During the war, Liz and Andy stayed put in London, whilst their four children were evacuated to the country, and Liz was thankful for that, because at that time, they were going through a vicious spate of bombings. Liz was often left on her own at night, as Andy had to go fire-watching two or three nights a week. This entailed keeping watch from the top of a tall building during raids, to spot any fires and reporting their location back to the wardens. She hated the fire-watching nights; it was frightening being on her own with only Tiny Tim, their little tabby cat, for company.
That evening she sat on her own, knitting and trying to ignore the terrible crashes and thumps going on outside. At least there came a lull; she sighed with relief and was about to go and make herself a cup of tea, when there was a rat-tat at the door. Goodness, she thought. Was that the warden warning her she was showing a light? Even a small chink could get you in trouble. She hurried to the door and opened it a few inches. It was pitch black outside. “Who is it please?” she asked. There was no answer. “Who is it?” she repeated, her voice shaking. There was still no answer. Panic seized her and she slammed the door.
A few nights after that, the knocking can again. Andy wasn’t there, but she felt she ought to open the door, after all she could be showing a light. “What do you want?” she said. Her voice was barley a whisper. There was no reply. She quickly shut the door and stood there trembling. The knock came again; she fled into the safety of her cosy sitting room.
When she told Andy he was furious. “I suppose it’s someone’s idea of a joke,” he snapped. “As if we haven’t got enough to put up with. I’m not standing for this. I’m going to report it. Don’t worry.” As it happened, he didn’t have to, for just then the mysterious knock came back again. “I’ll go, I’ll go,” he said angrily and hurried to open the door. “Now look here,” he shouted. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to report this and you can take it from me you’ll be er–er–” his voice trailed away as he felt something rub against his leg – and what was that purring noise? He reached down and felt soft fur and a soft little face nestled into his hand. He picked the little cat up and took him into the sitting room. “Here’s your mysterious caller,” he said.
“Oh,” exclaimed Liz. “Tiny Tim didn’t actually knock the door.” Andy nodded. “What a clever cat.” she went on. “I don’t know whether to be annoyed or proud.”
After that, the knocking became quite the normal thing. Tiny Tim had a friend from next door – a little black cat called Fluff, and Fluff soon got the hang of knocking on the door, although it was never clear whether he genuinely wanted to come in or whether he thought it was just some kind of a game.
That wasn’t quite the end though, for some time later, Liz met a neighbour from further up the road and she was absolutely bursting with some news. “You’re not going to believe this,” she gushed. “But there was a knock on my door the other day and when I opened it there was a cat outside.
“Was it a black cat?” asked Liz.
“Why yes, how did you know?”
Liz smiled in a superior way. “Well our Tiny Tim would never make the mistake of knocking on the wrong door.” she said.
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