According to local historian, Gwen Farndale, in 1069, the inhabitants of Clixendale village were wiped out during the Harrying of the North. The only thing that survived that bloody period was an old well that sits in the middle of the village green. It now has a modern manhole-style cover that the local’s loathe, believing it to be out of keeping with their village and its history. In the intervening 956 years, the world has been kinder to Clixendale and its 126 inhabitants. Having had nine centuries in which to build a pleasant community, the locals potter along in an atmosphere of convivial neighbourliness. Or they did, until the arrival of a cat, who subsequently became known as ‘Fat Larry’.
Fat Larry descended on Clixendale in the Spring. No one knows why this rotund, fluffy, black and tan striped tabby chose this particular village, or where he came from. The most feasible explanation is that he wandered down from a nearby hotel that had recently closed, tempted by an array of open doors and windows offering an excellent selection of tasty treats, mainly from Waitrose.
He first attracted attention when he dug up the spring daffodils. A few ‘tuts’ were heard in the bus stop queue, but he was quickly forgotten. At the next village Ladies Group meeting, Mrs Blenkinsop, a woman of some standing in the local branch of the Women’s Institute, informed the gathering that she had returned home to find Fat Larry reclining on her dining table, ‘like the Rokeby Venus’, having deposited a small ‘gift’ on her Eternal Beau tea tray.
Julia Wilkinson then showed a video taken in her kitchen of Fat Larry sitting over the remains of a cooked chicken, licking his paws with an expression of satiated gluttony. She froze the video at the point where the cat noticed her arrival.
‘Look,’ she said, holding up the phone, ‘who does that remind you of?’
The ladies watched as Julia tapped on her phone before producing a photograph of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Despite Julia Wilkinson’s well-known penchant for drama, the ladies had to agree that there was a passing resemblance. They pondered the situation over tea and a slice of lemon drizzle.
Over the next couple of weeks, tales of Fat Larry’s misdemeanours travelled back and forth through the village grapevine. The cosseted cats of the domesticated kind were next to feel his presence. A series of attacks occurred in which the poor creatures were set upon by this oversized beast. The final straw came when Mrs Hawthorn’s prize-winning Japanese Bobtail, Delia, was subject to an unwanted romantic overture as she was sunning herself outside the orangery.
Then came the final straw: Jean Hathaway, a keen gardener, tried to combat the problem by purchasing a large water pistol, which she used with the skill and enterprise of a trained assassin. Fat Larry took exception to this and positioned himself on the bird table to lie in wait. As Miss Hathaway left for her choral practice, Fat Larry flew at her, paws stretched like wings and, in her words, ‘howling like a banshee’.
A village meeting was called. Amidst the noise, the local vet informed the gathering that the solution was simple: Fat Larry’s testicles had to be removed. The villagers were in rapturous agreement, pleased that they had come so quickly to a solution. It was agreed that they would start a village WhatsApp group to track Fat Larry’s whereabouts, so that he might be captured and castrated as quickly as possible.
The good people of Clixendale were so elated, that no one noticed Bernadette Callaghan sitting quietly at the back of the room. Bernadette had arrived in Clixendale ten years previously, driving a dilapidated purple campervan with a stencil of Che Guevara on the side. She wore green combat trousers, a holey t-shirt and had wild steel-grey hair poking out of a red bandana that, as far as the villagers could make out, she had yet to take off. Despite her decade-long residence in Cobweb cottage, they still referred to her as ‘the new woman’ or, if they were describing her appearance, ‘the hunt saboteur’. Unbeknown to them, they were nearer to the truth than usual. Bernadette had, in her younger days, been an active member of the Freedom for Animals Militia, a crude but radical organisation that, back in the early 1980s, had made national headlines with its exploits. Age, arthritis and a dicky knee had put paid to protest marches and clambering through muddy fields. These days, she lived quietly with her two dogs, believing she had done her bit. Until, of course, she witnessed what she interpreted as a frenzy of hatred towards a poor defenceless cat. By the time she had shuffled home, she could feel the fight returning. Driven by rage and a sense of injustice for Fat Larry’s predicament, the strength began returning to her body parts. Her back straightened, her knee felt stronger. Bernadette had purpose again: to save Fat Larry from mutilation.
At first, her mission was a simple case of keeping an eye on WhatsApp. When Mrs Blenkinsop wrote that she had spied the cat in the pub car park and was on her way there with a cat cage, Bernadette arrived before the other woman had put her coat on. But shooing him off could not be a long-term solution and she could not hide him in the spare bedroom, lest the dogs had him. It was also taking up a lot of Bernadette’s time – monitoring the group and always having to be in a state of readiness was a young woman’s game. She needed a better plan. It was, of course, good old-fashioned blackmail. Bernadette had learned, from her activist years, how to keep her enemies close. For the last few years, she had kept an eye on the villagers. Now, the fruits of her labours could be put to use.
First up was Lady Bethdale, who relished in dropping less-than-subtle hints that she was a distant cousin of the Spencers. At their first meeting, Bernadette had sniffed something amiss. The Freedom for Animals Militia had teemed with trust fund kids pretending to be poor and infiltrators posing as students, and if she could do one thing well, it was sniff out a fake accent. So, it didn’t take much. A couple of phone calls and a Google search revealed that Sir Geoffrey Bethdale had married a hairdresser from Luton called June Slaithwaite. A search on the library microfiche pulled up a photo of her in younger days, winning The Bob of the Year Award.
As soon as it was dark, Bernadette dug out her activist attire – black jeans, black sweatshirt, a balaclava and leather gloves. She nipped through the hedge at the rear of Barrington Hall and up to the old servants’ entrance where the only letterbox was still in use. The note included a photo of the award from the newspaper and was written in capital letters: LEAVE LARRY ALONE OR THIS WILL BE THE VILLAGE GOSSIP.
The others were relatively easy: Richard Hawthorn would wander around the village, chatting to his mistress on the pretence he couldn’t get a phone signal from his house. It was simple enough to record him. All she had to do was walk the dogs in close proximity, wearing huge headphones and bobbing her head in time to non-existent music.
Alice Sharp, the church warden, was next. During the Covid pandemic, Bernadette had covered church duties when Alice was ill, and had used the time well. The photos of spreadsheets showing several discrepancies in the church fund accounts came out well, as did the one of the vicar’s porn collection. Then there was Julie Wilkinson, who was having relations with a farrier from Bugdale. Although Bernadette did not have a video of the actual act, she did have one of a prolonged Christmas kiss in the pub car park last year. Mrs Fields had a bingo habit that she hid from her husband, and Angela Greenwood’s kleptomania had come to Bernadette’s attention two years previously, when she saw her sneak a packet of French Fancies under her waxed Barbour. On that occasion, Bernadette did not get the incident on film, but she later managed to capture footage of a bottle of Chablis and a family size packet of hobnobs making their way into Angela’s bag-for-life.
Sure enough, the WhatsApp group began to scream its dissent: What if Fat Larry belongs to someone? Is it ethical to de-ball a cat we don’t own? Is it even legal? My husband thinks I shouldn’t get involved! Who’s going to pay?
It was working like a dream. The only obstacle was the Blenkinsop woman. Bernadette had nothing on her, and for every dissenter Mrs Blenkinsop had an answer. Bernadette had to find a way to deal with her before Fat Larry ran out of time. All it would take was for him to be in the wrong place or too far away for Bernadette to save, and that Blenkinsop creature would have him snared and butchered. The only thing Bernadette could do was terrify the woman into submission. She would use Mrs Blenkinsop’s only weakness, her French bulldog, Philippe.
For the next three nights Bernadette, dressed in her activist garb, snuck over the village green to the Blenkinsop house and delivered certain letters. The first said, ‘Either you leave Fat Larry alone, or Philippe gets it’. The next one read, ‘I’m not joking. Larry keeps his balls or Philippe is roadkill.’ On the last night, she chopped letters out of newspaper to add an extra touch of menace, spelling out ‘Forget Fat Larry, or your dog is DEAD’. She liked the effect of the large capitals – more impact. Each day she checked WhatsApp to see if Blenkinsop had backed down. On the fourth day the WhatsApp group went silent.
And that should have been the end of it. Fat Larry’s manhood was saved. But a couple of days later, Mrs Blenkinsop walked past Bernadette’s cottage carrying the cage. As Bernadette peered around her net curtains, she saw Mrs Blenkinsop turn towards her window and raise her hand in a wave. She ducked down behind the sink unit but knew she had been seen. No one ever waved at Bernadette.
The next day the same thing happened. Then, on the day before the village fete, Bernadette was standing by the green watching the bunting go up, when Mrs Blenkinsop walked straight past her, cage in hand. As their eyes locked, Mrs Blenkinsop smiled and gave the cage a rattle. Bernadette was furious. Time was running out, as were her options. She would send one more warning and, if that didn’t work, she would have to go to plan B: kidnap Philippe.
It was 3am when Bernadette left her cottage. She had nodded off after a couple of tots of rum she had consumed while watching an old episode of Countryfile. Fortunately, she had set her alarm. Out came the black outfit. It had been raining earlier, so she swapped her usual trainers for wellingtons in case the village green was soggy. Outside her front door, she paused to check her surroundings and allow herself to become accustomed to the night. All was quiet. The houses were in darkness; the moon covered in cloud. She could see the Blenkinsop place across the green, a black shape in the distance. Sound carries easily in the countryside, so she trod carefully across the road until she reached the edge of the grass.
The green was ready for the fete. A small stage had been erected for the parish brass band, the stalls were in place, waiting for their sumptuous produce and local crafts, bunting could be heard, flapping in the night-breeze. Bernadette picked her way across. She was moving slowly so as not to slip and because of all the new objects now interrupting her path. As she got to the centre of the green, she became aware of a scraping sound. She stopped and tried to identify the noise. She could see the silhouettes of the stalls on either side of her, lining her path, and the hired Portaloo in the distance. She decided it had been her imagination set off again, but she managed only a few steps before two shadowy figures popped out from behind the jumble tables.
‘Who’s there?’ She called, but there was no answer.
A woman’s voice, apparently coming from the Portaloo, shouted ‘Now!’ and a rope of bunting popped up in front of her. It was taut, like a washing line, with a human shaped silhouette on either side. Bernadette gasped, trying to focus her eyes in the darkness, but before she could react, she felt large hands on her shoulders, the fingers extending down her upper arms. In a second, she was falling forwards, tripping over the bunting, her wellingtons slipping on the wet grass. She put out her hand, waiting for the ground to meet her. Disorientated by the darkness, she flapped and flailed, but the soggy turf did not make its expected appearance. She was falling, falling, and then the shadowy darkness became an inky blanket. The last thing Bernadette heard was the familiar scraping sound, as the well cover was pulled back into place.
The next day the village of Clixendale bloomed as the brass band played and the summer fete burst into life. At 2pm, Miss Hathaway posted on WhatsApp that she had caught Fat Larry and was holding him in a cage until the vet arrived. Everyone was delighted. The people of Clixendale had a lovely day, contented that the matter was finally settled, and highly satisfied with their combined common-sense and admirable community spirit.
Kate Dalby is studying for an MA in creative writing and is currently working on her thesis as well as writing a novel.