Mrs Barratt

Tap, tap, tap, there she was, Mrs Barratt.  To me and my sisters Mrs Barratt was at least a hundred years old. I see her now, petite and tidy with fading blue eyes matching her wrap-around pinafore. Her hair, ‘as white as the driven snow’, was neatly plaited and pinned around her small dainty head. Mum said Mrs B was ‘a bit on the bewildered side’ and I suppose these days she’d have Senile Dementia. To us though, she was just a whispered, ‘Barmy Barratt from Next Door’.

I like to think she rather enjoyed having our noisy family close by. Our predecessor, Mrs Fudge had ‘kept herself to herself’, and after many short shrifts and rude rebuffs, even the bewildered Mrs B knew when to stop tap, tap, tapping on the window.

Anyway, Mrs Fudge died, and as our name was next on the Council Transfer List, we moved over to the posh side of the street – from 122 to 151. Our new home was a huge improvement – only one flight of stairs, a front room, living room, and, luxury of luxuries, an inside toilet!

For a while Mrs Barratt seemed unaware of Mrs Fudge’s demise and our presence. She never looked our way when she was pegging out her smalls. I think it was April, the Easter holidays, when she spoke to us for the first time, “What time do you think the egg man will come? I just fancy a soft boiled egg for my tea.”

We kids hadn’t a clue what she was on about, but then Mum came out. “Oh hello. Mrs Barratt isn’t it? Today’s Friday dear, the Egg Man comes on Tuesdays. Fred the Fishman comes on Fridays and he’ll certainly be here today as it’s Good Friday. Everyone has fish on Good Friday don’t they?”

Mrs B looked as bemused as we were about Fishy Fridays and Eggy Tuesdays, but she recognised a kindly voice. That was the start of the tap, tap, tapping.

These cries for help ranged from, “Is it going to rain today Mrs Brown?” to “There’s a funny smell in my kitchen, what should I do?” The latter usually meant she’d turned on a gas ring and forgotten to light it. We were always happy to help.

Every Wednesday without fail she had a visitor – Doris. While Mrs Barratt was a bit doolally tap, Doris was as sharp as a tack. She had an ugly gait due to a ‘tubercular hip’ in childhood, but that didn’t stop her limping the four miles to Mrs Barratt’s each week to save on bus fares.

She always stayed three hours precisely, enough time to give the house a thorough fettling and stock up the larder. Then they’d sit down with a cup of tea, to reminisce about their time, ‘in service’. It wasn’t long before Mum was invited in for a cuppa. There she discovered that Mrs Barratt had been housekeeper to a posh family in London, when Doris was a lowly housemaid. This hierarchy was still apparent, Mrs B was very bossy to Doris, who just accepted, and expected it.

Mrs Barratt had a skinny tortoiseshell cat called Henry. We girls loved Henry, but it soon became clear  it was either feast or famine for Henry chez Barratt. Mrs B either fed him continuously or not at all. On the ‘not at all’ days he would cry piteously at our back door, so we persuaded Mum to add 2 tins of Co-op Cat meat to our Friday shopping list. That solved the problem; he became accustomed to getting his grub at our house on starvation days and it was gratifying to see him becoming nicely plump.

But back to the tap, tap, tapping on that hot August Sunday. It was Dad’s turn for Mrs Barratt duties.

“Hello Mrs B. Everything alright?”

“Oh yes Mr Brown – it’s just so exciting though. It’s my cat, Henry, I do believe he’s having kittens! I wonder if the girls would like to come and see?”

We arrived in Mrs Barratt’s larder just in time for the birth of Henry’s third slimy, skinny kitten. Our eyes were like saucers, and poor Judith our younger sister who was always squeamish – nearly fainted and fled back to 151.

After the shock wore off though, we were delighted with this neighbouring feline family. Like most little girls we loved all animals, and quickly became more and more entranced by their development and Henry’s maternal skills. Then one of us, probably me, said, “I thought it was only mums who fed babies with them nipply things, not dads.”

Mum and Dad looked at each other, eyebrows raised then Dad said. “Girls, I reckon you need to think of another name for Henry. He’s not a boy, she’s a girl. How about Henrietta?”

So Mother Henrietta she became, and I was delighted to follow the scrawny little scraps’ progress. Every day after school I visited the new family. My favourite was kitten number three, and I spent hours pleading with Mum and Dad to let me keep it when the time to leave Henrietta. The pleas were all in vain because of Rex, our Alsatian cross. He was legendary in the neighbourhood for his hatred of all things feline. I’d never pretended to liked Rex much, but now I positively hated him.

They’d be about ten days old when Wednesday arrived, and I went to school happily, secure in the knowledge that Henrietta would be fed after Doris’s foray to the co-op. I got home around 4, and as usual for a Wednesday, there was a note leaning against the biscuit tin: “I’m next door with Mrs B and Doris, get yourself a ginger nut and a drink of milk. Come round if you want duck.” Mum always said that, but I usually avoided these little gatherings like the plague. I had no interest in the boring reminiscences about their time in service in the posh house. Mum however, being a huge Catherine Cookson fan, hung on to their every word.  This particular Wednesday was different though and I was round there in a heart-beat. I’d grown so attached to the kittens and never missed an opportunity to see them.

To my delight their eyes were open and I swear Kitty 3 stared straight at me. I was so tempted to pick her up for a cuddle. Then I noticed Henrietta’s warning glare, and realised it would be a very bad idea, so I settled for just watching them.

Although I knew that the vile, cat-hating Rex meant I couldn’t have a kitten, it didn’t stop me daydreaming about it. I decided my ‘Kitty 3’ couldn’t be a boy, she was far too pretty – I even deliberated over what I’d call her – would she be Tabitha or Catherine? I thought a name associated with cats was a very clever, original idea. I was certain that Tabitha/Catherine and I would be the very best of friends, just like Suzie Smith in my Bunty comic. Her devoted cat Katy, shared all Suzies worries and never left her side. They were the best of friends.

Suddenly I jolted from this idyllic reverie by an imperious.”Oh by the way, Doris, before you go, get that Dolly tub out. It’s time to get rid of those kittens again, and while you’re there shove Henry in as well this time. I’m tired of all this messy drowning business every few months.  Do be sure to give them all a good ponching, there’s a dear. ”

And then, “Mrs Brown, I wonder if your girls would like to come and watch? I do believe they’ve always had a soft spot for Henry…”

My sisters and I were mortified and chose not to accept this invitation. We never spoke to Mrs  Barrett. ever again – she didn’t seem to notice though.

I cried and cried for a week.