Ive lived next door to Gran Maggie in the little village of Ashford for years, and I still recall how the whole lane used to chatter. One summer Mrs. Blythe, who lived across the lane, stopped stopping by, muttering that the old woman had gone off her rocker in her dotage because she kept a creature that looked more like a wolverine than a cat.
It all began when Gran Maggie found a tiny, grey kitten wandering through her tidy front garden. She lived alone, a kindly soul with a warm hearth and a chimney that always crackled with fresh wood. She scooped the shivering kitten into her arms just as a sudden rain started to beat against the windows, and the little thing trembled like a leaf in a gale. The cottages old coal stove was already lit, and the fire popped merrily.
Soon the kitten, warmed by the glow, was drinking milk that Gran Maggie poured with careful hands. The old ladys days, which had grown quiet, suddenly filled with soft mews and the gentle hum of her own voice. The kitten purred while listening to Grans old folk songs, batting at a ball of wool as she knitted socks and even a pair of mittens. There were always shoppers stopping by for the fresh breads and the knitted goods, and the kitten grew into a sturdy cat, hunting mice and rats with an expertise that made the whole garden feel safe.
He would leap onto the apple trees and swing down the trunks whenever he spotted Gran, never pausing to think about his odd habits. Gran began calling him affectionately Whiskers, and he answered every time. One hot July afternoon, while Gran was picking raspberries and blackcurrants in the back orchard, she heard a faint hissing. Looking down, she saw a huge adder coiled in the grass, ready to strike. Her legs felt as weak as jelly, and age held her back.
Before the snake could strike, Whiskers sprang onto it, snapping its head in an instant. He wrestled with the reptile for a while, even dragging it up into a tall oak before tossing it down again. The adder slipped from the cats claws and fell near Mrs. Blythes fence, still hissing like a piglet, but Whiskers, indifferent to the noise, carried it away and left it there.
Mrs. Blythe, convinced that Gran was keeping a wolverine or some sort of werebeast, kept her distance. Gran, however, paid no mind to the cats impressive size; he was her favourite companion. She would stroke his sleek fur while he curled up on the rug by her bedside, sleeping the night away.
Whiskers loved to roam the thick grass, sometimes dozing in the heat, but he always returned home when dusk fell. One night, Gran fell asleep with a halfopen window, because the cat liked to slip out into the yard whenever he felt the urge. Through that opening two local drunks, whod heard that Gran had just received her state pension of a few hundred pounds, slipped in. They shoved a rag into Grans mouth to keep her from shouting and began demanding money, their voices trembling with fear as they saw her helpless form.
Gran let out a sharp scream, and the rag flew from her mouth. The men started ransacking the cottage, but then a massive, shaggy shadow lunged through the window. One of the crooks shouted, Boris, is that you? Did you find something in the neighbours house? Shes only just got her pension! before the shadow pounced, its claws sinking into one thiefs throat and then into the others eye, making the man squeal like a piglet.
The creatures eyes glowed green in the dim light as it snapped from one robber to the next, hissing and snarling. Gran managed to yank the rag from her mouth and flicked the light switch, flooding the room with illumination. She recognized the intruders at once and yelled, Help! The whole lane lit up as neighbours burst through the doors.
What they saw made their stomachs turn: the two drunks lay on the floor, one twisted in a grotesque pose, his face torn, the other clutching his throat, blood soaking the wooden floorboards. Gran sat on her bed, hugging Whiskers, who hissed fiercely, refusing to let anyone near her.
Remembering Mrs. Blythe, the men scattered in all directions, some heading for the old washhouse, where one tried to hide, only to be beaten with whatever they could find until the stolen cashseveral hundred poundswas recovered and handed back to the neighbour. They never called the police; they preferred to sort it out themselves, and the thieves got their own brand of justice, with a warning that theyd never tangle with Whiskers again.
One of the beaten men, still coughing, tried to mumble that it wasnt a cat at all, but a bloody demon! Hed seen something like that on the telly once. Gran snapped at him, You filthy swine, youve the gall to curse my cat! Youre the one whos a scoundrel! and gave him a sharp slap.
And thats how the little village of Ashford learned that even an old woman with a pension and a big grey cat could keep the night safe for everyone.
