Cats in the Belfry by Doreen Tovey

recurrence of the bath trouble. Sugieh's craze for water had vanished after she had her family. She was too busy now, as she was always telling us between frantic toppings and tailings of four protesting kittens, ever to think of herself. So Charles had gone back to leaving the door open while he soaked so that he could hear the wireless, and apart, as he said, from momentary heart failure whenever he heard the posse thunder past like a herd of elephants on its way to the kitchen, bath-time was once more quiet, peaceful and refreshing.
    Â Â Then, galloping out with the rest of the posse one day, the she-kitten stopped to wash her paw. Solomon had stepped on it, she said, and she didn't want it to be Dirty when she saw Sidney. Taking off after the others like a small blue comet – nobody ever walked in our house; just sometimes they whooshed faster than others – she missed the kitchen turning, shot through the bathroom door instead, and before anybody could stop her there was an almighty splash and she was in the water. When I went in Charles was lying back, still clutching the loofah, with an expression of utter resignation on his face, while his girlfriend sat dripping happily on his chest telling him how much she loved him.
    Â Â From then on, even if she was at the far end of the garden talking to Sidney, the moment she heard the bath tap running she would tear into the house like greased lightning, take up position outside the bathroom door and demand to be let in. A few seconds later Solomon, always ready to join in anything that required using his voice, would roll round the corner and demand to be let in too. Finally the blue boys would arrive to make up the party and the whole lot would sit down and bellow their heads off.
    Â Â The only way to stop them was to let them in, and since we couldn't do that while the water was still in the bath it meant, in order to preserve the peace, bathing in about five seconds flat, pulling the plug as we leapt out, and opening the door to the public the instant the last drop had gurgled down the plug-hole.
    Â Â They never did anything special in the bath; it was just that they didn't want to miss anything that was going on. Sometimes, said Charles, towelling himself savagely while four smudge-marked faces watched him with interest from the bottom of the bath and Solomon, consumed with curiosity as usual, wanted to know why he took his skin off when he washed, and didn't it hurt when he put it on again. Sometimes he thought he'd get more privacy if he took his bath in Trafalgar Square.
    Â Â Actually Charles was feeling rather put out with the kittens just then because they had stopped him becoming an archer. Charles had a friend who was keen on archery. One day the pair of them had gone rabbit-shooting with a local farmer and Allister, just for fun, took along his bow and arrows. The farmer took a twenty-yard shot at a rabbit and missed; Allister, taking random aim immediately afterwards, transfixed the rabbit on the spot. 'Lumme! Ruddy Robin 'Ood!' said the farmer, gazing at him in awestruck amazement – and though Allister modestly said it was a complete accident and he couldn't do it again if he tried, Charles had come home with the ambition to be a Robin Hood too.
    Â Â He started reading books on archery. He bought himself a hat. Though he never wore a hat in the normal way all Charles's sporting activities were highlighted with what he considered to be the appropriate headgear. A balaclava for climbing, for instance, though he was hardly likely to get frostbite in his ears in the Lake District, and all it did was render him stone-deaf when I said I thought we had gone high enough; a scarlet and white striped one made (by me) at top speed one winter when we had snow and Charles, who had been busily reading a book on the frozen North, said pioneers always wore striped caps for woodcutting. Now he had his archer's hat – Sherwood Green, turned