28. The Saving of Jesse Owen

Celia Wilkinson was 50 years old. For 36 years she had gone from her home at the far end of Edward Street to the mill up Moor Lane. She worked five-and-a-half days each week. There were bank holidays and a week's break, unpaid, in the summer. For many years, she didn't just work in the noisy mill. At home, there was all the housework and cooking and her mother to be looked after. That was her life.

The previous year, she'd gone home and found her mother dead, suddenly, from a heart attack. She hadn't lived to a great age. Nevertheless, Celia was far too old after the elderly lady died to have the sort of life she had once hoped for.

She'd had her chances, of course. As a young woman, she'd been dark-haired, big-eyed, plump and firm-breasted. There were lads who'd have married her. Now her hair was grey, her moustache pronounced and perversely black, she was all flab and sag and flat-footed.

Thank god, she still had her cats! There were four of them and there was pressure on her to have more. She'd like that but it just wasn't on. Neighbours were already complaining about the ones she had. Feeding them was a problem. And they did occasionally make a mess indoors!

She was pondering how she could find homes for some other cats She was passing Michael Watson's house, on her way to work, when an idea occcurred to her. He was a nice little boy. She'd first noticed him when he peered out of his parlour window at her and her workmates. She used to wave to him and although he was shy he started waving back to her.

When he was a bit older he played outside his front door. One day she gave him and his friend a bobbin of thread she'd taken from the mill. She always had a few toffees about her and gave him one when she saw him outside.

"Would you like a toffee Michael?"
"Yes please, Celia!"

At first he'd called her Miss Wilkinson but she'd told him he could call her Celia.

Recently, he would be hanging around his front door every day waiting to see her. He knew what he was on and she always gave him what he was expecting. He said thank-you. He knew his manners.

"I've some liquorice all-sorts today. Which one would you like?"
"Can I have a black one please?"
"You can indeed! In fact, you can have two. Here, take them!"

She offered him the bag and he helped himself. "Ta Celia!"

"Ta-ra, Michael. See you tomorrow!"

Off she went, back to work, and he ran in to his Mam.

"Mam! Mam! Celia gave me two today."He held out his hand, "Here Mam, I've saved one for you."
"Will you please keep your voice down Michael! Gwyn's just gone to sleep."She took the sweet. "Thank-you love, I'll eat it later."

There were times when Celia wished that she'd had kids of her own. She was lucky to have her cats to care for. You couldn't have everything in life. She'd brought the animals home from the mill. It came about way back when they'd had a problem with rats and mice. The workplace was becoming infested with them. Authority suggested a solution. Two good hunters were acquired. The vermin's numbers soon went down but the cats' multiplied rapidly. Authority decreed there had to be a cull. Fatty Townsend, one of the foremen, was given the task of disposing of the unwanted creatures.

The women in Celia's department already had cause to hate him. Fancied himself he did! Always trying it on! Found ways of cutting your pay if he didn't get some co-operation! He was a nasty piece of work and he had bad breath. He relished the idea of upsetting the women by the way he treated the cats. He'd show them the sack into which he'd put a litter of kittens. You could hear them mewing and see the bulging of the sack as they struggled in there.

"Now girls, behave yourselves while I'm away! I won't be long. I'm just off to the canal to drown this lot."

He'd be back 15 minutes later with the empty, wet, sack .After he'd dried it he placed it under his workbench ready for the next time.It wasn't just kittens either. He would grab a female cat sometimes and hit it with his hammer and smash its skull.

"Serves you right!" he'd yell at the protesting women. "You shouldn't encourage them in here. I'm banning feeding them. You'll have your money docked if I catch you!"

Several of the women had rescued their favourites from untimely deaths at Fatty's hands. Celia had taken four home during the last few years. But a limit had been reached. There were no more homes to be had and the beautiful tortoiseshell cat they all made a fuss of was about to give birth. Celia had been feeding the cat secretly outside behind their lavatory, encouraging it to choose there to give birth to its kittens.

One day she went and saw the new kittens. They were half-hidden in some grass which was growing up against the back of the toilet.

Four weeks passed, and still Fatty had not found the litter. But he was bound to soon when they became active. After much persuasion, she managed to find homes for some of the attractive little things. The women were so soft-hearted and agreed to take them although they didn't really want them.

Celia racked her brains and came up with a plan to dispose safely of one more. Michael Watson was her last hope.

The next day, before she went home for her lunch she went outside, to the back of the toilet. She picked up a black, furry kitten She placed it inside her shawl and took it home. It took milk from her fingertips just a few drops at a time while she sat at the table eating her lunch.

After she had eaten and it was time for work again, she replaced the kitten within her shawl. Michael Watson was waiting outside his house and hoping for a sweet.

"Look what I've brought for you today Michael,"she said. She handed the kitten to him and told him to be very gentle with it.

Michael ran indoors excitedly and showed it to his mother who took it from him and went quickly to the front door. Celia had gone.

Michael howled and cried and cajoled his mother into keeping it. She conceded, "Wait until your Dad comes home. You'll have to see what he says about it."She hoped that Gordon would say, no. But although Gordon wasn't keen on the idea, he was eventually persuaded by Michael.

"It had better be a good mouser," said Gordon. "It will have to earn its keep." Michael didn't really understand what that meant, but he didn't care because the kitten was now his!

They didn't know what to call it. They had no idea whether it was male or female. Dad decided to call it Jesse, after the great black American athlete who had so infuriated Hitler at the Berlin Olympics, by beating all his Aryans.

"Jesse can be a boy's or a girl's name,"Gordon said. So Jesse it was.

Next day, Celia wondered, "Should I go the long way round? If I don't they might be waiting for me to give it back."

Her second thoughts were, "No, that would not be fair. They've had overnight to make up their minds. If they don't want it, I'll just have to have it myself."

When she arrived outside the Watsons, there was Michael, as usual. He had a big smile on his face and greeted her, "Celia! Celia! My Dad's letting me keep it."

He held the kitten, gently, up to her, for her to see.

"It knows me already. It likes me," he said.
"I'm sure it does,"grinned a delighted Celia. "Here, take the lot!"She handed Michael a full bag of sweets.
"Merry Christmas Michael! I hope you have a good time."
"Merry Christmas, Celia! Thank you!"

It was going to be Michael's fifth Christmas and he was looking forward to all of his new presents but Jesse Owens was the winner. He couldn't have had a better Christmas present in the whole wide world.

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