Stripey and the Post Box

Stripey and the Post Box

Stripey and the Post Box

Michael Holman was Africa editor of the Financial Times from 1984 to 2002, when he took early retirement.

By Michael Holman

His first novel, Last Orders at Harrods, was published by Polygon in 2005. He lives in London.

Designed by Marc Peter, illustrated by Mira Kim & edited by AnĂŠ-Mari Peter

By Michael Holman

Produced by on-IDLE Ltd (www.on-idle.com)

Stripey and the Post Box

By Michael Holman

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Stripey and the Post Box

Date of first publication: 5th October, 2011 Illustrations: Mira Kim Design: Marc Peter Editor: AnĂŠ-Mari Peter

Š 2011 Michael Holman Email: brokesley@aol.com

Other Books by Michael Holman: Dizzy Worms 2010 Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies 2007 Last Orders at Harrods 2005 African Deadlines 1995 True Fiction (contributor) Penguin 1996 2

Stripey and the Post Box

In birthday celebration of my mother’s great journey: from King William’s Town to Edinburgh, via Gwelo and Harare

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Stripey and the Post Box

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Chapter List

Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake Chapter Two: Stripey Writes a Letter Chapter Three: Stripey Gets a Call Chapter Four: Fair Play for Cats Chapter Five: “Allbest! Stay Lucky!”

Chapter Six: Stripey does a Dance Chapter Seven: The Cabinet Meets Chapter Eight: Stripey Visits Downing Street Chapter Nine: “Thanks a Slot”

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Stripey and the Post Box

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Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake

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Stripey and the Post Box

“Stripey!”

“Striii-pee!”

The lean striped cat in the garden pricked up his ears, twitched his long tail and decided to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“Striiii-peee!”

The call came from bedroom on the top floor, down two flights of stairs, through the kitchen, out onto the balcony, ran down the steps and found Stripey looking at a hole in the wall.

He had been Hole Watching since early morning. Something very interesting lived in that hole, Stripey believed.

Possibly it had fur. Or it might have feathers. Whatever it was, he had to sit very still and think very hard, and sometimes hold his breath. Just in case.

“Stripey!” The call was shorter and sharper. This time the voice sounded very cross and very impatient.

“Corks!”, said Stripey, “The Lodger again”, and immediately felt a little ashamed. He had promised his mother that he would stop using this name for the person with whom he shared the house.

“He lives here”, his mother, otherwise known as Newcat, had explained: “A lodger is a sort of guest, a visitor who pays to stay for a while, and then moves on.”

“But he is always away.” argued Stripey at the time. “Here one day, gone the next. Packs his bag, and off he goes, just like a lodger.

Why does he do it?”

“To earn money”, his mother replied. “It’s his job. He’s a journalist, and writes about the places he visits. So don’t let me hear 8

Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake

you calling him the Lodger.”

That was a long time ago, but Stripey still regarded him as the Lodger.

“Stripey!”

“Coming”, called Stripey, taking a last look at the Hole.

Stopping only to sniff the cat-mint, Stripey jumped over the lavender bushes, crossed the lawn, and followed the call — up the balcony stairs, through the kitchen, into the hall, up the stairs to the first floor landing.

Until this point no one watching Stripey would have guessed that he was supposed to be in a hurry. But as he started on the last flight of stairs there was a sudden change.

He took the steps two at a time, and entered the Lodger’s bedroom panting heavily, as if he had run a mile.

“Stop it, Stripey.” said a voice from under the duvet, blue except for a curious grey patch at the bottom. A closer look showed that it was a patch of cat hairs, marking the spot where Stripey took his afternoon nap.

“Stop what?” asked Stripey.

“Panting.”

Stripey thought of claiming that he had run all the way from the next door garden, but decided against it. “What do you want?”

“Newspaper. Mail. Post letters.”

“Time for my fish”, said Stripey.

The Lodger grunted. “Get the newspaper first.”

“Need money”, said Stripey.

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Stripey and the Post Box

“In the dish”, said Lodger.

The deal was struck. But it needs an explanation.

On Saturday mornings Lodger liked to lie in bed, leaving Stripey in charge of the house. Stripey’s duties included buying the morning newspaper — the Guardian — from the cornershop, and bringing it to Lodger. He also brought the day’s mail, which landed on the doormat each day, and posted letters which Lodger had written the night before.

Only then did Lodger get out of bed, and cook Stripey’s favourite breakfast — fish. In fact, Stripey always had fish for breakfast but ever since a most unpleasant episode, preferred someone else to cook it for him.

The problem was lighting the gas stove. No matter how careful he was, the gas went up with a rather frightening WHOOSH every time he put a lighted match to it. And on one dreadful occasion, it had singed his whiskers — an alarming experience for anyone, but especially so for a cat.

Making tea? Easy. Using the toaster? No problem. But when it came to lighting the gas to boil the water for breakfast fish, it was another matter.

So the Saturday arrangement was very convenient — though it must be said that there were disadvantages for both of them.

Lodger dislikes the smell of fish, Stripey hates the smell of the cars that drive past the cornershop. But both agreed that all in all, it was a fair deal.

Whistling cheerfully, Stripey checked his appearance in the 10

Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake

bathroom mirror.

“Smart cat!” he said to himself. He trotted down the stairs, took some money from the dish and a letter ready for posting, set aside the mail that had dropped onto the doormat, and took a cautious sniff through the post box before venturing out.

One could never be too careful about dogs. His lips wrinkled as his nose drew in the smells from the street.

Petrol fumes were as bad as ever, but at least there was no sign of dog. Pushing through the cat-flap, clutching the letters in one paw and the pound in the other, Stripey emerged into the street.

It was a short journey to the cornershop, barely one hundred yards, but it took some time.

Jeremy, who lived two doors down, insisted on talking about his last visit to the vet. Codger, who lived in the video shop, passed on the latest gossip about neighbourhood dogs, complaining as usual about the mess they left on the pavements.

By the time he reached the cornershop, Stripey had almost forgotten what he had come for. The shopkeeper, known to all his customers as Pat (Mr Patel), greeted him.

“Morning Stripey. Nice day.”

He handed over the Guardian, which was set aside each day, ready for collection.

“Morning, Pat.” Stripey gave him the pound, and while waiting for his change, read the headlines of the newspapers laid out on the shelf.

One newspaper in particular caught his eye: Cat News.

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Stripey and the Post Box

It’s a very popular paper but not one that Stripey particularly approved of: too many pictures of cats and not enough news.

Every now and then, however, it came up with a big story, and today’s story was stunning.

‘CAT-FLAP SHOCK’ said the headline, in big bold letters.

Stripey read on: “Thousands of cats across Britain are forced to sleep outside because their homes do not have a cat-flap, an exclusive Cat News investigation has revealed.

Only one home in twenty has a cat-flap, a secret government report discloses.

Who is to blame?…

Time government acted…

Does this government care?”

Cat News says: “Make cat-flaps compulsory in every home!”

“Quite right, quite right”, muttered Stripey. “Absolute disgrace, cats not being able to come and go as they please.”

Mr Patel followed his gaze and nodded in approval: “I see what’s caught your eye, young Stripey. I couldn’t agree more. Shocking!

The secret report is published in full, inside… shocking business.”

“I’ll take a copy, please”, said Stripey, anxious to get home and read all the details — but his haste proved to be his undoing.

Posting letters could be a perilous business. The slot in the post box was far too high for cats. Stripey had to get up on his hind legs, extend his front legs to their very limit, and with a final stretch, tip the letter into the slot.

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Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake

Any cat in this situation is vulnerable to dogs.

Unfortunately neighbourhood dogs had taken to loitering in the vicinity of the post box for a spot of their favourite sport — Cat Chasing.

Posting a letter, therefore, required speed and concentration.

Stripey was quick enough — but concentration was lacking.

He left the shop, and not taking his eyes off the front page of Cat News, and clutching the Guardian and the letter for posting, stopped at the red post box opposite. Stipey was an unusually tall cat. Nevertheless, he still had to stretch to the limit of his hind legs to reach the slot. A block away, a dog spotted Stripey, barked excitedly, and started to give chase.

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Stripey and the Post Box

It was a wasted effort. The letter safely posted — or so he thought — Stripey gave the excited dog a quick wave of his paw, sprinted down the street and was back on his doorstep before the panting dog had even reached the post box.

Stripey was through the cat-flap in a trice and had almost reached Lodger’s bedroom before he realised that something was missing.

Cat News was safely in his paw. But the Guardian? Where was the Guardian?

He looked down through the staircase railings, wondering if he could possibly have dropped it in the hall. No sign of it.

Could he have dropped it in the street? He thought hard.

Definitely not.

He thought again, concentrating as hard as if he was Hole Watching.

He definitely had it when leaving the shop; but for the life of him, he simply could not remember what he did with it then.

Suddenly Stripey groaned.

He knew exactly what he had done with it. He had posted the newspaper!

He turned on his tracks, and started tip-toeing back down the stairs.

“Stripey?”

Sometimes it seemed that Lodger had the ears of a cat. Even when his head was under the duvet, he seemed to hear the tiniest sound. “Paper”, he grunted.

“Posted it”, said Stripey, and waited for the explosion.

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Chapter One: Stripey Makes a Mistake

Lodger made a strange noise, between a grunt and a bark, and sat bolt upright. “Posted it!” he cried. “What do you mean, POSTED IT?” Stripey shrugged. “Accident.”

Not surprisingly, Lodger wanted to know more.

Stripey began at the beginning, starting with how he took a pound from the dish, chatted with Jeremy and Codger, paid for the newspaper, stopped by the postbox, usual stretch to reach the slot, on the look out for dogs.

Lodger interrupted: “What paper have you got in your paw, then?”

“Cat News”, said Stripey, and waited for another explosion.

“Terrible paper”, Lodger said grumpily. “All those pictures of mice.”

“At least they’re free-range mice”, replied Stripey, but in fact he agreed with Lodger. Stripey did not eat mice. Nor, it should be said, did he catch birds. Admittedly this was rather unusual for a cat, but in other respects he was a perfectly normal cat.

By this time Lodger was back under the duvet. “Orange juice.”

“Fish”, said Stripey.

“After my bath”, said Lodger.

“Not fair”, said Stripey, under his breath, and set off to complain to his mother.

But no sooner had Stripey reached the kitchen than he heard his name called again.

“Bring yesterday’s newspaper”, the Lodger demanded.

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Stripey and the Post Box

Stripey looked thoughtful. Yesterday’s newspaper… now where could it be?

He had seen it very recently, but where?

For the second time that morning, he had to think hard.

Face-washing usually jogged the memory — a useful tip picked up at Cat College.

He licked his right paw and set to work. With each stroke he relived the past few hours, most of which, it seemed had been spent Hole Watching.

But he certainly had not read yesterday’s newspaper while concentrating on the Hole. It must have been inside the house.

In mid-stroke the awful truth dawned.

He had used it to wrap the left-over fish from yesterday’s breakfast! Although he could easily have cleaned his plate, he had put a portion aside. Hole Watching could get tiring, and a spot of fish revived his energies.

He sighed. “Bravery, Stripey, bravery”, he said to himself and climbed slowly up the stairs to break the bad news to Lodger.

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Chapter Two: Stripey Writes a Letter

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Stripey and the Post Box

It was dark. Very dark. So dark that not even a cat could see his own paw, even if he held it in front of his whiskers.

It was also warm. And it was private.

In fact, the chimney above the bathroom fireplace was a perfect place for a cat that wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

Stretched out on a ledge, Stripey was taking a break from Hole Watching and working on his Letter.

Like most cats, Stripey was convinced that he was always right.

But there were exceptions. No matter how long he thought about it, he had to admit he had made an unfortunate mistake.

He had to admit that he had posted the Guardian into the red pillar box on the corner.

But it was not entirely his fault, of that he was certain.

The real culprit, he decided, was that dog which had started to chase him. True, he had been distracted by the headlines and the story in Cat News; but what had actually made him lose concentration, he decided, was the fear that a neighbourhood dog might catch him by surprise, just at the moment he was stretching and straining to reach the post box slot.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to write a letter to the editor of Cat News. And the only place to compose it was in the chimney, above the bathroom fireplace.

“Dear Sir”, it began.

“It is high time something was done about post boxes.

It is common knowledge that cats find the slot far too high.

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Chapter Two: Stripey Writes a Letter

It means that we have to stretch. Standing on two legs, while keeping a sharp eye open for dogs leaves us at a great disadvantage.

It is very, very distracting. I and many of my friends have made the mistake, all too easy to do, of posting the newspaper instead of the letters.

May I suggest that either the height of the slot be lowered; or a second slot provided.”

Stripey paused at this point, and anyone watching him would have seen — had they been able to see in the dark — a thoughtful look cross his furry face.

Dogs. What about dogs? Stripey decided to add an important point.

“The second slot should be low enough for cats but too high for dogs.”

This last bit should be underlined, Stripey decided, or possibly put into capital letters.

A further thought came to him.

“It might also be necessary”, the letter continued, “to have a sign saying ‘DOGS — PLEASE USE NEAREST TREE’.

Yours sincerely, Stripey”.

Stripey now had to move fast, before he forgot the exact words of the letter.

He jumped off the ledge onto the grate below, stepping onto the hearth where he stopped for a moment to inspect his paws for soot.

Giving each one a quick shake and an even quicker lick, he trotted swiftly out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and into Lodger’s 19

Stripey and the Post Box

study on the middle floor.

There atop the big wooden desk was an old green typewriter, which Stripey reached with one leap, skidding across the polished red leather top — something he rather enjoyed.

In fact, he enjoyed it so much, he did it again. He was going to do it a third time, but stopped.

“Foolish cat”, he said sternly to himself. “There’s work to do.”

Inspecting his paws once again — there had been complaints about soot left behind after the last time he had used the typewriter — he got to work.

It was slow going. Spelling had to be checked, and once or twice he had to sit perfectly still and concentrate very hard in order to get the words in exactly the right order.

But eventually it was done, and Stripey addressed the envelope and stuck on a first class stamp.

(Anyone watching would have wondered why Stripey licked the stamp so thoroughly. Indeed, why was it necessary to lick the stamps at all? It was because the glue on the stamp tasted pleasantly of fish. Indeed, Stripey found it hard to resist giving the stamps a lick every now and then, which was why they did not stick very well. Lodger blamed the post office, but Stripey feared it was just a matter of time before Lodger discovered the truth.)

Letter ready, Stripey raced out of the house to the corner post box.

A careful look around for dogs, up on his hind legs, a long stretch, and through the slot the letter went.

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Chapter Two: Stripey Writes a Letter

It was to change the face of Britain.

Not that Stripey would have guessed at the time. In fact, the next day he was so busy Hole Watching that he almost forgot about the letter.

But it was a very different story the following day.

It began as usual, with Stripey popping into the corner shop for Cat News.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

Across the front page, in big black letters, was the headline: ‘POST BOX PLEA’ In slightly smaller letters below: ‘Lower letter slot as anti-dog device’.

“Bless my soul”, exclaimed Stripey, dashing out of the shop.

“Wait ’til Lodger sees this.”

Within seconds, he was back at Number 71, but even as he crossed the threshold the phone began to ring. It hardly stopped, that day, and the days that followed.

Cats across the country rang in to congratulate Stripey on his letter, slot committees sprang up in every town and village, and posters appeared in windows and walls with the slogan: “It’s not a slot to ask!”

The great post box campaign had begun.

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Stripey and the Post Box

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Chapter Three: Stripey Gets a Call

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Stripey and the Post Box

The next day Stripey woke earlier than usual. It was too early for fish, though it was worth checking on Lodger.

He tip-toed up the stairs and peered into the bedroom.

As usual, Lodger was covered by a blue duvet, only the very top of his head visible.

Stripey took a closer look, taking care not to let his whiskers brush Lodger’s face.

Lodger didn’t stir, and Stripey noticed that his mouth was open, and he was breathing heavily. That settled it. Lodger denied that he slept with his mouth open, but frequent inspection had shown this wasn’t true.

If Lodger had his mouth open, he was definitely fast asleep, and it was safe to use the brush.

Stripey trotted into the bathroom next door. He leapt on to marble stand next to the hand-basin, stretched out a paw, adjusted the round shaving mirror, and examined his reflection.

Looking back at him was a handsome cat by any standard.

There was a pair of brilliant green eyes, and sharp pointed ears with tufts of hair at the tips. His broad forehead narrowed into a strong, proud nose which ended in a pink triangle.

Fine white whiskers completed the picture of a cheerful but thoughtful face — whiskers that deserved care and attention.

Stripey picked up the brush which lay conveniently to hand and vigorously applied it to his whiskers in short, quick strokes.

As he brushed, he began singing the Fish Song.

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Chapter Three: Stripey Gets a Call

“Fish for breakfast every day, Very fine, very fine, Fish for breakfast every day, Very fine, very fine…”

That was as far as he got when his sharp ears detected movement in the bedroom.

Quick as a flash, Stripey put the brush back exactly where he found it, lept onto the floor and disappeared up the chimney, where he sat on the ledge, panting slightly.

“Stripey!” Lodger sounded cross.

“You’ve been using my toothbrush on your fishy whiskers again.”

Lodger examined brush closely, sniffed it carefully and grunted crossly: “I thought as much. Fish!”

Stripey heard him come to the fireplace: “I asked you not to use my toothbrush on your whiskers”, Lodger shouted up the chimney.

Stripey shrugged. “Sorry”, he called back, and decided to stay where he was until Lodger left for work.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he heard was the sound of the telephone ringing in the study.

Stripey hopped off the ledge and sped down the stairs.

“Hello caller.”

“Hello?” came a rather grumpy growl from the phone, but rather faint.

“Hello!”

Louder this time, but still not very loud. He must be far away, thought Stripey.

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Stripey and the Post Box

“Hello!” he shouted, “Stripey here.”

He held his breath and listened carefully. This time the caller spoke very slowly and clearly.

“You… have… got… the… phone… the… wrong… way… round.”

Stripey grunted. So he had. He juggled with the phone: “Oh it’s you… hello Bob.” It was an old friend, Bob Mauthner, Cat Affairs editor of the Financial Times. “Foolish cat!” said Bob. “Have you seen today’s Cat News?”

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Chapter Three: Stripey Gets a Call

Stripey looked at the mantelpiece clock. Eight-thirty! He’d been asleep for ages. “Not yet. Why?” “Just listen to this”, said Bob. “An editorial. On the front page.

The whole front page with a huge colour photograph of a post box with two slots…”

“What does it say?” asked Stripey anxiously.

“If you stop interrupting, I’ll tell you. The headline is ‘CAT SLOTS NOW’. I’ll read the editorial to you: ‘The cats of Britain demand action.

It is a sad commentary on our times that posting a letter, once a routine task, is now fraught with peril.

It seems not so long ago that dogs great and small, of every class and breed, allowed cats to post letters without interference.

No longer. More and more dogs have taken to loitering in the vicinity of post boxes. They hang around, pretending to sniff lampposts. But all the while they are keeping an eye open for cats.’”

“Absolutely right!”, exclaimed Stripey. “Carry on, Bob. This is good stuff.”

Bob read on: “Appeals to dogs’ so-called better nature have fallen on deaf ears.

A voluntary code of conduct has made no difference.

There is only one answer — a lower second slot, as proposed

by Mr Stripey in the columns of this newspaper.

How long must we wait? How many cats have to be chased before the government acts?

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A government that cannot protect the nation’s cats is not fit to govern.

Cat News has this simple message for the Prime Minister: ‘IT’S TIME TO ACT — OR IT’S TIME YOU WENT!’” Stripey was stunned. The biggest selling newspaper amongst British cats, with a growing international readership, had taken up the post box cause in no uncertain terms.

“You’ve really started something, Stripey. This thing is going to snowball”, said Bob. “What’s more, it’s become a battle — you against the PM.” For the first time Stripey began to have doubts — had he taken on more than he could chew? Support, however, was to come from a most unexpected quarter…

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Chapter Four: Fair Play for Cats

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Stripey and the Post Box

The next day, another phone call from Bob made Stripey gasp with astonishment.

He listened intently as Bob reviewed the latest developments, every now and then saying “Heavens above!” or “Corks!” or “Bless my soul!”, but for the most part just listening. “…and there’s talk of a march on Downing Street…”

“Where?” asked Stripey.

“Downing Street, where the Prime Minister has his office”, said Bob. “Where the cabinet meets”, he added, and before Stripey could ask, went on: “And the cabinet runs the country. Foolish cat!”

He continued: “As I was saying, there’s talk of a march on Downing Street. But that’s not all. You won’t believe this!”

What Bob said next made Stripey move as if a dozen dogs were on his tail. He dashed out of the house, past an astonished Codger, and burst into the cornershop.

Mr Patel could hardly believe what he heard.

“Dog Daily, young Stripey! Whatever next? Bless my soul…

Do you want Bark and Bone as well?”

Stripey didn’t have the patience to explain. “Just Dog Daily, thank you.”

Handing over the coins, he slipped the paper between the pages of that day’s copy of Cat News and trotted back to Number 71, heart pounding with excitement.

It took him a while to find the page he wanted. Somewhat to his surprise, he found himself reading some of the news stories.

‘Have-a-go hero tackles cat burglar’, caught his attention.

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Chapter Four: Fair Play for Cats

“Corks!” said Stripey. “Cat burglars! How absolutely dreadful Whoever would want to steal cats?”

He looked again at the photograph of the have-a-go hero, a rather scruffy terrier. “A cat chaser if ever I saw one”, thought Stripey. “…and yet he prevented a cat burglar from going about his horrid work. Perhaps there’s something to be said for dogs after all.”

Finally Stripey found what he was looking for — the page on which Dog Daily expressed its views on the great issues of the day.

The editorial, as it is called, was entitled ‘Fair play for cats’.

Stripey nodded in approval.

But as he read the opening words, he began to growl and hiss, his slim tail puffed up and the hairs of his coat bristled.

“The traditional rivalry between dogs and cats is all too often misunderstood by interfering busy-bodies and do-gooders.

What can be more natural than chasing cats? Dogs through the ages have enjoyed this healthy and stimulating activity.

This is well known.

What is not appreciated by those who claim to have cats’ interests at heart is that our feline friends positively enjoy the sport.

Can the same be said of mice, those harmless victims of cats’ tooth and claw? No voices are raised on their behalf.

Do-gooders who are so swift to condemn Cat Chasing would do well to take note.”

By now Stripey was really, really cross. “What utter rot”, he snorted. “Absolute tosh!” He read on: 31

Stripey and the Post Box

“At the same time, it must be conceded that all self-respecting dogs should give cats a sporting chance. It has come to our attention that a small minority of dogs are not behaving honourably.

Dogs who loiter near post boxes in the hope of catching cats off guard as they stretch and strain to push letters into the slot are not playing the game.

Unfortunately this type of dog, a sad symptom of the age we live in, is unlikely to behave. The only way to deal with this menace is to make post boxes safer places for cats.

We call on the government to install a cat slot in every postbox in the land.

Fair play for cats!”

Hardly had Stripey finished reading than the phone rang again.

This time he picked it up the right way round. “Good day”, he said, although it sounded like g’day, the way Lodger greeted callers.

“May I speak to Stripey”, said the caller.

“Speaking”, said Stripey. “Do I know you?”

“Well,”, said the caller, “you may have heard of me, and I’ve read your excellent letter in Cat News. But we don’t know each other Stripey…”

Stripey interrupted. “Then please do not call me Stripey.”

There was a short silence. “Er, what should I call you then?”

“Mr Stripey, please. You see, only my friends call me Stripey. And we’re not friends — at least not yet”, Stripey added, for he didn’t want to be unpleasant. “What’s your name?”

“Jeremy Paxman.”

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Chapter Four: Fair Play for Cats

This time Stripey was silent. Jeremy Paxman, famous television interviewer.

He and Lodger — when he was at home, that is — watched Jeremy Paxman’s programme every evening, at 10.30, giving the news about Britain and the rest of the world, and interviewing important people.

He could not believe his ears. There was only one thing a cat could do.

Extending one back leg and cocking his head, he vigorously wriggled the tip of his left back paw in his right ear.

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Stripey and the Post Box

It not only sharpened his hearing, but had the added advantage of giving him time to get over his surprise. “Say again please.”

“Jeremy Paxman, I present Newsnight, the television news programme.”

“Yes indeed”, said Stripey. “I watch it with Lodger.”

“Well”, said Mr Paxman, “I’m phoning to ask…”

“Hold on, please”, Stripey hastily applied his right back paw to his left ear. “Right”, he said, satisfied that he had prepared himself.

“I’m inviting you to appear on Newsnight tonight.

The post office minister has already agreed.”

“Gosh!” said Stripey.

“How many people watch the programme?”

“Couple of million.”

“Gosh!” said Stripey again. A thought struck him.

“It means I’ll miss my supper.”

“What’s your favorite supper?”

“Fish”, replied Stripey promptly.

“We’ll provide it. Does this mean you’ll come? A taxi will fetch you at nine this evening.”

“And you’re quite sure about the fish?”

“Quite sure. I’ll arrange it myself.”

“Much obliged”, said Stripey, “see you later, Mr Paxman.”

34

Chapter Five: “Allbest! Stay Lucky!”

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Stripey and the Post Box

It was time to leave for the television studio.

Lodger opened the door to the taxi, and handed Stripey a little blue bag with a white string threaded through the top, and pulled tight.

“Might come in handy. Allbest.”

They looked at each other solemnly. Lodger had offered to go with him, but Stripey declined.

“I want you to be watching at home”, he explained, “and if I get nervous I’ll pretend I’m talking to you and Newcat.”

Lodger extended his hand. Stripey put out his paw, which Lodger gripped firmly. “Allbest”, he said again.

Word had spread about the Newsnight interview. All the neighbourhood cats had turned out to cheer Stripey on his way.

“Good luck, old chap”, called out Codger.

Suddenly the street fell silent. Round the corner at the bottom of the street came a fearsome sight.

It was Thruster, a notorious Cat Chaser, a cross between an Alsatian and a Labrador, accompanied by Fred, a bulldog who could move much faster than his solid square frame and short legs might suggest.

Ignoring the hissing and growling that greeted their appearance, the duo strode straight up to Stripey.

Stripey motioned away the cats who had begun to gather around him protectively. He motioned again: “Stop hissing.”

As the street fell silent he turned to Lodger. “Inside, please.”

Lodger started to protest, but Stripey cut him short: 36

Chapter Five: “Allbest! Stay Lucky!”

“This is animal business. Please”. Thruster nodded in agreement.

“Not here to make trouble”, he said gruffly. Lodger reluctantly went inside, leaving the animals to themselves.

“Well, well”, said Stripey.

Thruster stayed silent.

“Cat got your tongue?”

A strange noise came from Fred, and several cats instinctively arched their backs. Then Fred, who seemed to holding his breath, started shaking.

“Take a hold of yourself, Fred”, said Thruster, and turned back to Stripey: “He’s laughing at your joke.”

But Thruster himself looked serious. “The lads asked me to deliver a message. We’re all Cat Chasers and we make no apologies for that.”

He looked defiantly at Stripey. “No apologies. But catching cats at post boxes — that’s plain wrong. Out of order. Lads wanted to tell you that, and to say good luck tonight. Cheers.”

He turned to go back the way he came. “Come on Fred”.

A few steps later he stopped, and looked over his shoulder: “Always wanted to meet you. Watch your tail. Stay lucky.”

He raised a paw in the air, part farewell, part salute, part challenge.

Slowly and deliberately, Stripey raised his own paw, in the same spirit and stepped into the waiting taxi without a further word.

As the taxi sped through the streets of London, Stripey was lost in thought. Not until the taxi had been waved through the gates of 37

Stripey and the Post Box

the BBC Television Centre and he had been shown into the waiting room did Stripey’s mood change.

Fish! He was alone in the room. Mr Paxman had been as good as his word, serving the fish in a white bowl with the letters BBC in blue on the side.

Stripey hummed to himself. To be precise, it was a combination of singing, dum-de-dumming and with a bit of dancing thrown in.

Until now, Stripey had behaved as if he appeared on Newsnight every night of the week. But as he began to dance, Stripey slowly changed.

His green eyes blazed, his lips curled back to reveal needle-sharp white teeth. He rose onto his hind legs and his fur stood on end, making him appear twice his actual size.

He swayed from side to side in the mysterious rhythm that had been passed down from cat to cat through the ages. He began to chant, quietly at first, but slowly getting louder: “Cats are fierce, Cats are proud, Cats are brave, Cats are free.”

And as he reached the last line, his voice having gone from a whisper to a roar, he lept high in the air, paws outstretched, teeth bared.

There was a knock on the door. “Ready?”, called a voice from outside.

Stripey took a deep breath: “Ready.”

38

Chapter Six: Stripey does a Dance

39

Stripey and the Post Box

Holding the bag that Lodger had given him firmly in one paw, Stripey prepared to set off. He had not investigated the contents, but knowing Lodger, had no doubt that whatever was inside would come in handy sooner or later.

“Better leave that with me”, said the burly man, reaching for the bag. He had not introduced himself, but a badge on his blue blazer said ‘SECURITY’, and he acted as if he was used to being obeyed.

He had not, however, reckoned with a determined cat.

“No, thank you”, said Stripey.

“Not allowed to take bags into the interview room”, said the man, holding out his hand. He then clicked his fingers impatiently.

That did it. Stripey advanced on the man, hissing ferociously.

“Let me make myself clear”, he said, speaking slowly and quietly, but cold and angry. “First, it’s time you learnt to say ‘please’.

Second, this is my bag. I am taking it with me.”

Somewhat to Stripey’s surprise, the man apologised.

“Bad manners. Rude. Didn’t mean to offend. Security.”

“Rules are rules”, he said, but quickly added: “But the rules are about people. They say nothing about cats not being allowed to keep their bags. Let us proceed.”

They had gone only a few steps when he suddenly stopped, and pulled a pen and a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Autograph for my cat. Asked me specially. Could you write something personal? Like ‘To Dave, with best wishes’. Please?”

Stripey was happy to oblige.

They set off down the long brightly lit corridor… reached a 40

Chapter Six: Stripey does a Dance

door with Newsnight in big letters — the name of Mr Paxman’s programme — and two large men in uniforms marked ‘Security’.

“Mr Stripey, guest of Mr Paxman”, said one of the men, reading from the clipboard in his hand.

“Quite correct”, said Stripey approvingly, but at the time aware that the second man was looking suspiciously at his bag.

“Oi, oi, no bags allowed. hand over…”

Stripey was bracing himself for another battle, but before he could say a word, his escort intervened. “It’s alright, Bill. Nothing in the rules against cats taking bags in. I’ve checked. I’ll take personal responsibility for it.”

Bill looked doubtful, but to Stripey’s relief agreed.

“Righto boss, you’re in charge”, and looking at Stripey added: “You’re in good hands — Dave was a chief inspector at Scotland Yard, you know. Worked there for 22 years before coming to look after us here”.

Before Stripey could respond, Dave had ushered him through the door into a brightly lit studio where Jeremy Paxman was sitting behind a curved desk. “On your side”, whispered Dave.

“Fair play for cats. Good luck. Thanks for the autograph.”

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Stripey and the Post Box

Jeremy Paxman looked up from his desk in front of the cameras in the television studio and spotted Stripey.

“Glad you could make it, Mr Stripey. The post office minister has just arrived. We start in seven and a half minutes, right after the news. Do you want someone to look after your bag?”

Stripey shook his head.

The programme got under way. “Come with me, please.”

Stripey was escorted to one of two vacant chairs.

There he was soon joined by the minister, a rather tubby man with the air of someone who thought himself very important.

“Good evening”, said Stripey politely.

The minister seemed not to hear as he flicked through a thick pile of papers in a red folder marked ‘TOP SECRET’.

Meanwhile, the news had ended and Jeremy Paxman was speaking: “…but the most dramatic challenge to the government comes from an unexpected quarter. Public opinion is overwhelmingly in favour of lower slots in letterboxes to help combat dogs who pounce on cats as they stretch to post letters.”

“The Prime Minister won’t budge — there is no money, he says”.

Paxman turned towards the minister: “Should the government not be doing more to protect cats against this menace?”

The minister smiled. “Let us be absolutely clear. This government cares for cats. But we won’t be panicked by scare stories.

A few dogs have been involved in some unfortunate incidents — but nowhere near enough to justify the cost of converting several 42

Chapter Six: Stripey does a Dance

thousand post boxes.”

Paxman switched his attention to Stripey.

“Mr Stripey — are you not making too much of a fuss? And is it worth the cost?”

Stripey, keeping one paw on his bag just to make sure that noone tried to remove it, was well prepared. He had spent part of the afternoon with Bob in the Financial Times library, and between them they had come up with some very useful information.

“If the minister had a cat in his house, he would be better informed”, said Stripey sharply.

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Stripey and the Post Box

“Official statistics show that complaints to police about post box harassment doubled last year.

And that’s the tip of the iceberg. Many cats don’t bother to complain because the law is so weak. Maximum fine for persistent offenders is one bone. No deterrent at all.”

Paxman turned to the minister, who was frantically thumbing through his papers. “My party has always made it perfectly clear”, said the minister, getting redder by the minute as he looked through his file, “that we care for cats…”

Stripey yawned. The hot lights were making him sleepy. And as the minister droned on, Stripey decided to investigate the contents of the blue bag Lodger had given him.

His paw encountered a familiar shape, and Stripey purred with sheer delight as he extracted a toothbrush!

Forgetful of the television cameras, Stripey started brushing his whiskers, first of all with short, vigorous strokes and then trailing the brush slowly along their full length.

Viewers around the country were glued to their television screens, astonished at first, and then starting to cheer and laugh: as the minister rambled on, trying to conceal the fact that he had no answer to the statistics, Stripey was calmly brushing his whiskers!

Paxman allowed the minister to finish: “So let me make it perfectly clear to my furry friend that we are doing all we can.”

“A final word from you, Mr Stripey”, said Mr Paxman.

Stripey turned to the minister: “Would you mind holding my brush, my smooth pink friend?”

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Chapter Six: Stripey does a Dance

And without further ado, jumped nimbly onto the desk.

Standing on his hind legs. he performed a little jig while singing: “Give us cats a better chance, Help us lead all dogs a dance Lower slots is our plea!

End our post box misery!

All we’re asking, Is give cats a chance.”

“Come on, viewers, sing along with me”, he called out, keeping up his jig and flicking his tail in front of the post office minister, who was feeling rather foolish as he clutched Stripey’s toothbrush in his hand.

As television viewers across Britain joined in the singing of the last two lines, a grim-faced prime minister, watching in his Downing Street office, knew he had a battle on his hands.

The cabinet would have to meet, first thing tomorrow, he decided.

Bowing and waving to cheering studio technicians, Stripey brought the programme to an end.

Mr Paxman saw him into his taxi.

“Bit unorthodox, but very effective, Mr Stripey”, he said.

“Thought you might like this”, he added, and handed Stripey the BBC bowl which had contained his fish.

“Thank you very much indeed. And I would be very pleased if you called me Stripey.”

Dave was on hand to open the taxi door. At last Stripey had the 45

Stripey and the Post Box

chance to ask the question that had been at the back of his mind all evening.

“Did you ever catch any cat-burglars when you were at Scotland Yard?”

“Caught dozens in my time”, replied Dave.

Stripey looked at him with admiration: “Could I have your autograph, please?”

46

Chapter Seven: The Cabinet Meets

47

Stripey and the Post Box

It was the last thing the Prime Minister needed.

The economy was in trouble, the English cricket team was losing, the football team was losing, and the country’s cats were calling for the impossible — a second slot in post boxes.

There simply was not the money to pay for the conversion of the thousands and thousands of post boxes. It would save money if the dog notices (‘DOGS — PLEASE USE NEAREST TREE’) were left off, but the PM felt they were essential, preferably in brass.

It was time to open the proceedings.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Prime Minister”, the distinguished gathering chorussed, almost as if they were in the classroom.

An unpleasant thought struck him: was it possible they were making fun of him. He looked at the serious, even gloomy faces around him, and half-wished he was right.

“Hardly any need to explain why we’re here. I suppose you all saw Newsnight. We’re in a pickle, a rare old pickle. You won’t be surprised to learn that I accepted the resignation of the post office minister this morning.

For those of you who missed Newsnight, we are going to watch it on video.”

The cabinet thoroughly enjoyed the re-run, even though the interview had added to government’s woes.

As Stripey ended his now famous appeal, several cabinet ministers broke into applause, others banged the table in approval.

“The party could use this Stripey laddie”, said the secretary of 48

Chapter Seven: The Cabinet Meets

state for defence.

“I must say, he did jolly well”, said the foreign secretary.

The PM looked thoughtful. “I agree. The dance was especially good. Gave me a few ideas. If you don’t mind.”

Removing his shoes and socks, the PM stepped onto the cabinet table by way of his chair, and began to dance. After a few steps he broke into song: “Vote for me, vote for me, vote for me, me, me!

Vote for me, vote for me, vote for me, me, me!”

By this time, the PM was rather breathless, and the home secretary had to help him down from the table.

“Need to brush up the words a bit, and my legwork is a bit wonky, but I think it will appeal to the younger voter”, said the PM once he had got his breath back.

There was silence. “No, prime minister”, said the chancellor of the exchequer. “To be perfectly frank, you would lose us votes.”

The PM nodded glumly. “I fear you are right. But what’s the alternative?”

“Well, we cannot afford to put a second slot in the post boxes of Britain”, said the chancellor firmly. “With or without brass notices”, she added. As the woman who decided how much the government could spend, she was strongly against the introduction of cat slots.

The minister in charge of Northern Ireland spoke next.

“I have it!” he exclaimed. “Let’s raise the money by increasing the price of dog licences”. He looked around for approval.

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Stripey and the Post Box

What he got was a chorus of groans. “Silly old duffer”, muttered a minister at the end of the table. “He’s forgotten we abolished dog licences.”

The PM added sharply: “…and even if we had dog licences, raising the fee would lose us the dog lovers’ vote. Any other ideas?”

The room was silent.

“Right”, said the PM. “This is what I’ll do.”

Although he could not dance, the man was not a fool, and after a lifetime in politics he knew every trick in the book.

“I intend to invite Mr Stripey to a meeting at Number 10, this afternoon.

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Chapter Seven: The Cabinet Meets

I will make it clear to him that there is nothing we can do now.

I am prepared, however, to set up a commission of inquiry.

I have already spoken to Judge Cribbens and he has agreed to investigate cat slots and report back.”

“How long will it take?”, asked the chancellor.

“At least 18 months”, replied the PM. Chuckles greeted this last remark.

“I also intend to invite Mr Stripey to join our great party.

Further, I will also make clear that we will find a seat in parliament for him, and I may well suggest that there might be a vacant place in the cabinet.”

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Stripey and the Post Box

At this point he cast a sharp look at the minister in charge of Northern Ireland.

“Finally”, he said, “I will indicate that there is a distinct possibility that he may soon have to respond to a slightly different name. Sir Stripey, perhaps? And who knows, in the fullness of time and after loyal service to our cause, Lord Stripey of Mile End?” The PM paused: “All assuming that this post box thingy is set aside.”

The cabinet sat stunned at first by the PM’s masterly performance, and then burst into applause which only ended when the PM stood up, bringing the meeting to a close.

“May I suggest you all make a point of watching this evening’s Six o’Clock News?” he said as he left his excited colleagues.

Privately, he was far less confident. Something told him that Stripey might prove rather difficult. He would know soon enough: the troublesome cat had been invited to afternoon tea at Number 10 Downing Street.

52

Chapter Eight: Stripey Visits Downing Street

53

Stripey and the Post Box

The Prime Minister himself was at the door of Number 10 to welcome him.

“Mr Stripey. Welcome. Sorry about the short notice. I gather you made your own way here?”

Stripey shifted his blue bag to his left paw, and extended his right paw to receive the PM’s firm handshake.

Stripey had declined the offer of an official car to take him to Downing Street.

He had no experience of politics but his instincts told him that he should not accept any favours from the man he was going to negotiate with.

Instead he went to the local taxi rank, next to Mile End tube station. “Downing Street, please.”

The taxi driver looked at his watch. “It’s after three, Stripey — it will have to be the normal rates.”

Stripey nodded. “Fair enough”. Local taxi drivers gave cats a 10 per cent discount, but only between ten in the morning and three in the afternoon.

“Downing Street, hey? Going to see the Prime Minister then?

Radio news says there’s going to be a show-down. Seen the Evening Standard?”

He tossed the paper onto the back seat. ‘PM — THUMBS DOWN FOR SLOTS’ read the headline.

Stripey read on: “The prime minister is expected to take a tough stand when he meets Mr Stripey, the post box campaigner, at Downing Street today.”

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Chapter Eight: Stripey Visits Downing Street

Stripey shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Meanwhile the taxi driver kept on talking: “Fair play for cats.

I couldn’t agree more. Fair play for pensioners while you’re about it, Stripey.”

Stripey grunted every now and then as the driver, an old friend, talked throughout the journey. To tell the truth, he was somewhat nervous and found the non-stop chatter from the front of the cab rather soothing.

He was just about to nod off when they were waved through the Downing Street gates. A crowd of journalist had gathered for the meeting, and cameras flashed and whirred as Stripey stepped out of the taxi and greeted the Prime Minister, who was waiting on the steps of Number 10.

“Very pleased to meet you, Prime Minister”, said Stripey.

Tough talking might lie ahead, but the PM was a most courteous host. He put Stripey at his ease, giving him a brief tour of Number 10 before ending up in his study.

“Take a pew. I’ve gone ahead and ordered tea for myself.

Do you prefer your milk hot or cold?”

“As it comes, thank you Prime Minister.”

“Fine performance last night”, said the PM. “If my ministers did half as well, the government wouldn’t be in trouble. Ever thought about politics as a career?”

He took a sip of his tea.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Mr Stripey. You’ve made a very good case for a second slot and you’ve got the press and the 55

Stripey and the Post Box

public on your side.”

He took another sip of tea.

“But I just cannot do it. The money has to come from somewhere and we simply don’t have it.”

Stripey flicked his tongue into the Downing Street cat bowl at his side, scooping up a mouthful of milk, and continued to watch the PM intently.

“As I said, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ll appoint a commission of inquiry to win more time. If the economy picks up we might be able to find the money. I say ‘might’ — no promises.”

Stripey made to speak, but the PM hadn’t finished.

“And we’d like you to join our Party. We can get you into parliament, and I’d like you on my team. What do you say?”

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Chapter Eight: Stripey Visits Downing Street

Stripey did not hesitate.

“No”, he said.

“Sure, Sir Stripey…?

“Certain.”

The PM sighed, and for the first time Stripey realised how tired the man was. A little pick-me-up might be in order.

He loosened the string around the top of his blue bag.

“Barley sugar?”

The PM’s face brightened. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Stripey reached into his bag, extracted two pieces of barley sugar, removed what seemed like bits of fluff, and handed one over to the PM. For a minute or two, they sat in companionable silence.

The PM spoke first.

“Uncommonly good, this barley sugar. Is it a special brand for cats? Just a hint of fish. I’m very fond of fish”, said the PM wistfully.

Stripey immediately set about checking his ears in the usual way.

“But the wife can’t stand the smell”, the PM continued.

“Won’t have fish in the house.”

Stripey was at loss for adequate words of sympathy, but the blue bag came to his rescue. Thrusting his paw down to the bottom, he pulled out what he called his emergency rations: two pieces of the finest fish, each neatly wrapped in the Guardian.

He tossed one to the PM, who caught it like the cricketer he once was.

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Stripey and the Post Box

“Sorry about the wife. First things first. We’ll both feel better after a spot of fish. Then we’ll talk about my idea…”

Ten minutes later Stripey had explained his idea, and the PM was a new man.

“By golly, I think you’ve cracked it, Stripey”. (The ‘Mr’ had been dropped by mutual consent during the fish course.)

“What do you say to a joint press conference on the steps of Number 10? It should be in time for the Six o’Clock News.”

The PM suddenly looked thoughtful: “Would you mind if we practised the dance first? I can get it right with your help.”

And for nearly 40 minutes, the two of them jigged and danced across the long table in the cabinet office.

“That’s it, PM, you’re getting the hang of it. Always remember — bend your knees! That’s the secret — bend your knees!”

58

Chapter Nine: “Thanks a Slot”

59

Stripey and the Post Box

“Ready?”, asked the PM. “Ready”, said Stripey, and the two of them prepared to meet the scores of journalists, photographers and television reporters who had gathered outside Number 10.

The PM’s press secretary had told them only that a very important announcement would be made at about 6 o’clock. He had also hinted that there had been some tough talking.

It was now 5.45pm.

“Stripey’s been in with the PM since three”, said one journalist.

“I’ve been told that the cat has been firmly put in his place.”

“The PM has made his position absolutely clear”, declared another journalist.

“There is no need for a second slot in post boxes, and what’s more, there is no money even if there was a need.”

A television reporter stood slightly apart from the group, busy rehearsing his appearance before the camera.

“Nearly three hours of talk ended in deadlock this evening…”

The truth was very different.

Stripey and the PM had in fact concluded their talks in half an hour.

The rest of the time had been spent talking about cricket, the state of the PM’s party, the English football team, and fish — and of course, dancing.

The PM had sent out for more barley sugar, but both agreed that the barley sugar that Stripey had produced from his blue bag was tastier.

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Chapter Nine: “Thanks a Slot”

“I must say, Stripey, this has been a most enjoyable afternoon.”

The PM leant forward. “I’ve told my press office to spread the word that we’ve been having a bit of a ding-dong.”

“Ding-dong?”, asked Stripey.

“Frank exchange of views.”

Stripey was baffled. “You’ll have to explain, PM.” “Twenty years of politics has taught me that the press doesn’t like things to he straightforward. They prefer deadlocks followed by dramatic breakthroughs.”

Stripey was still puzzled. “You mean that the post box agreement will he more successful and more popular if people think we quarrelled first?”

“Put like that it seems rather odd, I must admit, but I fear it’s true.”

So when he and the PM stepped out of Number 10 to face the press, he was ready for what followed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, We are sorry to have kept you waiting.”

(In fact the PM had timed their appearance to make the Six o’Clock News.)

“I do not want to conceal the fact that Mr Stripey and I have had to overcome some serious differences. Some misunderstandings have to be corrected.

My Party have always, I repeat always, had the interests of cats at heart.”

Stripey almost forgot to nod vigorously.

“My government has watched with growing concern the increase 61

Stripey and the Post Box

in Cat Chasing incidents at post boxes. Careful consideration has been given to the introduction of the two-slot scheme advocated by Mr Stripey.”

“Cost is an important concern”, said the PM, and looked solemn.

“But cat safety is paramount”. Stripey nodded, his turn to look solemn.

The PM paused: “Cat slots must and will be provided. The cats of Britain are safe in this government’s hands.”

“What about the cost?”, called out the political correspondent of Dog Daily.

The PM had his answer ready: “From tomorrow a special issue stamp, costing two pence more than the normal first-class stamp, will go on sale. The extra money will go into a special slot fund. So confident am I of public support for this special fundraising issue that I have ordered the Postmaster-General to begin the conversion of letter-boxes throughout the land.”

The picture of the PM shaking Stripey’s paw on the steps of Downing Street was on the front of every newspaper the next day.

But the mood of the nation was best reflected in the banner headlines of Cat News: ‘THANKS A SLOT JOHN & STRIPEY’

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Chapter Nine: “Thanks a Slot”

63

Stripey and the Post Box

“Stripey!”

“Striiipeee!”

The cry began at the top of the house, ran down the stairs, past the study, down another flight of stairs, through the kitchen and out the French doors and onto the balcony.

It ran down the steps, across the patio, and over the paving stones, gleaming gold in the June sunshine, finally reaching a lean, striped cat who was peering intently at a Hole.

Stripey — for it is he — gave a tiny twitch of his ears to indicate that he had heard. Lodger leant out of the bathroom window that overlooked the garden. “Have you been using my toothbrush?”

Stripey didn’t move a muscle. But Lodger hadn’t finished.

“Phone call for you. Prime Minister’s wife… sounds urgent… something about fish… and dance practice.”

Stripey sighed heavily. He decided to take the call. If the Prime Minister smelt of fish, guess who would get the blame?

He sighed again, took a final, concentrated look at the Hole, before trotting off in the direction of the house, his fine glossy tail as erect as a flagpole.

And anyone close enough would have been able to hear him humming.

THE END

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Stripey and the Post Box

Stripey and the Post Box

Michael Holman was Africa editor of the Financial Times from 1984 to 2002, when he took early retirement.

By Michael Holman

His first novel, Last Orders at Harrods, was published by Polygon in 2005. He lives in London.

Designed by Marc Peter, illustrated by Mira Kim & edited by AnĂŠ-Mari Peter

By Michael Holman

Produced by on-IDLE Ltd (www.on-idle.com)