The Cat And The Kipper
ARTICLES of GENERAL INTEREST
THE CAT AND THE KIPPER
This story takes place in Barry’s West End during the early 1940s, when my family lived in a modest terraced house not far from the docks. My grandfather, Jim, was a Merchant Seaman who travelled the world from Barry Dock. My grandmother, Agnes, kept house and cared for my four-year-old Auntie Ruth and my father, Alf, who was only six months old in 1941.
Most of family life happened in the back room of that little house. The fireplace held a small range for cooking, and a large window looked out onto the yard, where a tin bath hung from a nail on the wall. More often than not, the local black cat, known to everyone as Mr. Tickles, could be found perched on top of it, surveying his kingdom. Inside, a wooden table stood ready for meals, and the steep staircase climbed to the only bedroom. Beneath those stairs was a cupboard that served as both pantry and, when needed, air-raid shelter.
On the day of this story, Grandma had taken the children down the High Street to the fishmonger. Grandad Jim had been away at sea for three long months, and she wanted to surprise him with his favourite tea: kippers with brown bread and proper butter.
Just after three o’clock, the front door opened and in walked Grandad, smelling faintly of salt and diesel and home.
The children rushed to him, and Grandma kissed his cheek before saying, “Jim, sit yourself down. I’ve got your favourite – kipper supper, with brown bread and real butter.” “Oh, that’s grand!” he said. “I’ve been thinking about that for months.”
As the fish sizzled on the range, the room filled with the rich, smoky smell of kippers. Grandma set the bread, butter, and a bottle of Welsh bitter on the table. Mr. Tickles wandered in just then, tail held high and was rewarded with a saucer of milk. Auntie Ruth giggled at the sight of him lapping noisily at the dish.
Grandad had just washed in the sink and was settling himself at the table, leaning over to kiss Grandma as he said, “That looks lovely, love.” But before he could take more than a few bites, the wail of an air-raid siren cut through the afternoon.
“Oh no,” he groaned. “Not now – not when I’m having my tea!” “Leave it, Jim,” said Grandma firmly. “It’ll still be there when the raid is over.” She was already gathering the children toward the cupboard under the stairs. Few houses in the West End had proper Anderson shelters; the cupboard was considered the strongest place in the house.
With a reluctant sigh, Grandad grabbed another mouthful of kipper, snatched a piece of buttered bread, and followed them inside. Grandma lit a small candle, its warm glow flickering over the cramped space. A minute later, the ominous drone of an aircraft passed overhead. Then came a terrifying silence – the kind soldiers called the quiet before the hit. Without warning, a tremendous explosion shook the house. Glass shattered throughout the back room. The candle trembled in Grandma’s hand. The children cried, but she held them tight, whispering assurances she wasn’t sure she believed.
When the all-clear finally sounded, Grandad told them to stay put while he went to inspect the damage. A German bomber returning from a raid in the Midlands had jettisoned a leftover bomb on its way home, likely aiming for Barry Docks. Instead, it fell into a nearby street in the West End. Miraculously, no one in Barry was killed.
Grandad stepped cautiously into the back room. The window facing the yard had been completely blown out. Shards of glass were embedded in the very chair where he’d been sitting minutes earlier. Had he stayed to finish his kippers, he would almost certainly have been killed.
But there was one casualty that day. Mr. Tickles, having seized his chance the moment the cupboard door closed, had jumped onto the table to finish Grandad’s abandoned supper. When the blast shattered the window, flying glass ended the poor cat’s war for him.
Grandad Jim never ate kippers again