I'd been scribbling for years. I'd picked the big room in the northeast corner of the house, with one window overlooking the veranda, meadow and sea and another with a view of the old orchard screening Cal's farm from our house. The scenery would keep my mind off the peeling wallpaper until we redecorated but the place stank of mouse droppings.

  "I want to get a cat soon so we can put the run on those mice."

  "Traps work just as well. And they'd be cheaper."

  "Ben, cats have personalities the same as people and they're a lot of fun. You'll enjoy having a cat once you get to know it."

  "When we get a guard dog, you can make a pet of him. I just don't see the point of having animals unless they earn their keep."

  Ben's attitude was another challenge, like the house, the chicken coop and all those things Cal had said about rabbits and deer. With the right cat, though, I was sure it would be the easiest to overcome.

  II - The Coming of the King

  "Distinguished, dignified gentleman seeks new home with loving caretakers. Tabby-Siamese cross. Does not like other cats."

  I circled the ad. Across the table, which was littered with toast crumbs, hammers and assorted bags of nails, Ben muttered over the editorial page. Since Ben always muttered over editorial pages, I had no way of telling whether he was in a receptive mood or not. He'd agreed to a cat, but he might try to delay the evil day. I crossed my fingers under the table for luck.

  The cat being a loner could be a drawback but it was possible he might just need some tenderness. Or, if he had a strong need to be head cat, the assurance that he had the position permanently. Before I'd married Ben, I always had two or three cats living with me and my experience convinced me that I could eventually coax this distinguished gentleman into accepting house mates.

  I took a deep breath and handed Ben the classifieds. "Let's call and find out about this little guy. He needs a home and it sounds like he's been well looked after."

  Ben pushed aside the editorials with exaggerated reluctance and read the ad. "If the owner wants to put him up for adoption, why not take him to the SPCA?"

  "If he isn't adopted quickly he'll be put down. There are so many abandoned animals they don't have much choice."

  "I hate the idea of animals being put down." Ben frowned. "But why not settle for the dog I'm going to buy? Dogs are affectionate, loyal and bright. And they have personality."

  "Cats are all those things, too."

  "You have an overactive imagination."

  I could deal with cats' idiosyncrasies; surely I could deal with a husband who thought they didn't have any. When I brought up the subject next day, I'd made a shopping list. Litter box, litter, wet and dry cat food, dishes, brush, catnip, toys. I handed it to Ben.

  "Looks like we are about to adopt a cat. Whoopee." He scanned the list. "Seems a sizeable capital investment for one small animal. Well, at least the cat is free."

  I escaped into the hall and picked up the phone before he thought to ask how much the cat's annual shots and visits to the vet would cost. Ben was a generous soul at heart and I knew that once he'd been won over by this dignified little gentleman, he wouldn't mind the vet bills. Provided I gave him some figures before he started drafting his next batch of budgets.

  I punched the number in the ad and Karen, owner of the 'dignified gentleman,' asked, "Have you owned a cat before?"

  "Several."

  "Do you have any children?"

  "No. Why?"

  "George doesn't like them," she said. "Children are too rough and noisy."

  "I have a question. Does George use a litter box?"

  "Yes, but he prefers the outdoors. Do you live in a house or an apartment?"

  "A house on five acres."

  "That sounds very nice." I could hear new respect in her voice. Land in or around Victoria is expensive. She probably thought we were rich and would provide George with a diamond collar.

  "Do you go away much?"

  "Hardly ever." The cost of a workshop and double car port, not to mention house renovations, meant vacations in the Caribbean or ski trips to the Swiss Alps might have to wait for a couple of centuries.

  "What part of town do you live in?"

  "We don't. We live on Adriana Island."

  "Oh!" I could almost hear her reassessing our probable net worth. "Is there a vet on the island?"

  "Two, actually."

  In the ensuing silence I pictured Karen gnawing her bottom lip and wondering if she dared trust me with her gentlemanly treasure. Finally she said, "Would you like to come and see him?"

  Next day we caught the noon ferry. I ignored Ben's grumpiness and tried to subdue my own excitement, hoping the cat would cooperate, though I knew there was a chance he'd decide he didn't like us.

  Sunlight danced on the waters of the Strait and the air was so warm it could have been midsummer instead of mid-March. In the cramped coffee shop on the upper deck, we found Cal Peterson nursing a coffee, his baseball cap pushed to the back of his head.

  He waved us over. "Been wondering how you guys were doing. I notice you got all that junk in the yard hauled away and cut the grass. It looks a lot better."

  "Thanks." Ben slid into the booth. "I'm getting more and more curious about the people who lived there before. Why would they put in that expensive swimming pool when the rest of the place needs so much work?"

  "Oh, them!" Cal removed his cap to run his fingers through his thinning hair. "They were party animals."

  "So that's why the hen house was full of empty beer bottles," Ben said. "I made just over thirty bucks taking them back to the liquor store."

  "At least you got a little something for your trouble," Cal said. "The reason for the pool is they had a couple of young teenagers who complained there was nothing to do."

  "I could have found them lots to do," Ben said. "Cal, have you got any free time? I want to get the workshop and carport built in a hurry so I can start on the garden before it's too late in the season."

  Cal took a grubby notebook and the stub of a pencil from his shirt pocket and leaned forward. "Well, now, I figure we can work out something agreeable."

  While the two men talked, I sat by the window and watched the bow wave ripple by, flashing in the sunlight. Mesmerized by the luxury of sitting still and doing nothing, my mind wandered to the farm. I was a little worried about the money we were putting into building and renovation but surely we'd recover that when we sold two years down the road. In the meantime, I might as well take some pleasure in living there.

  I decided that what we needed was a sandstone path from the veranda to the pool. We'd put deck chairs on the wide concrete apron and it would be heaven to sit out there in summer sun, reading while Ben took a dip now and then. In August we'd be able to reach out from our
chairs and pick blackberries from the thick mass of vines separating the pool from the fenced paddock where Ben planned to put the vegetable garden.

  The pool would be an enticement for family to come and visit, too. Now that we had spare bedrooms instead of just a couch in the living room, I was looking forward to seeing more of Gareth and his wife, Sue. Gareth had been ten when Ben was widowed and if he'd suffered any trauma over being motherless for half his growing up years, it certainly didn't show. By the time Ben and I married, Gareth was at university but he came home often, sometimes for the whole summer, and we had a relaxed, easy relationship.

  Then there was my sister, Ginna, and her husband, who might come down from Dawson Creek for summer holidays. And my Aunt Ruth from Fort St. John or Ben's family from Moose Jaw. There would be plenty of opportunities for barbecues and people splashing in the pool.

  Our future dog and cat family would loll in the shade of the young alders beside the equipment shed at the end of the pool. A cold beer for Ben, a dry martini for me, catnip for the cat. And maybe a rawhide chew toy for the dog. If I could shut my mind to all the disadvantages of living on an island farm, maybe sitting beside the pool would feel like being on vacation. I must have been smiling at the thought because Ben frowned at me and said, "What?"