The Ghost Cat

In the normal run of things one spends Summer in one of the less 'popular' parts of France but as the leaves turn to that colour that some would call brown but I prefer to think of as russet, ones Welsh estate is the perfect place. Lady Carlingford is heavily with child - our first - and as September broke one had instructed ones housekeeper to take the evening off while one supervised the ironing of the shirts personally. Now I don't mind saying that I can be a little hard of hearing - a hunting accident led to the hearing loss in my left ear and now I carefully requisition the ideal seat in any meeting having assessed the acoustics of the room carefully and told to move those in the way in a manner that some would describe as eccentric and others merely rude.

The woodsmoke hung heavily in the courtyard that evening at Llanfihangel Ystrad Mynach as we settled down together watching some documentary - David Attenborough can be so watchable but should really step in more quickly when something furry comes to be eaten.

Now one has to understand that the house is what an estate agent would call private and others would call isolated. High up on the hillside the old house sprawls as if relaxing into an old armchair. The nearest estate cottages are at least half a mile away and with no moon that night there was a crisp stillness in the air that was soon to be shattered.

It took several seconds for me to recognise over the noise of a lion gnawing on a gazelle, that someone needed help. A fearful hammering on the door to the domestic wing said 'help I'm about to be murdered'. I moved quickly from the drawing room into the old kitchens and from there up a small flight of flagstone steps to the courtyard door. Carefully placing my foot behind its studded planking, with the commotion continuing I moved the oaken mass a few inches towards me now fearful for my own skin.

It was then that silence again draped the valley, the chimnies poking through the smokey blanket which hugged the hillside. Seeing nothing, I pulled the door wide open with Abigail hiding behind me - she had grabbed a carving knife as we passed through the kitchens. The odd thing was that my old gun dog was still barely awake - the same dog that could have a leg off the postman quicker than you could say "Special Delivery for his Lordship" still lay pondering his dream of how tasty a gazelle might be if spit-roasted.

The other odd thing was that our security lighting system was still considering its options - the courtyard lay in darkness still. Only seconds had passed between the furious hammering and our discovery of the deserted yard. Not even the crunch of pea-gravel gave away some poor soul limping away to find help elsewhere on the estate.

But the signs were that someone was in need - threatened by an unknown danger - and if they were in danger then perhaps too would be one of the estate workers. We quickly jumped into a Landrover, Abigail still armed with her blade and a sleepy gun dog. We drove up the hill and checked at Morgans and quickly told them our tale. Next we called in at Home Farm. Finally, we visited Ty Hir or 'Long House' where the old man with whom we had little contact came to the door offering us a totty to calm us down.

To many who passed, Ty Hir was not a house but part of the national collection of some obscure variety of ivy. Underneath the ivy was in truth a hovel occupied by an old man who could easily have been a latin scholar and who now found sanctuary on the estate - our very own hermit and thankfully one who did not need paying. Hermits can be such a nuisance when they become more popular than their 'sponsors'. And they must always be encouraged to wash more often. Anyway, I digress.

Now the Carlingford Estate in Wales had lain vacant ever since the old squire died in the 1930s. A rambling Lutyens manor of pink sandstone had seen better days when finally it came into the core estate in the 1960s. My father demolished two unused wings before his death and refurbished the main part of the house - once again it became a family home. I still have fond memories of him sitting on the ballustraded terrace with a tartan rug over his knees and a dog at his feet. No-one drank a Pimms with equivalent relish but never before six.

The latin scholar returned the decanter to the dresser repeating the words 'ghostly apparition, ghostly apparition' as he measured what to say next. He turned quickly and blurted out the same words again, this time excitedly - "Ghostly Apparition" he exclaimed. "D'you know, they always said the big house had something of the night about it. Back in the 60s, there was a houseguest who asked your father about the cat that she had felt brush along the back of her calves. She hadn't seen it, just felt it. Other guests had similar stories. Some even stopped visiting. They described an unease in the house. A certain restlessness that they found disturbing. It was about the time that the squire was remodelling the house for his own retirement. The South Wing was horribly dilapidated and who needs a ballroom out here? Anyway it was decided that it had to go. It was during the demolition that they discovered the basement of a much earlier house." He shuffled an old parchment out of a drawer. "See!" he exclaimed. "The old house had itself been a rebuilding of something much older." He poked the parchment and then pushed it towards us. "The old house was built during the 1500s. It was when they were demolishing the remains of the earlier house that the made a startling discovery - a body. That's right a body! The body of.. " He paused for dramatic effect. "The body of .... A DEAD CAT!" He spluttered his drink as he spat out the words, enjoying the drama. "So they did with it what anyone else would do. They buried the cat in the grounds in the pets cemetery. After that the house fell quiet again."

I can't remember what time we left Ty Hir but it must have been one in the morning. Abigail woke me about an hour later. The Hon. Violet was on her way and was born later that day. Further research on her part uncovered two interesting facts - first, that supernatural knocking on a door can sometime accompany the arrival of a new life - and second that the bodies of dead cats are often buried under a threshold to ward off witches.