Granny Edith was wandering alone in her tiny garden behind a little cottage on the edge of the Cotswolds when she stumbled upon a small, grey kitten, shivering beneath the broad leaves of a rhubarb plant. Edith lived by herself in the old stone house, and was known by all as a kindly, gentle soul.
The kitten, damp from a persistent drizzle, shuddered as she gathered it to her bosom. Inside, the Aga was casting a golden glow over the kitchen, and Ediths firewood crackled merrily in the grate.
Before long, the kitten was curled up on the hearth rug, lapping up a saucer of milk poured by Ediths careful hand. For the first time in years, the house felt livelyshe had someone to talk to who truly listened.
The kitten purred and watched as Edith hummed snippets of old English ballads, deft hands busy with knitting needles, spinning woolly socks and even the odd mitten. Her hand-knitted goods were always in demand at the village market.
The kitten soon grew into an enormous cat, sleek and clever, chasing mice and rats through tangled hedgerows and bordering fields. He learned every corner of his little domain, bounding up apple trees and sliding back down when he spotted Edith at her window. His odd manners never rattled Edith; she thought them endearing.
In time, she gave him an affectionate nameBig Tom. Big Tom always came running when called. One afternoon, Mrs. Thompson from next door popped her head over the fence, declaring, Thats no cat, luv, looks more like a badger than a moggy!
Edith paid her no mind. That sweltering August, she was picking over raspberries and blackcurrants in her orchard when she heard a hissing sound. Lowering her eyes, she saw an enormous adder poised to strike. Her aged legs felt weak as custardthered be no climbing up on the garden bench today.
Before she could utter even a gasp, Big Tom leapt out of nowhere, pouncing on the snake. In a flash, he dispatched the creature and then toyed with its limp form, dragging it up the old sycamore. Later, the dead snake toppled into Mrs. Thompsons yard. Her shriek could be heard clear to the high street. Big Tom, undeterred by protests, promptly reclaimed his trophy.
After that, Mrs. Thompson stopped popping in for tea, muttering that Edith must have lost her wits, keeping a badger or perhaps something even less natural.
Edith never cared about how immense Big Tom grew. He was her beloved companion. She stroked his thick grey fur each night and he curled up on the hearthrug beside her bed.
Big Tom loved prowling through tangled grass, sometimes snoozing in warm patches, but always returning home at the right hour, padding through the back door.
One night, Edith dozed off, letting the little window stay ajar as usual so Big Tom could come and go into the moonlit garden.
That night, two local drunkards crept through the open casement, knowing Edith had just received her pension. For good measure, they had a dish towel to use as a gag.
Finding the sleeping Edith, they roused her and demanded to know where shed stashed the money. Terrified and silenced, she could only sob and tremble; when she cried out, the gag was crammed into her mouth. They began rifling through the cottage.
Suddenly, Edith glimpsed a huge, shadowy mass soaring through the window. One of the men, rummaging through her knitting basket, called, That you, Harry? Find anything next door? She just got her pension!
But the figure hurled itself at him, latching onto his throat. Then it sprang at the other, claws flashing for his eyes. He howled like a kicked piglet.
God almighty! The house sprite! Look at it! Hissing and all! The glint of emerald eyes blazed through the dim, the creature leaping from one man to the next.
Edith, gathering her courage, wriggled the gag loose and slammed on the light. She recognised both culprits, and shouted with all her might, Help! Lights flickered on across the neighbours cottages.
When they burst inside, they found the drunks sprawled on the floor, one whimpering through a blood-smeared face, the other clutching his gashed neck. Edith sat on her bed, arms tight around Big Tom, who hissed and wouldn’t let anyone near.
She suddenly remembered Mrs. Thompson and the third scoundrel. The menfolk dashed off, torches in hand, unearthing the last thief hiding in the shed, hoping to slip away. They dragged him out, walloped him soundly, and took back the stolen notes, promptly handing them over to Mrs. Thompson. None of them breathed a word to the police; no sense in getting themselves tangled in red tape.
The villains had learned their lesson! They were warned not to come back, lest Edith send her monstrous cat after them.
One of the thieves, stammering horribly, whimpered, Thats no cat. Thats a MAINE COON! Saw it on the telly!
You wicked lout! snapped Edith, clapping his head. Dont you dare call my Tom such things, you wretch! And mind your tongue in my house!
Like this, the dream faded, as Big Tom lay purring by Ediths bed, while echoes of shrieks, gossip, and the quiet click of knitting needles hung in the surreal, shifting night.
